Tamed by Her Cowboy

by Shanna Handel

  “That’s true. Every vegetable I’ve eaten since I’ve been here was a victim of you forcing it on me. Not to mention all my bills being paid on time. I didn’t even have a debit card till you ordered me one.”

  She pops up, empty-handed. “You keep me fun, and I keep you grounded. Every scatter-brained fly by the seat of her pants woman needs a Type-A plus for her best friend.” We share a laugh. She gives me a look, her freckled nose crinkling. “Speaking of the seat of your pants, have you heard from…him?”

  “He who must not be named?” I give her a hard stare. She knows very well discussions about Buck are off limits. Especially ones hinting around his past habit of spanking my butt. Her gaze holds firm. She’s not backing down without an answer. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”

  Jules rolls her eyes. “I love you Ava, but can I give you some advice?”

  “Sure?” I can tell by the look on her face I am not going to like what she’s about to say.

  “Get over it already. You guys had one, hot fling years ago. He wanted more. You turned him down. He gave you a hard time for it. We moved to the city. Now, you haven’t seen the man in years and we are all going to be back in Cedar Creek, and you two are going to have to get along. You used to be friendly before you started rolling in the hay together, maybe you can go back to being civil. Now, go pack.” She puts one hand on her hip, pointing the other towards my bedroom.

  I was right; I didn’t like her advice one bit. But she’s right, like always, and it’s hard to swallow. So, I toss her a snippy response. “Geez, bossy. You two are cut from the same cloth, aren’t you?”

  She goes back to her drawer, rifling until she finds a paper of value. She holds it up to me with a look of accusation. It’s my birth certificate—wrinkled and stained from spilled coffee. “Seriously, Ava?”

  “Oops?”

  “Maybe that’s why you were drawn to Buck and me in the first place. You need a little structure in your life.” She shakes the crumpled paper, making her point.

  Jules does offer me structure, telling me when it’s time to shop for healthy food, clean my apartment, take a break from drinking. And if Buck had his way, he’d bring in his own unique contribution to my life.

  Some good old fashioned…discipline.

  My buttocks clench at the thought. I leave Jules to do what she does best—organize. I go to my room and grab my favorite travel bag down from the hook on my wall. It’s a huge navy and white striped beach bag style over the shoulder number. I head to the bathroom and go through my drawers, filling it with makeup, hairbrushes, toiletries. I find a pair of hoop earrings that my Aunt Betty will love and throw them in my bag. I dig up two scrunchies I’d borrowed from Jules and forgot to return and throw those in as well, vowing to give them to her in the car.

  The heavy bag bangs against my hip as I move to the closet. I throw in few of my favorite pieces. Whatever I don’t have, I can buy when I get home.

  Unless…will the storm shut down Cedar Creek? Will the shops be open? Will Jules and I be able to hit the neighboring towns for dining and shopping like we used to, or will we be locked behind the stone walls of our hometown, unable to leave?

  Horror strikes my heart. What if I get snowed in in Cedar Creek? How long will I be trapped there?

  Jules snaps me out of my thoughts, yelling for me to get my ass in gear. I pull on a pair of buttery black leggings. Whip my hair up into a ponytail—thanks for the scrunchie Jules—and step into my sneakers. I grab my phone, my laptop, and my bag, and rush from the room.

  Jules is waiting by the door, purse in hand. Our eyes lock and we exchange a sobering glance. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I give my apartment one long glance, taking in my chic furniture, my beautiful view of the city, and leave. Jules locks the door behind her with her copy of my key. I grab her hand and, side by side, we make our way into the world. I don’t know what I’m going to be facing, but I know that together, the two of us can get through anything.

  3

  Ava Marie

  We step out onto the street. It’s eerily quiet. There’s a steady stream of cars all headed in one direction—out of town. It’s so warm, the top of Jules’s cherry red convertible is down, making it even more surreal that we are about to outrun a blizzard. I throw my bag in the back seat before climbing in. We have a five-hour drive ahead of us.

