Billionaire's Ranch (An MMF Bisexual Menage Threesome)

by Zoe Dakota

  Billionaire's Ranch Copyright © 2015 Zoe Dakota

  All rights reserved.

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  Billionaire's Ranch

  Zoe Dakota

  Chapter One

  Lydia cupped her coffee with both hands and shivered a little on the balcony. She had an old Mexican blanket around her shoulders, and she knew that as soon as the sun finished lifting itself over the front range the day would warm right up, but right now, it was still a bit nippy.

  The early mornings, she thought, were the thing that was getting to her the most about ranch life. Riding a horse wasn’t so hard, even with fifteen pounds of camera equipment, and she was an avid hiker and backpacker already, so that part was fine. Nope. It was getting up early, just before the dawn, when Cecilia in the kitchen started clattering around, making coffee and biscuits and bacon. Get up much past six in the morning and you’d miss breakfast.

  Boots came down the hall and into the huge, open space. Lydia looked through the plate glass doors separating the balcony, where she stood, from the spacious interior. Everything in it was wood — reclaimed barn wood, Bryce had specified proudly — and though it really should look tacky, it was beautiful and tasteful instead.

  Then the boots stopped at the door and Hudson, the ranch’s live-in manager, stood there, looking good as always. That was certainly a part of ranch life Lydia didn’t mind in the least.

  “Hola, Señora,” he said to Cecilia. The older woman stood in front of the stove, one hand on her hip, her long, salt-and-pepper black hair in a bun at the nape of her neck.

  “Coffee’s made,” she said, tilting her head to one side.

  “You’re an angel,” he said, and walked to the coffee pot, poured himself a mug, and drank it black. Lydia had heard the two of them have the exact same conversation every day she’d been on the ranch, though, to be fair, it was only four days so far.

  The coffee maker was one of those models that had a drip maker on one side and an espresso machine on the other. Lydia had seen the exact same model for $500 once at Williams Sonoma, and she’d actually laughed out loud at the thought of spending that much on a coffee maker.

  Then, she’d come here, and now she drank out of it every morning. She had to admit it made really good coffee.

  In the kitchen, Hudson stood near Cecilia, just to her right, and tried to swipe some bacon from the pan. She swatted at him with a spoon, but he got a piece and backed away quickly, blowing on the hot meat to cool it down before gobbling it in one mouthful.

  They did that every morning, too. Cecilia sighed loudly, went back to her cooking.

  Hudson waved at her, still chewing the bacon.

  “Mornin’!” he said, his voice muffled through the glass doors. Lydia drained her cup, slid the door open, and walked into the warm house.

  “Good morning,” she said. She still felt half-asleep and didn’t understand how Hudson could be so chipper right now. Normally, she could be pleasant enough, but the man actually seemed excited to be awake before the sun was even over the mountains.

  Maybe it’s some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, she thought. He’s just been doing it for so many years he actually thinks he likes it.

  Lydia walked over and got more coffee, then put some cream in it from the fridge.

  “We’ll get you broken of that soon enough,” Hudson offered, even though she hadn’t said anything else to him.

  “A woman’s got to have her vices,” Lydia countered. She leaned against the kitchen island, crossed her feet in front of her, and took a sip. “Cream in my coffee isn’t so bad.”

  “Still, it’s a shame,” Hudson said. The skin around his eyes crinkled, the way it always did just before he smiled. “Ruining perfectly good coffee like that.”

  And there was that smile, the improbably perfect teeth, the crinkle around the bright blue eyes. Lydia found him inescapably charming, despite herself. Dashing even. Rougeish, all words she’d never have thought to ascribe to anyone she’d ever met before.

  Oh, and attractive. Not her type at all — her “type” were mostly skinny artists who wore tight pants, beanies, and had hair that fell in their faces — but there was no denying that a man who lived on a ranch and looked a little like a young Paul Newman had a certain something.

