The Cowgirl & the Stallion

by Natasha Deen

  “Spencer.” One word, softly spoken, reverberated with authority, love, and froze the child on the fifth step. “Come here.”

  He shook his head, said not a word, but his shoulders shuddered with the tears he tried to hide.

  Mason moved toward the stairs, stepping heavily so the little boy knew he was coming, and had time to regain his composure. Spencer pulled the sleeve of his shirt over his hand and furiously scrubbed at his eyes. He turned and looked back at Mason; the deep blush of humiliation tinged his cheeks.

  “The dust has been irritating my eyes, as well,” he told the little boy who gave him a small, watery smile of gratitude. “Come on.” He put his hand on Spencer’s shoulder. The bones of his body seemed so fragile, so easily broken that the impulse to pick him up, carry him, and whisper, lest the decibels of normal speech shattered him, overwhelmed Mason. Knowing that at nine, any show of “babying” would serve to embarrass the child further, he gave him a soft push and said, “Your mother wants to talk to you. Don’t disrespect her.”

  Spencer headed down the stairs and stood before his mother. Aya knelt down in front of him.

  “Don’t hate everything about your dad. I don’t.”

  He folded his scrawny arms along his thin chest. “You’re lying.”

  She grasped him by the upper arms, locking her gaze on his, and said, “I never lie. He’s your dad, and half of him runs through you—”

  “I don’t want to be anything like him!” cried Spencer.

  Aya combed her fingers through his mused hair, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She cupped his jaw. “You’re both smart, gorgeous, charming, and your smile”—her voice trembled—“is just like his. Baby, I know we have issues with him, but he’s your dad and part of you. Don’t hate those parts, love them. I do.” She took a deep breath and took his hands in hers. “He’s behaving like a jerk. A big one. And he’s missing out on a friendship with the coolest guy I know, but I’m glad I don’t have to give you up for a weekend because I miss you when you’re gone. One day, your dad will realize the mistakes he made, regret his choices. But those decisions have nothing to do with you, and everything to do with him.”

  Spencer smiled, and the trembling movement of his mouth, the uncertainty in his eyes said he didn’t totally believe his mother, but that he desperately wanted to. He glanced at Mason, who understood the silent request and turned his back to them. When he looked over his shoulder, the boy had lost himself in his mother’s arms.

  A pure, intense flood of warmth spread through Mason, and made his fingers and toes tingle. He looked away, feeling he’d witnessed a sacred interaction that he was far too human and fallible to look directly into the face of true, unconditional love.

  “What do you say to a movie night?”

  He heard Aya ask the question. Turning around, he saw that mother and son had separated.

  “Nate and I have plans,” Spencer said with a smile in his direction.

  “It’s true,” he said, accepting the implicit invitation to the conversation, though self-consciousness and the awareness of Aya’s gaze on him made him feel clumsy and oafish. “But if you want to be with your mom, the creek can wait for tomorrow.”

  Indecision had Spencer looking from one adult to the other. “Do you want to watch movies with us?”

  Mason deferred the question to Aya. “Do I want to watch movies?”

  She rose, a wry smile on her mouth. “I’m not a mind reader. It’s your choice.”

  Because he heard no latent warning or discouragement in her voice, he agreed.

  “That’s settled,” she said. “Spencer, put your things away. There is a plate of oatmeal-raisin cookies on the kitchen countertop and milk in the fridge. After you snack, I want you to do homework or some reading, shower, then we’ll relax for the night.”

  “Okay.” He scooted around them, grabbed his bag and spilled half its contents on to the floor. Smiling sheepishly, he shoved the items back into the knapsack and dashed upstairs.

  Aya’s gaze followed him. When he disappeared down the hall, she sank down on one of the steps. “Go ahead, say it.” Weariness sagged in her words. “I’m a terrible parent.”

  Surprise made Mason backpedal. He reversed direction and took a seat on the step under hers. “Are you kidding?”

