by Em Petrova
He stared at her, and she realized he had no clue what she was talking about.
“It’s a character.”
“I don’t watch movies or read books. Got no time. I work from dark-thirty to dark-thirty.”
“Actually, I do too. We get up at five for hair and makeup and start filming by seven.”
He sliced a look her way. Dropping the subject, he said, “I’ll show you around.” He went to the barn and led her inside. There were a lot of horses out in the field she’d seen as she passed and only two here in the stalls. He pointed to them. “Here we got Edison and Phil.”
“Okay.” Odd names but she didn’t comment on them.
“They’re older and I don’t use them as much. They’ve earned cozy lives with as much green grass as they want and days in the sun to laze away.”
She gave the cowboy the side-eye. His gruff manner made it difficult to figure out what kind of man he was.
“When will we get to the riding part of the lessons?” she asked.
He narrowed his eyes, lending him an even more unapproachable air. She wasn’t cowed, though—she worked with plenty of asshole actors and still managed to pull off flawless performances.
He didn’t answer right away, and she said, “I get the feeling you think women should be seen and not heard.”
He grunted. “That isn’t the saying. It’s kids should be seen and not heard. And no, I don’t think that. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression either.”
Now she was getting somewhere with the hard man.
“You won’t be riding today.”
She stared at his back as he turned and walked out of the barn. Quickly, she followed back to the mixer machine or whatever he’d called it. He stopped and waved a hand at the steel contraption.
“Your first duty is to mix the feed.”
“I… We’re really not working with horses today?”
“We’re really not working with horses today,” he repeated. “Dickson said you could use a lesson or ten. I was under the impression your role on the TV show is rancher’s wife. I’m going to teach you how to be one.”
Chapter Three
This Bellarose Abbott woman was sure to be a pain in his ass. Slow him down. Challenge his patience.
And keep him half-hard all damn day long while she was by his side.
The woman was stunning, plain and simple. Red hair and eyes like amber, skin pale and clear. She was tall with long legs and could easily model. Maybe she had.
He’d never seen her shows or any of her films and felt a little bad about that. But it was as he’d said—he didn’t have time for entertainment. He busted his ass from sunup to well after dark most days and then ate what he could scrounge before falling into bed, with all the aches and pains of a man who worked hard, and passed out the minute his head hit the pillow.
“Um, do rancher’s wives mix feed?” she asked.
Her cultured voice was soft and a little wispy like wind tickling the branches of a tree.
Christ. He’d never looked at a woman and thought these kinds of things before.
“What do you think a rancher’s wife does?” he asked.
A flush rose to her high cheekbones. He wondered if she’d had any plastic surgery. Most celebrities did, he guessed.
“Well, cooking. Maybe feeding the chickens?”
He snorted. “Got no chickens. Only cattle and a coupla dogs and cats who sleep in the barn. I’ve got two ranch hands who live nearby and take their meals at home, so there isn’t a cook, unless you count Chef Boyardee. Your first duty is to learn how to mix the feed. Now this here’s the grain mix and supplements We’ve had a hard winter and foraging isn’t as nutritional yet, so I’ve been supplementing their feed. And this is hay. We grow it here and let it bloom a little long since our cattle don’t need as much protein right now as they would in the winter months. We add to the mix to keep the cattle from bolting down their food so fast. Hay slows ’em down.”
She nodded as if following along. Her hat was too big and sat too low, hiding her beautiful eyes from him.
“You’d best get a hat of your own that fits,” he said abruptly.
She jerked her gaze to his. God, no wonder the woman was on camera. She had looks every man in America would drool over and women would envy.
“I will. Tomorrow,” she said.
He gave a nod, slightly embarrassed by getting off track. “We feed the cattle twice a day.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because the bigger the steers, the more money they bring. We want them gaining two and a quarter to two and a half pounds per day to be ready for market. Okay, so you take the grain and add this much to the mixer.” He demonstrated by dumping a huge barrel of it into the mixer. “And this much hay.” He tossed in a bunch.
“How am I supposed to lift these things?”
He eyed her small arms in a soft red sweater. “If you can’t lift it all at once, you do what you can until it’s all added to the mixer. Got it?”
“Yes.”
He stood back and waved at the mixer. “Go on. We need four times as much as I just added.”
She hesitated, directing a lock of longer hair over her shoulder. Her fingers were delicate, the nails buffed and painted with something clear and shiny.
“Wait. Better take my gloves.”
He reached into his back pocket and came out with his leather gloves. Watching her put them on caused a kernel of warmth to spread through his gut. They were too big, of course, but damn if she didn’t look sexier for it.
He released a harsh breath as he watched her follow his instructions. Her first attempt to lift the barrel failed, so she looked around.
“The shovel,” he said, pointing.
She threw him an uncertain look before taking up the shovel and driving it into the barrel. The grains of corn and all the plant matter fell off the shovel and back into the vat.
He watched her do this a few times, waiting to see what she would do. If she was as hard a worker as Dickson claimed. And if she would come up with any solutions of her own, the real meaning of being a rancher.