  “I do it to annoy you,” she said, smiling back.

  He leaned his elbows on the counter opposite her. “What’s the plan for today?”

  “I was hoping you’d take me out to the range a little bit,” she said. “With the rodeo coming up this weekend, I want to get some practice in shooting animals in motion.”

  “I can’t promise too much motion,” he said. “These are some of the laziest cows I’ve ever seen. But I’ll try to rustle you something up.”

  “I trust you’ll be able to get me something,” she said. “You haven’t let me down yet.”

  “You still planning on hiking up Treasure Mountain to see the autumn valley?”

  “I’m leaving Tuesday if the weather holds out,” she said.

  He nodded. “Good to get up there before it gets too cold,” he said. “Fall is a tricky time.”

  “I know it,” Lydia said.

  More boots sounded in the hall, echoing just a little around the high-ceiling kitchen and dining space. Just then, the sun broke over the mountains, sending beams directly into the kitchen. Cecilia, without even looking, moved to a switch and brought the blinds on the huge plate-glass windows down halfway.

  For the millionth time, Lydia imagined how much this must all cost. The property alone, perched above Aspen like it was, with views looking in every direction, must have been millions, not to mention the enormous ski-lodge type house, the cars, the horses, the people Bryce employed.

  She’d heard he was a billionaire, but googling him didn’t really turn up much besides rumors. Rumor had it he was one of the wealthiest men in America, his fortune made from a combination of oil and investing. Rumor had it that he owned this house in Colorado, another in Utah, a penthouse in New York, a mansion in Malibu, and an entire island in the Caribbean.

  None of this was substantiated, though.

  And there he was, walking through the door, wearing almost the same outfit as Hudson: blue jeans, belt with a slightly large buckle, boots, and a tucked-in paid work shirt. Their shirts were two different plaids, but otherwise, they were dressed almost exactly the same.

  “Mornin,” he said to the room.

  Hudson and Lydia both raised their coffee cups to him, in what she’d discovered was the typical response. Cecilia said something, her words swallowed as she creaked the oven open to get the biscuits. Bryce strode across the room to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup of black coffee, and stood next to Hudson at the counter. He didn’t lean, but otherwise, the two men had such similar body language that it was remarkable. Lydia had thought they were brothers at first.

  “Nice slippers,” he said to Lydia.

  “I like her pants,” Hudson offered.

  Lydia looked down at her slippers — perfectly respectable sheepskin slippers, she thought — and her pajama pants which did, yes, have flying piglets on them.

  “It’s cold and early,” she said. “Give a girl a break.”

  “Soft,” said Bryce.

  Lydia rolled her eyes and took another sip.

  “Nah, we’ll have her roping horses at daybreak in another week or so,” said Hudson. Then he winked at her.

  “You artist types never do like the morning,” Bryce said.

  “It’s just in our nature,” Lydia said.

  Y
ou artist types meant the other photographers over the years who’d won the coveted Ansel Adams Fellowship, cosponsored by the National Endowment for the Arts and Bryce Evans. A photographer spent two months living in Aspen, at Bryce’s lodge, for free, and spent his or her time photographing the rapidly disappearing ways of the western frontier. Up until now, Lydia had done mostly landscapes — and she’d done well enough, there was no shortage of people lining up to buy majestic shots of the Sierra Nevada or Mount Lassen at sunset — but here, she was trying to do a little more lifestyle photography, capturing the people as well as the nature.

  “Breakfast,” commanded Cecilia.

  The three refilled their coffee mugs and went to the huge wooden dining table. Cecilia followed with plates of bacon, bowls of fruit, and a basketful of biscuits.

  Chapter Two

  An hour later, Lydia was wearing her own version of the ranch outfit: jeans, hiking boots — she just couldn’t get used to the cowboy boots the men wore, they pinched her feet in weird, uncomfortable ways — a long-sleeve t-shirt, and a baseball cap. She loaded herself up with all the right equipment, though not the fanciest cameras, since she wasn’t that confident she wouldn’t fall off of a horse.

