by Lexi Whitlow
Amanda sat with us, her ears perked but not saying a word. I knew when our eyes met that she knew already, and I wondered how. She told me later that Tyler figured it out at Christmas, and Camden admitted it to him then. That’s the same night Cam asked me to go to this thing with him. I guess he realized there wasn’t much point in trying to keep our secret if people were already putting it together.
I ask her if anyone else knows, and she says she doesn’t think so. Then she tells me that it won’t be long before the whole town knows, because Beck Davis likes to talk, and her son is her favorite topic of conversation.
“Take some advice from someone who’s known Cam a long time,” Amanda says as kindly as she can. “Take it slow. Give yourself time to get to know him and let him get to know you, before you start thinking down the road.”
I nod appreciatively. It’s not advice that’s necessary, as I’m not thinking down the road. I think the world of Camden, and of Emma, but I know that the universe laughs when I start making plans. For now, I’m just the babysitter with benefits. Emma starts school in less than eight months. My contract is up then.
I tell Amanda that I’ll be surprised if I make it that long.
“Why do you say that?” she asks, puzzled.
I tell her the truth, what I honestly believe.
“He needs a wife, and a mother for Emma,” I say. “He probably wants more children. He needs a partner to help him expand the ranch. I haven’t the first clue about horses or ranching, or even how to ride well enough to be a decent companion to Emma.
“Cam and I… well, it’s fun right now. But you know… When all that wears off and he gets bored, he’ll see how different we are, and he’ll realize this was just a passing diversion to get him out of his rut and back on the path toward finding someone better suited to the life he wants. I’m good at managing my expectations.”
Amanda’s expression turns thoughtful. She shakes her head a little. “Oh, darlin’ you really don’t know Cam. My advice to take it slow was for his sake, not yours. What I was trying to say is that if you’re going to let him down, do it easy. Let him see it coming from a long way off. Otherwise, it’ll break his heart in two, and he’s already had enough heartbreaks to last a lifetime.”
Now there’s something new to consider. Maybe Cam’s friends measure heartbreak differently than we do back east. Or maybe there’s more to Camden Davis’ golden boy past than I know about.
Yet.
* * *
Jim Burke—Tyler’s father, who owns a big spread on the west side of Mission Valley—and Camden, along with two other horse breeders in the area, including Cam’s uncle, Bryant Campbell, all pitch in together and charter a private jet to Bozeman for the weekend. We climb on board the luxurious, leather and teak adorned thing, its metal lines sleek, reeking of excess. The party begins before the hatch is pulled closed and safely secured.
With all of us together, there are eight on the plane, plus the crew. It’s crowded and loud, and the engines haven’t even fired up.
“So, this is the filly your Mamma was going on about,” Mr. Burke says, shaking Cam’s hand as we take our seats facing him. His eyes scan me head to toe, then he takes my hand between his two and holds it. “You’re the prettiest little thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a wonder you’re saddled up next to this upstart punk here.”
He winks at Cam and then erupts into laughter, pleased with himself.
There’s a uniformed hostess on board who begins pouring drinks as the jet taxis slowly toward a clear runway. Everyone here knows everyone else very well, so there’s no lull in the conversation from the time the wheels lift-up until the time the plane rolls to a stop at the Bozeman-Yellowstone airport. The trip takes just over an hour, arcing over the tops of snow-capped mountains so close outside my window that they look as if I could reach out and touch them.
Between Mr. Burke and Mr. Campbell, every detail of our accommodations is addressed. We’re met at the absurdly tiny airport by two chauffeur-driven vans bearing the Yellowstone Club logo on their doors and rear panel. The first portion of the hour-long drive to the resort is accomplished without much to recommend it, but soon we’re in the mountains on a winding, two lane road following a rushing, cold-water river up the grade into the peaks of the Rockies. The higher we climb the more astounding the views become.
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Cam whispers in my ear, leaning close. My eyes are fixed out the window, but I’m grateful for his arm around my shoulder. The heights outside are dizzying and the road is winding.