  Moments ago, I dreaded the thought of going back. Now, I’m plagued with worry that we won’t make it in time. I’m suddenly starving, my body going into stress eating mode. Nature must be telling me to pack on the pounds before this storm comes like I’m a fat little squirrel wanting to shovel acorns in its mouth. “You got any food in here?”

  She starts the car. “I threw whatever food I had in a bag, and some bottles of water…just in case. Hope for the best—”

  “Plan for the worst,” I fill in the rest of her favorite motto. She seems to have one for every occasion. I twist my torso, glancing over the neatly lined up bags and boxes she’s packed. My navy striped one lays sloppily over the top of her stuff.

  “The green one on the floor. The cooler bag.”

  I reach down, finding the strap and pulling it up. Heavy and cool to the touch. I pull the bag into my lap, unzipping the top. I flip it open to reveal two chilled bottles of roseˊ, several rounds of brie, circles of cucumber with their skins peeled, slices of red and green peppers, fresh hummus from the Greek deli that’s down the street from her apartment, and a classic Jules staple…bars and bars of chocolate. “Well, I’ll say we’re set for the snowpocalypse. You sure like to go out in style.”

  She side eyes me. “It beats what I got out of your cabinets.”

  “Peanut butter crackers?”

  “And Pop-Tarts. Three boxes to be exact. How many times have I told you, you need vegetables in your life?” She gives me a withering look. Her nose crinkles as she eyes my ponytail. “Hey, is that my scrunchie? I could have sworn I lent you that back in July.”

  My hand goes to my hair, covering the blush rose velvet hair tie. It’s quickly become my favorite and I don’t think I can give it back at this point. I ignore the question. “You know the saving grace about those little cardboard sugary delights?”

  “They’ll last a thousand years with all the preservatives in them?” she asks.

  “Exactly. Doomsday preppers probably swear by them.”

  She’s suddenly somber. “I wish there were more people on the road. This is…weird.”

  I glance around. All the shops are closed and some even have their windows boarded up with plywood in preparation for the snow. There are only about a quarter as many people moving on the sidewalks as usual. The pedestrians stroll down the sidewalk, the sun in their faces, their arms full of groceries.

  “It looks like a beautiful day. No sign of bad weather. And where is everyone? This is creepy.” I pull a bar of chocolate from the bag to calm our nerves. I peel back the delicate foil wrapping. The scent of heavenly milk chocolate hits my nose, leaving my mouth watering.

  “I think they are all tucked in their houses. Or, left this morning, while we were sleeping in. I was knee deep in editing my next fashion vlog. I turn off all social media alerts while I work otherwise I wouldn’t get anything done. I might not even have found out about the storm for a few more hours unless…”

  Her words trail off. I hold out a generous square of chocolate to her. “Unless what?”

  She shakes her head, color rising in her cheeks. “Nothing.” She reaches for the chocolate.

  I hold the tempting treat further from her grasp, depriving her of the delicious goodness until she spills the information she’s withholding. “Tell me. How did you find out something was up?”

  She glances at me from the corner of her eye. “He who must not be named called me. Gave me specific instructions, alright. Are you happy?”

  I’m left shocked, sitting with my mouth gaping. She takes the opportunity to snatch the sweet from my fingers. “Why t
he hell was he calling you?”

  “He was worried about me I guess,” she says.

  I ask, “Any other reason?”

  “Okay, so he asked how I was doing and his very next question was, and I quote, ‘Where the hell is Ava Marie and why the hell hasn’t she responded to my voicemail?’”

  My best friend cringes, predicting my eruption. I don’t disappoint. “Who does he think he is? And what gives him the right to call you, looking for me?”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid of this.”

  “This? What, this?” I demand.

  “This,” she waves her her free hand in the air, gesturing at me. “You going crazy. He just cares about you. And he was worried.”

  “I haven’t seen that man worry about anything. He just wants to boss me around and get me back to Cedar Creek. If he had his way, I’d have never left. I’d still be there, behind those stone walls, living with my father, and working on the estate.”