  “Is that all?” Hudson asked dryly when she strode into one of the ranch’s many living rooms. He was watching something or other on ESPN, sitting on one of the three massive leather couches.

  “You would be amazed at what I’m leaving behind,” Lydia said.

  “You’re probably right,” he conceded.

  They walked through the kitchen and picked up lunch that Cecilia had made them. Somehow, she was still working away at food, even though there were only the four of them living there at the time. During the winter, when it was ski season, Bryce often had other people staying over — the place had ten bedrooms, and it seemed a shame to waste them — but how much could the four of them possibly eat?

  “Have a good time,” Cecilia said, as they walked out to the large stables. Hudson helped Lydia up and onto her designated horse — a big chestnut mare named Stella — and then put his own saddlebags on, and they rode out together.

  “I still remember the first time we saw this property,” he said, out of nowhere.

  Lydia frowned. “You and Bryce?”

  “Yup, the two of us. He was looking for a place away from everything, but close enough to town that he could get down there without too much fuss,” he said. “The agent showed us this property one day at sunset, and man, she must have known her stuff because the ink was dry on the contract by the next sundown.”

  “Wow,” said Lydia.

  I wish I had the money to throw at things like that, she thought.

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, ten years ago at least,” said Hudson.

  “I didn’t know you’d been working for him that long.”

  There was a small pause, and Lydia looked over. Hudson’s eyes were beginning to crinkle, and then then smile broke through. “I’ve been working for him for a very long time,” he said. “Treats me real good.”

  Lydia had the definite sense that there was something she wasn’t picking up on, but she didn’t have the chance to say anything, because just then they reached the pasture. Hudson got off his horse, opened the gate, let her through, and followed her. Inside, the cows took almost no notice of the two humans on horses: a few bothered to look up, but mostly, they were totally ignored.

  “All right,” he said. “What now?”

  Lydia took up her big DSLR in both hands, finally confident enough on horseback to not need to hold on. She scanned the cattle and finally settled on a big, red steer with horns that had to be at least three feet across, and pointed at it.

  “Can you get him to run?”

  “That’s a her.”

  “It’s got horns.”

  “This breed, they all got horns.”

  Lydia sighed. She was fairly certain that, even after two months on this ranch, she’d never understand cows.

  “Can you make her run anyway?” she asked, sweetly.

  “Sure thing,” Hudson said. Then he looked at her face as if slightly concerned. “Sorry, girl. I was just messing with you.”

  Lydia smiled and looked up from her camera. “I know,” she said. “I’m not very good at ranch life yet.”

  “Giddyup!” he shouted, and went off on his horse at a fast trot, heading at the red steer.

  Lydia snapped shot after shot of the man on the horse from behind, which she certainly thought wasn’t a bad angle. Hudson might be twenty years older than her, but he’d certainly kept in shape, and it was never more obvious than when she was watching him gallop away from her.

  Focus, she thought, adjusting her light meter and snapping away again.

  He got on the other side of the bull and nudged it, just a little, and it began lumbering away from the irritating cowboy on the horse, coming toward her just a little.

  Perfect, thought Lydia. The light wasn’t exactly right — midday light never was — but this was excellent practice for the rodeo this weekend, when the light wouldn’t be exactly right either.

  The bull kept coming toward her, trotting now, its horns catching the light beautifully. Its hide rippled as it went, its hair stroking back and forth across its muscled ribcage, and Lydia played with her shutter speed. Finally, as it got closer and closer, she thought she was getting exactly what she needed. Hudson was shouting something, but the open space and the wind was whipping away his words, and besides, he was always shouting something or other at these animals, and it usually had nothing to do with her.

  These are going to be gorgeous, she thought, and looked up from the camera briefly.