Or a rancher’s wife.
You worked hard, you made do. And you found a way.
On the fourth attempt, she dropped the shovel. He waited for her tantrum.
But instead of screaming or giving up, she grabbed the barrel and wrestled it over onto its side. Some of the grain spilled onto the ground but she took up the shovel and scooped it.
After the second shovelful, she sent him a look.
He gave her a hard nod. “Keep goin’.”
As he walked away to see to another chore, the sounds of grain hitting the metal mixer echoed behind him. So she was smarter than he’d taken her for. Though he shouldn’t be surprised. You could see stupidity in the eyes—whether it was human or beast, intelligence lived in the eyes.
Bellarose was not stupid, he’d seen that from the start. He would withhold his verdict about her character, though. There was still time for tantrums or giving up.
He jumped in his truck and backed it over to the mixer, where she continued to shovel. She had about half of the grain loaded.
“You’ll have to get an earlier start on this if you’re going to get it done in time.”
She paused mid-shovel, her hair falling forward and her hat too low over her eyes again. “In time for what?”
“By the time you finish, you will have missed feedin’ time.”
“Oh.” She began to shovel faster.
He watched her a minute, trying to work her out.
“You could help, you know.”
Her sassy tone had his lips twitching up at the corner. He moved forward and grabbed the alfalfa. “Some places do this with a front-end loader.”
“Why don’t you?”
“My herd’s not all that big and I like to hand mix.”
“Is there a reason other than you just like hard work?”
He sliced a look her way. “I ha
ve a small setup and I like to keep it that way.”
“Oh.” That pink flush was back in her cheeks. Suddenly, his hands grew damp at the thought of pushing up her hat, gazing into her those crystal-clear eyes of hers and brushing his thumbs across her warm cheekbones.
“I guess this is the rancher’s wife’s way of cooking,” she said.
He laughed.
She stopped shoveling and stared at him as if he’d grown a second head or taken off all his clothes. Which he might if he stared at her much longer. Sure would help with the problem growing in his Wranglers.
“You could say that,” he said.
She shoveled the last of the grain into the mixer and stood back, a smile spreading across her lovely face. That warmth was back in his gut, but this time much lower.
“Now for the horses?” she asked.
“Nope. Got more feed to mix. Then the horses.”
She brightened. “Will I learn to ride today then?”
“Not likely.”
“All right. What will I be learning?”
“How to clean stalls.” He hefted another barrel of grain over and nodded to it. “Get shoveling.”
* * * * *
Though the work had been physical, Bellarose had been reluctant to leave when the car arrived for her. Feeling a bit of pride that she’d passed the tests King had put her through, she was eager to return to Blackwater and begin more of her training.
The sooner she got to the horse-riding lessons, the better. She was seriously lacking in that skill, and it was embarrassing on set. Her first few hours of her day of filming had been spent being shown ways to mount the horse so they could film the scene. But by the fifth try, she was fed up and knew the horse was too.
She waved to Dickson. “Can I stop for the day? I need work on this and I’m not improving by trying it myself. I need a ride to Blackwater.”
He nodded. “Good idea. I’ll call King and let him know you’re on your way.”
The entire ride to the ranch, she thought about the man she would see in a few minutes. He was hard as steel and demanding. She was up for the challenges and hoped he didn’t hold back with her today. After being treated like a delicate flower for most of her life now, she was happy that King was real with her.
When she arrived, she headed off to the barn, since it was the most likely place to find him. A splashing sound met her ears as she rounded the corner, and she drew to a sudden halt.
His back was to her.
He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Each defined muscle of his carved back rolled as he splashed water over his arms and face.
She stood mesmerized by the sight. Odd, since she’d seen plenty of half-naked or naked men in her lifetime. But her gaze was fixed to that broad spine and the ripple of muscular shoulders as he turned off the water and shook off the excess water droplets.
Still not aware of her presence, he stuffed his arms into his shirt and his hat back on his damp hair.
Quickly, she darted back around the corner. When she rounded it, he was doing up the buttons of his blue plaid shirt.
“Oh, there you are,” she said in her best easy tone.
“And here you are.” He spared her only a glance before finishing with his buttons and stuffing the ends of his shirt back into his jeans. An action she couldn’t look away from.
He slanted a look her way. “Ready to get your hands dirty?”
“Actually, yes.” She reached into her coat pocket and withdrew a pair of leather ladies’ gloves.
“Where’d you get those?”
“I had my assistant go out and purchase them today.”
He grunted and started walking away.
“What does that mean?” She followed him at a trot.
“I didn’t say a thing.”
“You grunted.” She was seriously starting to wonder if he was actually sexy if his personality was so lacking. If he was a jerk, it wouldn’t matter how ripped he was from hard work.
“Those are a little thin for the work we’ll be doing.”
She looked down at the supple leather. ”Okay, so now I see that they’re more suitable for the set of a Jane Austen film but they’d still work for one day.”