“More beautiful than I ever imagined.”
And it is. Even from inside the dark tinted windows of a livery van, it’s breathtaking.
When we arrive at our destination, I understand why this place is named Big Sky. It’s situated on a mountain peak high in the air, overlooking what appears to be the rest of the continent below it, with massive mountains encircling it in every direction.
“Welcome to the Buffett Glenn Lodge, folks,” the driver announces, swinging the van around into a circular drive. I get my first glimpse of the place, and it’s magnificent. It’s a sprawling pile of granite and massive wooden beams, crowned with steeply sloping, gabled roofs reminiscent of the cascading mountains surrounding it. It’s at least five or six stories tall, but it’s difficult to estimate its full scale, as it’s built into the side of a mountain peak, wrapping around it, with wings pouring off the edges and turrets climbing into the sky.
I don’t know much about fancy, private resorts, but it occurs to me that this place doesn’t cater to the rabble. The few people I spy as we pull up to the shining glass and polished brass main entrance, are well-dressed in expensive ski gear, looking like they just stepped out of an Winter Olympics qualifying round.
When the van stops, I see a large placard placed between the two big doors. It reads, ‘Welcome Rocky Mountain Breeders Association 100th Anniversary, Banquet and Ball.’
“I’ve already tagged your bags,” our driver informs us. “We’ll have them to your rooms shortly. You can check in at the main desk.”
A doorman opens the door as we stroll inside. Cam looks down at me with a big smile, then slips his arm around my waist.
It’s like he knows what I’m thinking and says it before I can get the words out.
“It’s a little bit much, but the people-watching will be fun.”
He’s spot on.
Chapter 12
Camden
I had to do some serious horse trading to get this place.
Since I waited until the last minute to decide we were going to the RMBA gala, all the good lodges and chalets were booked solid. The best I could do on my own was a hotel in Bozeman; that’s no romantic destination. I want to show Grace something she’s never seen before. I’m willing to admit it—I want to impress her.
My uncle Bryant rented a five-bedroom condo at the lodge, reserving it more than three years in advance when he knew the gala was going to be held here. The lodge held a block of one and two-bedroom guest apartments for the RMBA. They sold out within a few weeks of the invitations to the event going out, nine months ago. Bryant offered to put up the Kicking Horse crew at his condo, which he’s using as an entertainment suite between events. I took him up on it for Jim, Tyler, and Amanda, but I asked him if there was any way he could pull some strings to get me and Grace somewhere a little more private.
After making a few phone calls, he managed to work a trade. Another member who had one of the guest apartments, agreed to give it to me in exchange for my spot in Bryant’s condo, plus a thousand dollars. I talked him down to six-fifty over the phone.
“You’re Camden Senior’s son through to the bone,” he said to me. “I’m still out fifteen grand for the weekend, and now I get to deal with the party crowd, and Bryant Campbell, laughing at all his own jokes. Son, you drive a hard bargain.”
Grace looks around the small apartment, with its big-window view of the mountains beyond. The place is nice
, with glowing hardwoods, a big stone hearth, and a king-sized bed in the master bedroom, opening onto a private deck with a hot tub.
I can tell by her wide-eyed expression and her silence, she likes the place.
“I’m sorry it’s so small,” I say. “But it’s cozy, and we’ve got it all to ourselves for the whole weekend.”
She turns, looking at me as if I’ve uttered some outlandish tale.
“Cam, this isn’t small.” Her eyes roam up to the cathedral ceilings, then around into the granite-top, outfitted kitchen. “This is like somebody’s house. This is incredible.”
It seems small to me, but then again, I’m used to my rambling old house, and I wasn’t raised in city apartments, like Grace.
If she’d stay with me forever, I’d build her a log cabin nicer than this place, up on the ridge overlooking the Kicking Horse. That way we could fool around in the hot tub while I keep one eye on the horses turned out in the pastures below. The best of both worlds.