  “No. I couldn’t have picked a worse father for my kid. He’s years behind on his alimony and child support.” She stopped. The muscles in her jaw rippled as she clenched her teeth. “And I’m not enough to fill the fatherly void Daniel left—not that it was a big one. I’m not athletic, and I don’t understand half the video games out there. What am I going to tell him about shaving or sex? Every day, I feel like I’m failing my son.”

  Instinct propelled him forward. He sat beside her, and draped his arm around her shoulders. “You’re doing great.”

  “We’re struggling, and if I don’t do something drastic, it’s just a matter of time before I lose the farm.” She swallowed. “But Spencer’s so happy here. He loves the land, his school, the town. What place can I take him where he would be this content?”

  If it hadn’t been for the hopelessness in her voice, the slump in her posture, he would have given her an answer to solve all their problems—sell the land and buy property down the road. He wanted this farm, but on his terms, not as a conciliation prize for taking advantage of a vulnerable woman. He and Aya were destined for a confrontation, but he would initiate the battle charge when she could be an equal adversary, not when she barely had any strength in her. So, he found himself saying, “It’ll all work out. Trust me on this.”

  She smiled, tired and weary. “Nate, I’m sorry you got caught in our family drama. You’ve been a good sport, and I’m glad you’re still here because I want to talk to you.”

  Her tone, a mixture of exhaustion and business, circled wariness around him. “About what?”

  “Mason St. John.”

  He pulled his arm from her shoulder, in case he needed it to defend himself. “What about him?”

  “I want your help to keep this farm from St. John.”

  A shaky breath left his constricted chest. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “Please, hear me out.”

  She wrapped her fingers around his hand in a loose restraint, and the muscles of his heart jumped at her touch. What special torture, to be so close yet so achingly far away from her, and the man she believed him to be.

  Earnestness pooled in her eyes, darkening the pupils and turning them into fathomless depths that threatened to drown him. “Denis and Pops brought you here to convince me to sell. You seem like a fair-minded person. How can you just take their side without hearing mine?”

  “Because I agree with them.” He tried to pull away from her touch, but she held tighter and refused to let him go.

  “Before Columbus and the settlers, this land was part of the circuit my ancestors roamed. They lived on these grasses, built their homes and raised their children here. When the pioneers came, my family bought this patch, and they’ve been farmers and ranchers ever since.”

  “Just because your family has always done something a certain way, is no reason to keep doing it.”

  “It’s more than that—more simple and complicated.” Her fingers tightened. “I’m already fighting so many people and circumstances, please don’t make me fight you, as well.”

  She was alone and down-trodden. Though she didn’t know it, she was also defeated. But this opportunity she offered—the chance to work his way into her confidence and turn her resistance into a heart willing to sell, also offered him the chance to get the land without feeling like the proverbial snake in the grass. The question was, could he do this without scarring both of them?

  “I’ll think about it,” he said.

  Relief flooded her face. “Thank you.”

  “I said ‘think about it’ not ‘do it.’ Don’t celebrate your victory, yet.”

  “I’m one step closer than I was before, and that
deserves celebrating.” She grinned at him, released his fingers, and stood. “I have to get dinner on the table.”

  “Why don’t you go and see Spencer, instead? I’ll help Destina with dinner.”

  “You will?”

  “I’m already sliding down the banks of insanity and poor judgment; I might as well peel a few potatoes on my descent.”

  ****

  Aya drizzled melted butter over the tub of popcorn, half her attention on the task, the other half on Nate. He sat beside Spencer, dark head bent over her son, their expressions serious and engaged as Spencer discussed his passion for psychology and Nate listened, intent and active. Domestic, family edges blurred the image before her, saturating her heart with a life lost and an unattainable future.

  The muffled thump of Pops’ footsteps in the hallway dragged her gaze from the object of her obsession. She opened her mouth to comment on how handsome he looked in his “outing” attire—his good pair of jeans, and a freshly starched, oxford shirt, then remembered she wasn’t supposed to know about his relationship with Destina.