He gave a low rumble that might have been the growl of a wild animal or a laugh. “I’ve really stuck my boots in it, haven’t I?”
“If that’s an insult, then I have a few choice words for you too.”
He stopped walking and barked a laugh. “Girlie, I only ask that you listen to my instructions. That way nobody gets hurt. If you do that, I don’t care what kind of gloves you wear.”
They passed his truck and once again she admired all the wear it had seen in keeping the ranch going.
“I like your truck.”
“Oh?” He slowed his pace.
“Yeah.”
“What’s your favorite truck?” he asked.
Her mind fumbled over makes and models. She knew expensive foreign cars celebrities drove and her private vehicle was a Lexus, though she hired a driver for almost everything.
Her mind blanked. “Uhhh, I like a Dixon Ticonderoga.”
He stared at her, eyes dark in the shade of his hat. “A Dixon Ticonderoga.”
All of a sudden she realized she’d spat out the first thing that came to mind—which happened to be a type of pencil. Oh God. I’m such an idiot.
Funny that she’d never felt like one before being in King’s presence.
He tugged at his hat. Was that a smile he was hiding?
“I chewed plenty of those back in first grade. Now I prefer Papermates,” he drawled out.
Yes, he was making fun of her. She groaned inwardly and followed him to the next chore he had in mind for her.
* * * * *
Number of times Bellarose cussed while tossing bales of hay: 5.
The number of times she glared at him out of those pretty amber eyes of hers: 13
And the number of sassy remarks she threw his way: Countless.
When she climbed from the car this morning, he saw how her fourth morning of hard work was weighing down her shoulders. She walked a bit slower too, like she might be sore from putting up hay the day before.
Still, he couldn’t ask for more when their original agreement had been weekends only on Blackwater and she’d insisted on coming daily between her takes.
He grinned and started across the yard to meet her. This was gonna be fun. So far, she’d stepped up to everything he’d thrown her way, and she was definitely surprising him.
She threw a wave that looked half-hearted compared to the previous day’s. “Hello, King.”
“Bellarose.”
Her cheeks were flushed pink from the mountain air—or was that a real blush he saw?
“What torture do you have planned for me today?” she asked with false cheer.
He scuffed his boot in the dust and looked down to see she was wearing yet another brand new pair of cowgirl boots that probably cost as much as one of his best steers.
“Just a normal day around here. I was about to grab somethin’ to eat. You feel like having a bite?”
“Uh, sure.”
He twisted to go to the house with her following. At the door, he allowed her to pass inside first and then led her to the kitchen. The fresh scent of coffee had him drawing in a deep breath.
“Mmm, smells good,” she said.
“How do you take your coffee?” He opened the fridge to grab the milk.
“Just cream’s fine. Thank you.”
He set the jug on the counter and poured them each a big mug. He added a splash of milk to both coffees. She lifted her mug and giggled.
He cast her a look from the corner of his eye. In her hands, the mug looked oversized and she could be a child holding it.
“I feel like Alice in Wonderland. This is how ranchers take their coffee?” She sipped.
He drew it to his lips. “Uh-huh.”
After a moment, he offered her some eggs, which she dec
lined.
“You some kind of vegan or something? Only eat tofu and stuff?” He reached into a cupboard and came out with a loaf of bread.
“No, not vegan. I just don’t do eggs.”
He grunted. “How about toast? Is that too country for a Hollywood girl?”
“Depends if you have jam.”
“Oh, I got jam. My sister keeps me in stock with her homemade strawberry.” He shot her a smile and stuffed the toaster slots full.
“I’ve never seen such a big toaster,” she said.
“I hate waiting, so I got the biggest one I could find.”
“Eight slots seems like a lot.”
“Not when I eat six slices.”
After devouring the toast and jam, which she raved over, he jerked his head toward the door. “Time to get a move on. Lots to do.”
* * * * *
Bellarose had worked with the top aerobics instructors, kickboxed with professionals and swam millions of laps in Olympic-sized pools while coaches yelled about her form. But never in her life had she ached as much as she did after shoveling all that feed as well as cleaning out several horse stalls.
Her arms felt like jelly, the muscles quivering. Her abs hurt from bending and tightening them. And she was plain sick of pushing this hat out of her eyes. She kept forgetting to bring her own with her.
She shoved it back for the thousandth time that day and eyed King, who worked a few stalls from her. The man was a freakin’ machine. He never stopped, not once, even drinking water on the go.
Her stomach grumbled and she wondered what would happen when it came to dinner. Would he prepare something for her or would her driver be coming to fetch her soon?
A look at the sun sinking lower in the sky said she was probably out of here soon. Good thing, because she wanted a hot shower and maybe a massage.
She shot another look at King’s broad back. The shirt strained across his shoulders and revealed ripples. She conjured the memory of him shirtless and stifled a shiver at the image in her head. The men she knew spent hours a day in a gym to achieve what he did as his daily routine.
A low sound came to her, and she put the tones together to create musical notes. King was humming, his rich baritone floating to her, mingled with the scrape of his pitchfork on the floorboards.