The little apartment is decorated with lots of snow-skiing themed imagery, from paintings on the wall, to a pair of antique wooden skis mounted over the mantle. It’s clear that most of the Lodge’s visitors come for the slopes and the speed, not for the riding trails or wildlife.
“Do you ski?” I ask Grace.
She shoots me a look like I’m crazy.
“No,” she replies flatly. “Do you?”
I shake my head. “I have horses to get me up and down mountains. Never saw the need to learn.”
“Thank God,” she laughs, relieved. “I thought I was going to have to learn a whole new death-wish sport just to keep up with you.”
She keeps up with me just fine, which she demonstrates to me before dinner. We christen the sprawling king-sized bed with the shades wide open on the mountain view, making as much noise as we want for the first time since we’ve been together.
When she cums the first time, she doesn’t hold back. Instead of clenching her teeth and stifling her whines, she sings out, her tight walls sucking my cock so hard it almost makes me cum just watching her, hearing her. When it’s finally passed by, she starts laughing, completely taken with the moment and the way we feel together, and by the fact that we’re alone and don’t have to hide what we’re doing from anyone.
We take our time together, using the hours to relax and be real, without worrying about who might see us, or what might be overheard. When six o’clock rolls around and twilight has fallen over our outdoor view, I hate the idea of pulling myself away from the bed and Grace’s naked flesh cradled against me, but we promised the others we’d meet them for dinner at seven, and we both need a shower. Badly.
We shower together, which is distracting and counterproductive to making it to dinner on-time.
Grace and my mom went shopping a few weeks back, and while I was curious, I didn’t ask to see what she bought, and she didn’t offer to show me. Watching her get ready, I understand why. She was saving the surprise.
I’ve never seen Grace in a dress or a skirt, but she’s brought several. For tonight she’s decked herself out in a mid-calf length, flowing, pleated skirt of lacy material, and a tailored dress shirt, with a western-style short coat in black silk that stops just above the curve of her hips, then drops down with half-tails behind her ass. It’s a good look for her. The best part is that she’s bold enough to anchor the whole outfit with her now well-broken-in cowboy boots. She checks herself in the living room mirror, running a hand through her short blond hair. Then she smiles at me in the reflection.
“You like?” she asks, blinking.
“I like.” I’d like to take it all off her and do her again right here in the living room. I restrain myself. It’s five ‘til seven and I hate being late. We’ll have time later.
Downstairs in the dining room as we’re waiting to be seated, I spot people I know from competitions and other breeders’ events. The crowd in the place is a fifty-fifty mix of RMBA people and everyone else who would ordinarily be at a venue like this on any random Friday night in late January.
Looking around, I’m entertained. Pale skinned men in khaki slacks with soft hands, sip wine from tall glasses, peering through reading glasses to look at their smartphones. Women dressed in revealing yoga pants talk at their partners, who mostly ignore them, preferring instead the digital company of the internet. Some of these women have purple, pink, and blue streaks in their hair. I wonder if that isn’t some desperate cry for attention. Maybe I’m just a Montana rancher who doesn’t keep up with fashion trends.
I slip my hand around Grace’s hip, pulling her close. I lean down and whisper in her ear, “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room, and I’m proud to be with you.”
She smiles up at me blushing. It’s rare that she blushes. I like it.
A few moments later we’re seated, appetizers ordered, and drinks in hand. Jim Burke raises his glass first, nodding to me.
“I heard a rumor that tomorrow night some pretty fine things are going to be said about you. So… I just want to offer you a toast Cam. I’m glad to say I taught you everything good you know.” He grins and lifts his glass, and we all sip together.
“I also want to know when you’re giving me back my son,” he teases, sitting his glass down. “I’m not going to live forever. I need to pass the Heartwood on to someone, but you’re holding Tyler hostage over at the Kicking Horse.”
