Muscle

by Lexi Whitlow

I could sit with him, quiet and snug in his arms forever.

  I know forever isn’t realistic. I know this is a tricky relationship. But I’m falling for Camden Davis, falling hard and fast.

  In a few moments the sweat and breathless heat of our exertion has passed. Goosebumps start to rise on my flesh. Cam’s hands smooth over my skin, warming me. Still, I shiver.

  “We should go get in the hot tub,” he coos into my hair. “Warm up, then play some more.”

  He doesn’t have to suggest it twice.

  * * *

  There is something about a man in a tux that’s just irresistible. Flip that tux into Cowboy Formal mode, with a starched, pin-tucked, bibbed shirt, wrapped at the wing-tip collar with a bolo tie paired with neat, pressed-crease indigo boot-cut jeans secured at the hip with a big silver and rose gold champion’s buckle. All of it’s anchored at the foot by shiny black, high heeled cowboy boots with silver spurs attached at the heels—a genuine fashion statement.

  Hang all that off Camden Davis’ incredible physique, and you’ve achieved an iconic image of masculine perfection, causing every red-blooded, straight woman (half the lesbians, too, I suspect) in the big banquet room to halt mid-speech, drop jaw, and just gawk.

  That woman from last night—Anne, I think her name was—sees us walk in and can’t help but stare. I catch her eyes and give her a smirk.

  He’s all mine, so back off.

  It might be a little catty for me to think, but at least I’m not saying anything.

  Cam thought I looked nice at dinner last night, but tonight I’m turned out. I’m wearing a variation on the little black dress theme, with a short hem reaching just past mid-thigh. It’s got a high waist and a low neckline, exposing more of my cleavage than I’m usually comfortable showing off; but as Cam’s mom said when I tried the dress on—‘honey, if you have the goods, flaunt them.’

  My wrap is a white silk, tailored morning coat with silver western buttons and faux black and white ‘Paint’ horsehair lapels. With my new black and white Paul Bond snake skin boots, I’m cutting a sharp path through the crowd on Cam’s arm.

  After getting drinks from the open bar, we take a turn around the room with Cam chatting and shaking hands with new acquaintances and old friends he’s known for years. I can tell the difference between the two by the first question they ask. His old friends ask about Emma, inquiring into her health. Mere acquaintances simply ask how he’s been doing since they last saw him, wondering at his absence from competitions and other events.

  “I hung up my contest saddle when my daughter was born,” he tells one inquisitive man from South Dakota. “We’re just focused on the family and growing the ranch.”

  The man turns to me, and creating a truly awkward moment. “Is your daughter as pretty as her momma? Is she old enough to ride? She can’t be, as you look not a minute over sixteen yourself.”

  He laughs as he says it, and I know it’s supposed to be a compliment (of some sort, to someone,) but his words make my skin crawl.

  “Emma will be five next week,” Cam replies in my stead. “She rides almost every day.”

  Cam makes our excuses, moving us along. He slugs his drink, rolling his eyes. He dips down to my ear to speak. “Sorry about that, but I didn’t want to go into details with a stranger.”

  I shrug and nod, not offended in the least. The guy creeped me out and I’m happy to be away from him.

  The dinner bell is literally rung, and the crowd ambles toward assigned seats. Our table includes Jim Burke, Tyler and Amanda, a husband and wife team of ranchers from north of Ronan, and two men and their wives who co-own a ranch called the Triple Star near Turtle Lake. Before long, dinner is served and the presentation on stage at the head of the room, begins.

  Sitting through most of the event is about as exciting as watching paint dry. Speakers from each state in the association drone on at length about their individual accomplishments and superlatives. A gentleman from Idaho provides only the briefest of entertainment as he fumbles with his notes, then drops his glasses, causing a brief ripple of laughter in the crowd during his prolonged search for the lost implement that will permit him to continue boring us to tears.

  “Hope we didn’t come all this way for nothing,” Tyler says in a half-whisper, leaning toward Camden.

  Cam lifts his whiskey to his mouth and sips. “Well, if we did, at least there’s a band afterwards,” he replies cooly.

  An hour later, as the waiters efficiently clear our plates, the president of the RMBA takes the podium. He’s a sixtyish year-old man dressed like most others in the room, in jeans, boots, the big champion’s belt buckle, and shiny tux jacket. His face is tanned dark and weathered like someone who’s spent his entire life out of doors. Despite his advancing years, he stands tall and straight, with a powerful build and commanding presence. It occurs to me that thirty years ago, this man likely resembled Camden in essentials. Likewise, thirty years hence, Camden will have aged, presenting a similar, distinguished appearance.

  The man begins speaking, explaining that the RMBA always saves the Montana awards for the last of the state award presentations, since the majority of the membership is comprised of Montana breeders.

  As the calling of categories and winners begins, Cam and Tyler both pull notebooks and pens from their jackets and start taking notes. I don’t follow what they’re recording, but a third of the way into the state award ceremony, Tyler leans forward to Cam.