  “He just misses you. That’s all.”

  I sniff. “Misses me? He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” Her tone softens. “You broke his heart, Ava. Cut him some slack.”

  “It’s not my fault. We had a fling. I assumed he knew I was leaving town the first chance I got. I sure talked about it enough.” I help myself to another piece of chocolate, letting it melt on my tongue into a creamy goo.

  Her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. I’m stressing her out. “Yes, you let the entire town of Cedar Creek know how backwards they all were. You were very vocal about it.”

  “You left too,” I sniff in my defense.

  “I didn’t leave to get away. I left to move towards something. Try the city out. Work in fashion. I actually miss Cedar Creek.”

  I let out a groan, thinking of all the things I’m about to lose by leaving my city life and going back home. “Trapped in the vortex of the olden days? No TV, no internet, no cell phones? How can you miss that life?”

  She shrugs, a nostalgic smile crossing her face. “It’s a simpler place. Things move slower there, in a good way. Family dinners. Town gatherings. Quiet streets where people actually stop to talk to one another.”

  “Yeah, and endless rules. And limited connection to the outside world.”

  “But a town that’s entirely self-sufficient in this day and age? It’s unheard of. Has its own food storage, power supplies? Even you have to admit in a time like this there are pros to Cedar Creek’s old-fashioned way of life. Don’t you miss it at all?”

  I lean my head back on the headrest. The warm wind whips my hair around my face.

  I think of home.

  Cedar Creek is like no place else in the country, maybe the world—with the exception of maybe one of those crazy Amish farms in the Pennsylvania hillsides. Our town is kind of like living on one of those, but with electricity, tight security, and minus the weird hats and beards. And our people wear slightly more stylish clothing.

  Entering the gates of Cedar Creek is an experience akin to traveling back in time.

  My grandfather, Baxter Redmond first founded it in hopes of a simpler life. A self-made billionaire, he had all the money he needed to build whatever he wanted. He created his own town, modeling it after a medieval village and naming it after the beautiful clear creek that runs through it. My dad, Hubert Redmond, carried on his father’s legacy.

  High in the hills, Cedar Creek is tucked away from curious eyes. Over three hundred acres surrounded by a massive stone wall. It’s a private estate and a council of elders control who is allowed to live there. An application must be filled out, along with having to be recommended by at least three current families. Then there is an in-depth interview process. Being a member of the Cedar Creek community is a highly coveted position.

  Many want in.

  Very few ever leave.

  I, the granddaughter of Baxter Redmond, was one of the exceptions. It was a black mark on our history the day I left for the city.

  If you’re chosen to become a townsperson, you sign a contract stating you will uphold the rules. They’ve changed over the years, the elders tweaking them as time goes on. They are short and simple but made me feel like a noose was tied around my neck.

  Number one, Communication; no cell phones. Several houses have landlines, but not everyone. You want to talk to someone? You walk over to their house and knock on their door.

  Number two, Technology; radios are allowed. No television, no internet, no computers. Basically, no access to the outside world other than leaving the walls to explore it yourself. My grandfather believed television was a waste of time when you could be exploring nature or working productively.

  Number three, Authority; you sign up for this life, you respect the elders and those in charge. We have no courts, no jails, no police. The men of our town are our law enforcement, the council of elders the judges that make all decisions and settle disputes.

  They are all men. Just another way I find Cedar Creek to be backwards.

  Rule number four, Wealth; our town is the wealthiest in the country, attracting many other self-made billionaires who, after acquiring everything money could buy, realized it wasn’t bringing them happiness. Philanthropy is a requirement and Cedar Creek donates millions to charity every year. And not through fundraising. Just straight up gifting of our wealth. Over the years, elders put all their money in one account, where they pay the workers of the town. Anyone considered an elder has authority over that account, and owns a share, making them wealthy as well.

  At the ripe young age of twenty-seven, Buck Jones became the youngest elder in Cedar Creek. Also making him one of the world’s youngest millionaires. You wouldn’t know it to look at him—at least when I knew him—you can find him wearing jeans, flannel, and boots just about every day of the week.

