Rancher Daddy: A Single Dad & Nanny Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  In the library, I peruse the shelves, looking for something unfamiliar; something to distract me. Most of the volumes are equine related along with a few well-read novels of the western variety.

  Not my thing.

  A collection of matching, untitled spines catch my attention. I pull one from the shelf. Opening its pages, I’m pleasantly surprised to find a handwritten journal. Every page is filled with barely legible cursive scrawl of long paragraphs. I thumb to a random page, attempting to decipher what’s written.

  “Saturday, August 28, 1920. Low 59, High 83. Partly cloudy. Praying for rain.

  Went to town this morning to sell melons. Bought a coat for Dara and one for Nash. Mr. Fox says that the fires at Turtle Lake killed three people, twenty horses, and at least a fifty head of cattle. Every house and barn a total loss. The Methodist Church is collecting for them. I gave three dollars, two crates of melons, and pledged a foal and two calves this spring when they come. Could be us next time.

  “I saw Miss Steadman. She was pleased to see me. I will bring the children to church tomorrow and see if she remains as pleased. She is young and lively, but appears sensible. Her mother is alive, as is her grandmother, both still quite spry, which recommends her for ranch life. If the children don’t object, I may speak to her father after church.

  “I miss my Mae a great deal. Her loss is still keenly felt every day. I know I cannot replace her, but this house needs a woman’s hand. The children need a mother’s touch.

  “If we don’t get rain soon, I fear the lake will dry up. The pump is making a hollow sound we have not heard before, and the flow is slow.”

  * * *

  This is amazing. How many are there? I count at least ten volumes like the one in my hand. These should be transcribed, researched, and published. They’re priceless.

  The diary of a Montana homesteader. I wonder what year they begin? I search the volumes at hand. The earliest date I find is 1905.

  He writes about traveling from Sioux City on a steamboat up the Missouri River, and how the unsettled aspect of the country made his wife, Mae, cry. He seems quite excited by the adventure. What a wonderful tale.

  And I’ll probably never get the chance to read it, because more likely than not, Camden Davis is going to fire me tonight.

  The man who wrote these diaries had a clear sense of direction and purpose. He knew what he wanted to do and how to go about it. I’m just ambling. Maybe Mark was right. Maybe I should go back to the city, get a real job or at least go to grad school. At least the city has bookstores, good restaurants, and movies. The only thing in Ronan, Montana is a family style buffet and a steakhouse. There’s no bookshop, and there sure isn’t a theater, or an art gallery, or anything else to distinguish the place as a member of modern civilization.

  Although, the Java Junction on Hwy 93, does have Wi-Fi, so I guess they’re at least trying.

  I hear car doors slam outside. Through the window, I see Camden and Emma. She bounds toward the stables, kicking up snow. He follows at a leisurely pace. He’s going to take her riding. I’ll have the house to myself for at least another hour. I’d rather have Emma here with me, telling me how her day went. I love hearing her stories of pre-school drama; paste-eating boys and pulled hair. Right now, she’s the only child her age who knows all her ABC’s. She likes to show the other kids how to do it, although I worry she may be teaching them wrong.

  But never mind. If I’m leaving her… If Camden is sending me away… I can’t do anything to change it. It is what it is.

  I replace the diaries, making certain I return them where I found them. I should go upstairs and see what my packing situation looks like. I wonder if it would be better to ship my books to Portland rather than trying to drive them. There are serious mountains between here and Portland, and I’m not sure my Civic is up to the heavy load in this weather.

  The other lovely thing about Portland, I remind myself, is excellent public transportation.

  There’s always a bright side to every sad story.

  “I’m sorry you hurt your ankle, Gracie,” Emma says, a pouting lip protruding dramatically from her chin.

  I ladle a pint-sized portion of stew into her bowl, then butter a steaming roll, placing it on her plate.

  “It’s okay.” I offer her a crooked smile. “I’m the clutz. You didn’t do it. My fault.”

  “That’s not quite true,” Camden interjects. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they came in. “It’s my fault. If I’d been paying attention it wouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have left you to talk to Manuel.”