  “That one’s ours too. She’s by Prickling Hair, by Gunner out of Carabella, who went to the Bakers at Broken Leg four years back, and out of Tender Night, by Gunner, out of Osage. Sold her at auction in Missoula six years back, I forget to who.”

  Cam nods, writing all this down.

  Half way through the presentation of awards, with various owners rising to claim their shiny trophy buckles, one of the recipients leans in to the speaker’s microphone. “Just gotta give props for this to Camden Davis and Tyler Burke at the Kicking Horse ranch. Bella Boy is the toughest, smartest, most graceful animal I’ve ever had the pleasure to train and compete with. He’s unsurpassed, like every horse Camden and Tyler have produced in the last five years.”

  Camden breaks out in a wide grin, slapping Tyler on the back enthusiastically. The men and women around the table interrupt with a small round of applause.

  Tyler and Cam keep taking notes through the rest of the presentation. When it’s concluded, the two put their heads together and start adding numbers. When they’re done, Camden looks at Tyler.

  “Seventy percent? Maybe more?”

  Tyler nods, grinning. “At least seventy percent.”

  “Shit.”

  Cam drains his whiskey glass, then raises it for a refresh as a waiter passes by.

  They’re excited about something big. It’s written all over both their faces. I don’t have to wait long to learn what all the fuss is about.

  The man at the podium steps to the microphone and smiling, he begins speaking.

  “Most horsemen know that it takes six or seven generations to prove the consistent quality of a pedigree, and six years or so to rear and train a champion from the best stock. Tonight, through the long list of champions from cowing and cutting, to fence work, trails, and even dressage, we’ve seen proof of that model. What’s unusual is that among the crop of champions this year—one of the best turn out years I’ve seen in my career—an unusually high percentage of those horses descend from the bloodlines on just one ranch.”

  The man pauses, looking out at the crowd.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, it’s my great honor to present the Rocky Mountains Breeders Association, Montana State Breeder of the Year Award to the Kicking Horse ranch at Ronan. Camden Davis, step on up here.”

  This is exciting! I squeeze Cam’s hand, because he looks like a deer in the headlights.

  He turns to me, blinks, giving me a crooked smile. Then he reaches back and offers his hand to Tyler, shaking it.

  “Let’s go,” he says,
standing.

  Tyler keeps his seat, shaking him off, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Get your ass up and come with me,” Camden insists.

  Jim Burke and Amanda both give Tyler a firm shove, urging him on as the crowd begins to applaud.

  On stage, Camden stands straight and proud. He’s urged to the microphone by the association president, who stands back after shaking hands, presenting Camden with a big, shining buckle in a black, velvet case.

  “Ahm… I’m not used to doing this,” Camden begins nervously. “ I’ll keep it quick. Just a couple things to say. First is, whatever I’ve done right at the Kicking Horse, I haven’t done alone. My father taught me everything he knew about breeding for intelligence and temperament. And my dear friend, Jim Burke from Heartland, taught me everything he could get through my thick head about running a business successfully.” Cam pauses, turning to Tyler. “And Jim’s son, my best friend, Kicking Horse’s foreman, and my right hand, has probably done more than anyone else to keep the place going when it looked like everything was falling apart.” He holds the buckle out, handing it to Tyler. “Buddy, this one’s for you.”

  The crowd rises, applauding enthusiastically. They keep going long past the point when they really should quiet down.

  Cam and Tyler both wave and start to move off, but the President stops them,

  “Ya’ll stay put,” he says, calling them back. “We’re not done with you yet.”

  “This is the hundredth anniversary of the RMBA,” he continues. “We started in Helena from an association of just six ranches in the neighborhood. Today, we have over one thousand registered breeders in our membership, spread across six states.

  “In commemoration of the hundredth anniversary, we’ve commissioned a new award that we hope will continue for at least another two or three centennials. We’re calling this award the Century Award, as it recognizes the outfit that has consistently, over the course of a century, produced more champions from its bloodlines than all others in the association.”

  He pauses before going on as Camden and Tyler fidget nervously, watching him.

  “What the Kicking Horse ranch accomplished this year with its Best of Montana achievement pales in comparison to what that outfit has accomplished over the last century under the supervision of four generations of Davis horsemen.”

  Cam and Tyler look at one another, their faces, masks of surprise, of shocked disbelief. Tyler starts bouncing on his boots, while Cam just shakes his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, shrugging his broad shoulders in an uncharacteristically nervous manner.

  The president goes on a while longer with his speech, quoting from cribbed notes stashed at the podium the statistics on champions produced by Kicking Horse over the last ten decades. When he’s done, he presents Camden with an ostentatiously huge, gold and silver champion’s buckle of intricate design. Cam accepts it, and I swear, I think he may tear up, he’s so moved by the recognition.

  A few moments later, when he’s back at the table, I realize just what a huge deal all this is.