“You get Jacob,” Tyler responds to his father, just short of laughing. “You’re too damn mean for me to work for. I was mucking out stalls ‘til I was twenty.”
We all laugh, but I know that there’s some truth to what Jim says. At some point Tyler is going to leave the Kicking Horse and go back across the valley to his father’s place. That’ll be a dark day in my world. I don’t know how I could ever run things without him.
“Oh, my word, would you look at this!” a voice from behind me croons. I look up and see Anne Chandler, daughter of Norman Chandler of the Iron Horse ranch near Billings. She’s circling up behind me, wearing a smile as big as Texas, and a belt strung together with all her champion buckles dangling over her narrow hips, hanging down her right thigh.
“Camden. It’s so good to see you here. You haven’t come to one of these things in years.”
She slips her arm around me, giving me a kiss on the cheek.
Anne Chandler is like me. She the heir to a generations-long family ranching operation with a breeding program that goes back decades. She’s competed and shown champion horses in nearly every class, winning consistently. Her foals are top grade performers. She’s also tall, razer thin, blond, and could do with a daily breakfast of biscuits and gravy to soften her sharp edges.
She’s a year older than me, and she’s single. She’s had an eye for me since we were kids, doing cutting and cowing events at the state Four-H events.
“Good to see you, Anne,” I say standing, then nod to my companions. “You remember Jim Burke from Heartland and his son, my foreman, Tyler, and his wife, Amanda,” I say. “And of course, you know Bryant, my uncle.”
“Sure, I do,” she says, her eyes floating around the table, a toothy grin painted across her over-made face. “Now who is this?” she asks, her sharp eyes stopping hard on Grace like the stuck ball at a roulette table.
Anne probably saw me walk in the door with Grace on my arm.
“Grace Bradley, this is Anne Chandler.” I skip the details.
Anne smiles, offering Grace her hand in the most condescending manner she can contrive.
“I love your jacket,” she says, her tone sappy sweet. “It squares you up, makes you look thinner, giving you lines you wouldn’t ordinarily see. It’s a good choice.”
Anne lifts her eyes to mine. “Well, Cam, I’ll let you get back to your friends. We’ll see you tomorrow night at the awards dinner.”
I sit down, then look to Grace. She’s flushed pink. Anne embarrassed her; she hurt her feelings. I slip my hand into hers under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
Then I lean in.
“There’s a reason she’s still single,” I whisper. “You just saw why. You are the most beautiful woman here, and she knows it.”
The rest of the dinner, Grace is quiet. She’s usually quiet, but in this big room, filled with people I know, she’s more so. I think that if she could slip outside and just watch us all from the windows, she’d feel better about being here. But as it is, she endures being my quiet, lovely adornment.
After dinner we go up to the Loft, the lodge’s bar on the top floor. The peaked roof and glass walls of the place offer a moonlit, panoramic view of the mountains surrounding the landscape beyond. Almost everyone in the bar is RMBA people, and those who aren’t certainly feel our presence. Our whisky filled glasses, hip-hugging jeans, big silver belt buckles, wide brimmed hats, and pointy boots, distinguish us from the khaki and polo shirt wearing sort who look on us with unveiled curiosity.
Grace and I turn more than a few heads as we slide up to the bar. I’m keenly aware of several men checking her out, passing leering whispers between themselves. They can look, but they better not touch. It isn’t just men, either. Several women attempt to catch my eye, smiling coyly from across the room. That’s fine too, but I only have eyes for the one on my arm. Apparently, the fact that I’m with someone isn’t enough to slow down the bold ones.
“Are you a cowboy?” a strange woman wearing enough black eyeliner to cause me to question her health, asks, slipping her hand around my cuff. “Like, a real cowboy?”
I start to answer, but before I can, Grace steps between us, moving the woman back two steps, separating her hand from my jacket.
“You’re damned right he’s a real cowboy,” she says. “And you need to step off before I cut you out of the herd, lay you out, and brand your ass with the point of my boot.”
Shit. Talk about cutting well.