  Emma and I chat while we eat. She tells me about the elk tracks they saw in the snow, and the fox tracks, and the frozen stream they crossed with fish swimming under the ice.

  “They look right up at you, while you’re standing on them,” she says. “They’re so pretty and silvery, swimming under there. And daddy says they don’t even get cold.”

  I bet they’re pretty. I wish I’d seen them.

  Camden barely speaks during dinner. He won’t look at me. He replies to Emma when she asks him a question, but otherwise he’s silent and sullen.

  After dinner I spend an hour with Emma giving a first lesson in spelling. We spell out DOG and CAT and HAT, and when she’s successfully mastered those combinations, I show her how to write ‘Emma’ in upper and lower-case letters. She loves it. Her smile could brighten the dark side of the moon. Tonight, it makes me sad. The idea of leaving her, of losing her, breaks my heart in pieces.

  After our lesson, it’s time for a bath, and then story time before bed. We started reading Pippy Longstocking last night, so I continue the saga. I want to finish so she’s not left hanging, but after her day at pre-school and her ride into the hills, she nods before I’ve read five pages aloud.

  I tuck her in snugly, kiss her forehead, tell her I love her, then turn off the light. I hope this isn’t goodbye. I hope Camden lets me tell her how much I’ve loved taking care of her.

  I find him downstairs in his library, with a book in his lap and a roaring blaze in the hearth, warming the room.

  That’s unexpected.

  He looks up when I come in, then nods for me to take the big leather club chair across from him.

  “She down?” he asks, rolling his head back against the back of his chair.

  I nod, sitting straight, folding my hands in my lap, waiting for the worst.

  Camden appraises me. A furrow plows his brow, then he too sits forward, folding his hands between his knees, his arms resting on his densely muscled thighs. He gazes into the fire for a moment, then he turns to me.

  “I know I owe you an apology,” he begins haltingly, his cobalt blue eyes fixing mine. “But dammit Grace, I’m not really sorry.”

  What?

  “You’re smart, and funny, and you work hard. You’re beautiful…”

  I am?

  “And Emma loves you. Not just like she loves Amanda or Tyler or anybody else. She really, really loves you. Just for that, I’d be willing to do whatever you want me to do. I’ll back off. I’ll stay out of your way… But… I really don’t want to back off.”

  This is Camden Davis not firing me. This is Camden Davis not apologizing. This is Camden Davis—Bossman—doubling down.

  This isn’t going anywhere close to what I anticipated.

  Oh. Good. Lord. Reconfiguring the data input.

  He’s not sorry.

  I need to get a handle on this.

  I take a deep breath. In a second, my neurons begin firing in the proper direction.

  “I need to know some things,” I say quietly, trying to get my bearings on the direction of this unanticipated conversation.

  “Anything,” Camden replies, his palms turning up, eyes brightening.

  Anything? Even if it pisses him off?

  “Have you kissed your previous nannies?”

  He huffs out a breath like one of his horses blowing, shaking his head. “Absolutely not,” he insists. “And T
yler will back me up, ‘cause he was here for all of it.”

  “Why did they leave?”

  It’s a simple question. I’ve wanted the answer since I first got here.

  Camden rolls his eyes, then relaxing a bit, he sits back in his chair. “The first one got fired when I caught her smoking dope in the kitchen. The other three… they… had ideas. Aspirations. All three of them quit when they realized they were barking up the wrong tree.”

  Aspirations? What a loaded euphemism.

  “They wanted to be Mrs. Camden Davis?” I ask. “Or something close to it.”

  He nods, his expression turning chagrinned. “I wasn’t interested.”

  “So why me?” I ask. Another simple question.

  This one stymies him. He casts his gaze to the fire again, then, slowly, he turns back to meet my inquiry.

  “I don’t quite know,” he admits reluctantly. “Maybe because you’re different from anyone I’ve ever met. You’re super smart. A little mysterious. You… challenge me. You know things I don’t know. You’ve been places I’ve never been. All that… and you’ve got the finest ass this side of the Mission Mountains.”