  From that point forward, Camden is a rock star. Everyone wants to congratulate him. They want to talk about buying his horses, and breeding their horses with his. The banquet breaks up and a band begins assembling on the stage, and all the while the crowd encircling my date grows, crowding in.

  This is his moment and I’m not about to insert myself into the middle of it. I step back and then quietly slip off to the sidelines to refresh my drink.

  Thirty minutes later, just as the band begins to tune up and I think it’s safe to make my way back to the table, I’m cornered by that woman—Anne Chandler—who starts gushing about what a remarkable accomplishment Camden has achieved, and how fortunate he is to have Tyler at his side. Then she detours off in the direction I’ve been dreading.

  “How did you and Camden meet? I don’t think I’ve seen you before. Do you compete?”

  I give her my coolest smile. “No,” I say. “I barely ride at all. I’m still taking lessons.”

  She blinks, her expression going blank. “Really? I didn’t even know Camden had a riding school at his place.”

  “He doesn’t.” I say, offering no more.

  She won’t let it go.

  “You must be a neighbor then, from Ronen?”

  I don’t know why I even care what this woman thinks. She’s no one to me. I hope she’s no one to Camden.

  “I’m from North Carolina,” I say. “I work for Camden. I’m his daughter’s nanny.”

  Her eyes flash. Her lip turns up cruelly. “The nanny?” she repeats. “You’re the nanny?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I say, hoping to make a point about her advanced years.

  She smirks, catching my intent.

  “Well, that’s interesting,” she observes, hugging her drink close. “Especially given everything that happened with Beverly.” She lifts her eyebrows. “That whole business was a terrible tragedy. Poor girl. But I guess… I guess it’s worked out… Still, it’s a shame that the little girl lost her mother.”

  I don’t press her for details because I assume she’s fishing to see what I know, or am willing to reveal. The answer is nothing on both accounts.

  “After all that though, I really am surprised that Camden would be willing to try it with another babysitter.”

  Babysitter? What the hell is she going on about?

  “I’ve got to go find Cam,” I say. “He promised me a dance and it looks like the band is about to get going.”

  When I find him, he’s all but floating on clouds, surrounded by a cadre of friends, old and new admirers, and a group of young women who look like horse champion groupies, batting their teen-aged eyelashes at him, flaunting their figures.

  That’s my cue to reclaim my date.

  I slide up beside him, slipping my arm around his, demanding his attention. He looks down, then smiles.

  “I wondered where you got off to,” he says, interrupting his conversation with the woman who won the Best in Utah buckle, and who obviously wants some of what Cam’s got.

  He returns to her briefly. “Check the web site,” he says. “All the details and contact info are on it. I think we’ll probably get booked up a couple years in advance pretty quick after this, but I’ll flag your inquiry and call you next week.”

  Then he returns to me, allowing me to pull him away from his court.

  “Thank you,” he nuzzles into my ear. “Overwhelmed. Get me outta here.”

  He’s a little buzzed from the whiskey and dizzy from the thin air up there in the clouds where he’s been floating.

  “Not a chance,” I say. “The band is getting ready to go on, and I’ve been practicing for weeks.”

  Camden smiles that beaming smile, warming me. “That’s right. We came here to dance.”

  You could knock me over with a feather when the lights go down, the stage lights go up, and a genuine celebrity—who I recognize—takes the stage with the band behind him playing a familiar melody.

  “Cam, that’s Lyle Lovett.” That’s certainly obvious.

  He nods. “Yeah. Sure is. So?”

  We played Lyle Lovett at least five times a week in the bookshop. I know almost all his songs by heart. I love him. He’s amazing.

  In my excitement for the entertainment, I completely forget my unsettling conversation with Anne Chandler. Instead, I fall into the moment, pulling Camden forward to the dance floor as the slim, white tux bedecked man with funny hair and small eyes, introduces himself and his large band.

  “In keeping with the general theme of the evening,” Lovett says, “We’re going to open the ball with a favorite.”

  The band launches into the strains of his most popular tune, If I had a Boat, which everyone here knows and loves. The crowd begins applauding before the song even gets underway.

  Finally, I’ve found something I share in common with these people! We all love Lyle!

  Cam and I tear up the dance floor for the first thr
ee songs, until the band settles into the first ballad. Pulling me close, Cam settles down, rocking us easy in time with the paced, sad melody.

  I cradle my head against his broad chest, drinking in the scent of his cologne and sweat, thinking of little more than how his arms feel wrapped around me, when I’m sidetracked by the sight of Tyler talking to Anne Chandler. His expression is animated, his gestures angry. And she’s laughing at him.

  He points his finger at her, speaking sharply, then he turns, walking away from the confrontation.

  A moment later I see Tyler looking in our direction. As the song draws to a close, Tyler steps forward, tapping Cam on the shoulder.

  “I want to cut in,” he says, smiling awkwardly. “Let me dance with the prettiest, single girl here.”