  It was only then that she realized she had a problem: the bull, maybe ten feet away, was still coming.

  Lydia didn’t even have time to think before Stella, her big horse, reared up on its hind legs. She slid off and landed on her back, on the grass. It knocked the wind out of her and for seconds on end she couldn’t breathe, no matter how hard she tried. She felt her lungs trying and failing to work, just pulling at flesh, like she had plastic over her face and didn’t know.

  She felt like she was in a whirlpool, quickly swirling down the drain, drowning in her own panic, and she still couldn’t breathe. Still couldn’t breathe.

  Oh my god, I’m dead, she thought.

  Then Hudson’s face was there, his hands on her face, right next to her, and suddenly she sucked in a lungful of air. It made a huge noise in the otherwise quiet meadow. I sound like a dying goose, some part of Lydia’s brain part, the small part that wasn’t panicking or thinking she was dead, but just observing, silently, from somewhere outside herself.

  “Don’t move,” Hudson said, authoritatively.

  Lydia started coughing. She felt oddly like she’d almost drowned, the air knifing through her lungs. Nothing had ever felt so good.

  “Where are you hurt?” he asked. Not are you hurt, the small part of her thought.

  “I don’t know,” she said, still lying on the ground.

  “You’re breathing,” he said.

  She nodded, slightly.

  “Don’t move your neck,” he said. He touched her on the stomach. “Can you feel that?”

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  He touched her knee. “That?”

  “Yes.”

  Her ankle, the skin right above her boot. “That?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you move your fingers and toes?”

  Lydia froze for a moment. Suddenly she couldn’t, and she panicked again, she couldn’t move her toes — and then she felt them move, as though she’d just remembered how. Hudson watched her fingers wiggled, looked at her boots and saw the toes moving faintly.

  “Now,” he said. “What hurts?”

  And then, pain galloped through Lydia, the pain that had been at bay so far. Her back felt it was in a vice, the paid radiating down through her pelvis and to her femurs. She felt like all her ribs mig
ht be broken whenever she breathed it, and probably her skull and her neck too.

  “Everything,” she gasped.

  He looked closely into her eyes, pulling her eyelids up just a little.

  “Who am I?” he asked.

  “Hudson.”

  “Okay, you’ve probably got a concussion but not too bad. Now,” he said, rocking back on his heels, still hovering over her, “I need you to stay here for a few minutes and not move at all. Can you do that for me?”

  Lydia looked away. Suddenly, she was terrified of the cows.

  “What if they step on me?” she whispered.

  Hudson reached one hand down and stroked her hair, his hand hard but warm. “The cows won’t bother you none,” he said. “I’ll take the horses. I won’t be five minutes, but I’ve got to get someone else out here. I don’t want you moving until you’re checked out, okay?”

  Lydia swallowed. She felt the tears rising in her eyes, and wished that Hudson weren’t right there, watching her.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  “That’s my brave girl,” he said, then stood, got something out of his saddlebag. An orange gun, which he put down on the ground next to her.

  “It’s a flare gun,” he said. “I don’t want you moving, but if anything happens and you need me back right away, just shoot it off into the sky.” He paused. “But he careful you don’t spook the cows.”

  “Okay,” she whispered again.

  “I’ll be back in a jif,” he said, and then climbed onto his horse, leading hers, and galloped away.

  Lydia watched the blue, blue sky and tried to calm herself down. She wasn’t paralyzed, at least, so whatever had happened to her was probably fixable. Clouds floated past, and she tried to think of what they looked like: bunnies! Giraffes!

  That one looks like a vertebra, she thought. No, stop it. Bunnies. That one looks like a shattered femur.

  Well, that wasn’t working.

  She began to focus on her breathing. Her last roommate had been a yoga teacher and self-appointed “Zen master,” and while Lydia wasn’t really clear on her credentials, Sultana had taught her a few breathing exercises. She tried one now: breathe in for five seconds, breathe out for two.