  He flexes his jaw anxiously as he states the next bit.

  “I’m not being disrespectful. I don’t want to be. But damn Grace, there’s not a woman in three counties that’s turned my head since before Emma was born. I got high standards. You exceed them.”

  Good Lord. What do you do with that?

  There’s sincerity in his tone. I don’t believe he’s playing me.

  What would Kara say?

  “Well, just for your information,” I say, feigning confidence. “I kissed you back this afternoon. You scared the shit out of me. But my first inclination was to kiss you back. That’s also my second inclination.”

  He seems shocked. Perhaps this isn’t what he expected?

  “So now what?” I ask.

  He’s reconfiguring now, trying to get his bearings.

  “Now?” he asks. “Now I’m following your lead. You tell me when to jump and how high.”

  He says this with an element of delighted animation creasing his eyes. I like his reply. For once in my life, I’m riding high in the saddle, indicating the next move.

  “We need to be discreet,” I say. “Emma can’t know. Tyler can’t know. No one.”

  “Fine,” Camden agrees. “If that’s how you want to call it. But I’d be proud for anybody to see you on my arm.”

  “That’s how I call it,” I insist. “We need to figure out what ‘it’ is, before we go broadcasting it to the world. For Emma’s sake.”

  “Alright,” he admits. “But now I need to ask you something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can we kiss again? Like before, except this time without the regrets and apologies. I want to kiss you.”

  Camden is seated in a leather upholstered, wing back chair. He looks comfortable in it. I’m still nursing a wounded ankle, but it’s remarkable how agile I am when presented with a challenge. In just a few seconds I’m crawling onto him, straddling his lap, my fingers running the line from his ear to the tiny dimple at his chin. I catch his scent and it makes me dizzy with anticipation.

  Our lips meet, reprising the heated current of earlier in the day, except this time it’s not an unexpected, confusing union. Camden’s strong hands slip around my hips, pulling me closer to him. My tongue probes his depths, tasting him, breathing him in. He’s hot cider and coffee, warm and inviting. His curious fingertips graze the turns of my body as heat lifts between us, then they slide down to my ass, pulling me even closer; so close that right between my widely spread legs, pressed a bulge trapped in his jeans. My body responds reflexively, grinding down on him. My fingers drop instinctively, tracing the lines of his cock, stroking him, taking his measure, even as my lips caress his, and my teeth nibble his breathy kisses.

  In just a few moments Camden breaks the kiss, puts his hand on mine, and moves it away from him. His breath is heavy, eyes hooded with heat.

  “Girl… You feel too good. You taste too good… I don’t want to make out like a kid. I need to—”

  “Shut up,” I whisper, biting his lip. He’s an adult who knows what he wants, and so am I. I’ve fantasized about this moment since I first laid eyes on him, but I never allowed myself to believe it could happen. It’s happening. I’m not going to second guess it. I’m not going to be afraid. I’m going to go with this, and see where it leads. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  His breath on my neck makes me weak in the knees. My core aches for him. I want this.

  “You sure?” he asks, not wanting to overstep.

  “I’m sure.” I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. His scent in my head is intoxicating. His hands—everywhere—make me wet.

  Once upstairs it’s chaos. He’s kissing me, dragging me toward his bed while fumbling in a drawer for years-old condoms.

  “Don’t,” I say, tugging at his shirt tail. “No need. I’m on the shot.” I fumble with his belt, anxious to free the swollen package imprisoned behind leather, denim, and a damned inconvenient brass zipper.

  “The shot?” Camden asks, hot breath escaping, warming my neck and breasts as he shoves my shirt back, bathing me with urgent, wet kisses.

  He doesn’t wait for a reply.

  He muscles me onto the bed then crawls over me, covering me.

  His eyes have gone liquid and dark. He plunges his face between my ample tits, his fingers finding soft nipples, tugging roughly until they peak, hardening. I feel his attentions deep in my belly, stirring my clit.

  His hands aren’t soft like Mark’s. They’re calloused and strong, persistent rather than tentative.