  “I think Nate should stay in the bunkhouse,” she said as her grandfather came into the brightly lit kitchen.

  He glanced over to the living room. “Why? Because Spencer’s takin’ to him and you’re afraid when Nate leaves, he’ll be emotionally devastated?”

  She paused in the middle of tossing the kernels and looked at him.

  He shrugged. “You’re not as complicated as you think you are. Your desires manifest in everything.”

  She blinked. “Desires manifest? You’ve been letting Spencer take the helm of too many conversations.”

  Pops reached into the fridge and pulled out a beer. “Ayup, but I’m not sure I like him reading Freud.” The lines of his faced etched with distaste. “That man is too concerned with toilets and sex.”

  “He grew up in Victorian society—cut him a little slack. You’d be concerned with sex and toilets if people were so repressed they covered the legs of tables because they feared inflaming the senses of men.” She set down the pale green Tupperware bowl and nodded in the direction of Nate. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Aya.” Love and comfort saturated her name. “I don’t blame you for wanting to protect Spencer, but there will always be people who come and go in his life. You can’t protect him from reality. What’s worse—that he finds a friend for a little while, or that he never knows what it is to have one?”

  “I suppose,” she conceded, but uncertainty’s train continued to lay tracks in her brain.

  “’Sides, it’s good the boy has a young, male influence.”

  Yeah. Nate was young, and he was most assuredly male. “Spencer has you—and you’ve got a great relationship.”

  “It’s not the same.” Pops popped the tab of his beer, and took a sip. “Nate’s a man in his prime, the type of guy that Spencer could look up to, be like. He’s tall, handsome, well-muscled—”

  Aya nearly choked on her popcorn. “What the hell do his looks have to do with Spencer?”

  “Nothing with the child, everything with you.” Pops took another sip and reached into the bowl for a few kernels. “If you were honest, you’d know the person to worry about most, is yourself.”

  In her heart, the train whistled as her grandfather’s words pulled into the station of truth. She stuffed buttery kernels in her mouth and hoped the steam-engine’s hiss didn’t give her away.

  Pops’ soft chuckle blew across the top of her head. “I may be old,” he said, “but I’m not blind. Every time you look at Nate, you get the same look in your eye that Daisy gets when she sees Bingo.”

  “Great.” She filled her mouth with another handful of fluffy, salty popcorn. “I’m in the same league as a cow that’s love-sick for a dog.”

  “Be happy you’re not looking like Fluffy.” Her grandfather’s hand, heavy and calloused, dropped on to her shoulder. “When it comes to Spencer and Nate, I say let the boys have their fun.” He pulled her around to face him. “But when it comes to you and Nate, stay away. There’s nothing but heartache there.”

  Vines of fear and self-doubt crawled the trellis of her heart. Had she chosen wrong, again? “I thought you liked him.”

  “I do, and I respect the man—more than you know.” His steel-gray eyes regarded Nate. “But our farmhand isn’t here forever. He’ll be gone, soon, and I don’t want to see you with a broken heart. You have enough troubles.”

  “I know,” she said softly, “but until he came, I didn’t realize how lonely I was.” The ramifications of her words brought her to a startled halt. Aya grasped her grandfather’s hand. “I don’t mean that you and Destina aren’t fine company—”

  He laughed and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I know what you mean, honey. A grandfather and a friend can’t compare to a squeaking headboard.”

  “Pops!”

  “Don’t play innocent.” His gaze strayed to Nate. “Wolf Point doesn’t offer you much in the way of male companionship. But if you sold, we could move to a big city—”

  “I’m not uprooting my kid just so I can get laid.” Just the thought of it made a contemptuous bile rise in her throat. She sighed and passed the bowl of popcorn his way. “It’s Friday, what do you say we call a cease-fire on Mason St. John until Monday?”

  “Deal, but you’d do well to rest up. This farm needs to be sold, and I’m not going to let you destroy your life because of some jackass sense of misplaced loyalty.” He moved toward the hall.

  “Wait, do you want to watch a movie with us?”