  I have to give credit where it is due; my home is a beautiful place to live. The houses are gorgeous. Big stone, Tudor style buildings. Fit to be in a watercolor in a storybook with their brightly colored front doors, perfectly kept gardens and window boxes filled with flowers. The cobble stone streets curve up into the hills, winding around the town.

  Cedar Creek is self-sufficient, like Jules said, relying on the outside world for only medical supplies and manufactured items such as housewares and clothing.

  We grow our own food on our farms. Our fresh butter and delicate goat cheeses are heavenly—like nothing I’ve tasted in the city. We have a huge ranch on the back of the property where we raise chickens, goats, cattle, and horses. The Jones family has run the ranch since the town was first established. Now, Buck is in charge, his four brothers working alongside him.

  We have a schoolhouse, town hall, library, hospital, all employing our people. Bistros and sidewalk cafes selling the foods we’ve produced. Boutiques selling the wares of local artists and craftsmen line Main Street.

  When my father took over, he opened our town to outsiders. It served to increase our wealth as curious people from all over the world came to eat in our restaurants and shop in our stores. The only drawback was the media became slightly obsessed with our strange ways, and my family in particular. When I moved to the city, half the trust fund kids I partied with already knew me from the celeb gossip news.

  Visitors are most fascinated with my childhood home, The Redmond Castle, where I used to live as the sole heir to the ‘throne.’ Our Castle is at the very top of the hill, overlooking the town. I can’t deny that it’s beautiful. Small on the scale of castles, but huge in comparison to my friends’ homes. My favorite spot to sit when I was a little girl was high up in the turret on my cushioned window seat. The elevation is over five thousand feet and when you look out over the town, its like you’re floating in the clouds.

  My grandfather was meticulous in keeping the design true to a medieval village. Surrounding Cedar Creek is a ten-foot-tall stone wall complete with round fortresses that can be guarded and armed if necessary. There is a deep trench running around
the wall and a drawbridge and iron gate that closes the town off from the rest of the world.

  The gate closes every night at ten p. m. sharp, opening at six a.m. The men in the town take turns manning the gate in twelve-hour shifts. The drawbridge has only been pulled up twice in my lifetime.

  Once when local officials let us know of an inmate that had escaped from a state prison.

  And once, when I was seventeen. The day of my mother’s funeral.

  The bridge was drawn to keep the media away as we mourned. I remember very little of that day other than the heaviness in my heart, my hair laying in a heavy braid down my back and a white fluttering lace dress, my father holding my hand in his.

  I’ve blocked the rest out. If there’s one thing I’m really good at, it’s repressing emotions. A talent that will serve me well in the coming days, seeing as how I’ll be trapped in a place I don’t belong.

  Unsure of when I’ll be able to go back to my city life.

  Jules and I sit quietly as we make our way down the street. It seems irreverent to speak as we contemplate the heaviness of the approaching storm. I watch as the spacing between buildings increase, more trees becoming visible as we go. I take a stock of my emotions. They’re a tangled knot hovering somewhere between my stomach and throat.

  I’m suddenly faced with the selfishness of my thoughts. Some people will be stuck in their apartments for days, maybe even a week, bored to tears. Jules and I at least have somewhere to go.

  I’m worried that I will receive a chilly reception when we arrive. Jules is right. I was vocal about wanting to leave, telling anyone who would listen how backwards I thought the Creek was. I never even went back to visit, my only contact has been my once a week standing video chat with my father and my Aunt Betty.

  I think of what it will be like to see Buck again and that strange fluttering fills my heart. The thrumming wells in my core as it does whenever I think of him.

  Will he look the same after two years? I imagine his tan, handsome face. The steel cut of his sharp, jutting jaw. That slow, deep smile flashing his straight white teeth—a smile he doesn’t practice often enough. The deep blue green of his eyes. Will his brown hair still be short and severe in that military style cut he seemed to prefer?