  He follows his fingers with lips and tongue, drawing the suppressed heat out of me in precise increments.

  My fingers trace the supple lines and ripple of muscle on his chest and shoulders, rounding down along his torso to his hips. He’s still half dressed as he peels my jeans off me, casting them aside. The bulge behind his zipper is intimidating, but my fingers probe, reaching.

  Camden moans in my ear. “Honey, have a little patience. We’ll get there.”

  With his broad chest pressed against mine, he slips his thumbs around the band of my panties, tugging them down, roughly pulling them off.

  “I want to taste you,” he growls. “Every drop.”

  Mark never did this. Mark was too timid to do this. Too squeamish.

  Camden begins sampling the flesh behind my knees with his tongue and lips, then works up from there. My fingers find the tightly trimmed locks atop his head, threading into them, feeling the razor edge of the barber’s clippers while his tongue and sucking lips discover places in my anatomy that I hadn’t known existed.

  “Oh, God…” I moan, losing myself in his grip.

  “Shush,” he whispers, his tongue circumnavigating my clit. “We need to be quiet.”

  We do. We need to be quiet. Emma.

  Fingers. Fingers slipping in, going deep. Spreading me. Sliding back.

  “Oh…”

  Camden laughs, his tongue flicking my clit, sucking; his hands doing things to me I don’t comprehend.

  No one has ever made me feel this good.

  His strong fingers dive in while his lips and tongue draw me forward. He’s steady and patient.

  A shudder emanates from deep inside. It’s electric. It won’t be contained.

  “Oh God damn.” I don’t mean to cry out, but I do. My fingers into Camden’s scalp.

  Mark could never do this. He didn’t know how.

  Oh fuck.

  My body explodes in response to Camden’s skilled efforts. Every nerve in me releases in one stunning jolt. The waves quake me, reverberating down to my toes.

  He comes up laughing when the last tremor has passed, a grin painting his lathered face.

  “Fuck yeah,” he boasts grinning, hauling over me, dipping his tongue into my mouth, letting me taste the salty heat of my own pleasure. />
  He reaches down, opening the brass button on his jeans. “I want inside you.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, but he pauses for a response.

  My fingers find his, leading them.

  “Yeah,” I say, slipping the zipper on his Levi’s down, shoving the waistband back, below the curve of his solidly perfect ass. His heavy silver buckle falls cool on the soft flesh of my hips.

  The tight muscle of his cock presses, teasing against my slit, begging entrance. Without hesitating, I tip my hips up, spreading wide to receive him.

  “This isn’t gonna last long,” Camden warns me, purring in my ear. “It’s been a long time. I’ll be good for a second round.”

  Then, with a deft athleticism I hadn’t anticipated, he pushes up, shoving my knees apart urgently, his entire body hovering over me. We’re eye to eye. In an instant he finds the spot and dives inside—hard.

  It’s been a long time for me too. I cry out, my fingers digging deep into his shoulders. In a moment the pain subsides, giving way to the pleasure of Camden’s thrusting strokes.

  “You feel so good,” he states in halting, clipped breaths. He moves in deeper, harder, dropping his weight onto me, pinning me to the bed, helpless against his bulk and his strength.

  “Oh… God… You’re so… fucking… perfect…” he moans into my ear, his trembling voice, almost a whine.

  The current between us crackles again, shuddering me from my depths. But I’m not fast enough. Camden comes first, bucking, driving into me over and again slowly, growling low in his throat as I feel his orgasm fill me, spilling out of the seal between us.

  But he doesn’t stop fucking me. He slows down and keeps going.

  “Now I’m warned up,” he coos a few minutes later, hitching up on his elbows. His entire body is engaged in this event, rocking me. He shoves in, then draws back slowly, his lips and teeth nipping and nibbling at my nape and earlobes, kissing me, watching me.

  The depths he reaches, and the deliberation of his strokes, touch some dormant, uncharted part of my soul. I feel it in the tips of my toes all the way to my eyelashes. It builds and then like some heaving leviathan, it trembles, quaking inside of me, demanding release.