  Her grandfather cleared his throat; a flush of red traveled from his neck to the roots of his hair. “Spencer should be enough of a chaperone for you. Besides, I have to help Destina—she’s having troubles with her window.”

  Aya nodded. “I heard.”

  He balked. “You did—what did you hear?”

  She feigned innocence. “Destina told me she was having trouble with the window. It sticks a lot.”

  “Oh, humph—” He cleared his throat again. “Yes, it does.”

  She reached across and brushed the salt from the side of his mouth. “Do you often fix her window while wearing your going-out jeans?” She inhaled the comforting scent of his aftershave. “And smelling like Old Spice?”

  He cleared his throat with a loud, rumbling “harrumph.” His gaze darting everywhere but his granddaughter’s face, he said, “Thought we might go to the grocery store. She said somethin’ about needing flour. Goodnight.” He turned and headed down the hallway.

  “Pops.”

  He jerked to a stop, his shoulders hunched forward as though preparing himself for a fatal blow.

  “I’ve found that when it comes to sticky windows, sometimes it pays to take your time, wiggle it into place.” He cut a furtive glance her way, and she gazed at him, placidly. “I know men like to go for the gusto, but women are different.”

  “Uh, right.” The blush on his face turned his skin brick-red. “You done?”

  “Sure, go, who’s stopping you?”

  He retreated around the corner. Aya chuckled, and grabbing the popcorn bowl, headed into the living room.

  Two hours later, though, as Spencer’s childish snores underscored his deep state of sleep, she wished her grandfather had stayed. Actually, she did more than wish. She longed desperately for his presence.

  Though Nate was on the end of the L-shaped sofa and she on the opposite side, he sat too close for comfort, smelled too good for aloofness, and looked too damn gorgeous in his jeans and jersey pullover for her libido to do anything but slam itself against her restraints and demand freedom.

  As if her thoughts telegraphed themselves telepathically, he turned and bestowed her with a mind-numbing, knee-buckling smile.

  “What do you want to do, now?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her words snapped the air, and she mentally searched for a chastity belt to slap on to her libido.

  His brows drew together in a mixture of con
fusion and annoyance. Reaching to the DVDs lying on the coffee table, he picked them up and waved the cases. “I meant, which movie do you want to watch?”

  “Oh.” Embarrassment warmed her toes, cheeks, and tips of her ears. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just a little”—sexually ravenous and you look like filet mignon—“tired. Maybe we should call it a night.”

  “Are you sure?” Disappointment edged his words.

  She forced a laugh. “I didn’t really see you as a cartoon fan.”

  “I guess it’s the company that makes the night.”

  Her insides melted into a warm, gooey mess. “Spencer can make anything fun.” Aya directed her comments to her blanket-covered toes. When the silence remained unbroken, she looked up.

  Because her son had wanted a theatre-style setting, only the recessed lights above the fireplace remained on. As a result, though she could see Nate’s face, the shadows of light and dark, electricity and fire, hid the full view of his expression from her. She saw his eyes, though. And in that moment, as red-orange light flickered, casting sepia tones on the lean hollows of his cheeks and jaw, she felt exposed, vulnerable, as though he knew her secret thoughts and wishes. The uncomfortable sensation that it was his awareness of her insecurities and fears which kept him quiet, made her skin prickle and made her feel like a doe sensing the predator’s scent on the wind.

  She shucked the blanket and rose, making her way to Spencer. His head lay on Nate’s lap, and every step she took closed the distance, made her mouth drier, and her heart beat faster.

  “I can take him.”

  His voice rumbled deep from his chest and sent delicious shivers running along her skin. She paused, close enough to see the dark, endless depths of his eyes. Was the doe, seeing the mountain lion at the threshold, ever so moved by its beauty and strength that she only wanted to be devoured and consumed by raw, animal power? Aya doubted it, but standing this close to Nate, all she wanted was to be possessed and ravished by him. Then she wanted to reverse roles, lick him all over, and do some consuming of her own.