It had literally been decades since she was widowed, never taking on a boyfriend or lover in all that time. She remained faithful, even in death. The only time she’d been tempted before was by her neighbor, Wade, but she just avoided him, which worked out well. As long as she isolated herself on her ranch, she could keep the memories of the past intact, untainted. But temptation had shown up on the doorstep.
Now what? Was it a midlife crisis causing the sudden butterflies in her stomach? She thought her libido had died long ago.
“Christine will call you when the stew’s ready,” she blurted as she fumbled to get herself out the door with the basket at the same time.
He called out after her, oblivious to her inner turmoil and pounding heart. “My favorite.”
Chapter Two
Jackson looked around the small room once Mrs. McCay left him alone. It was clean and basic, no less than he’d expected. A single bed, dresser, nightstand, and blanket box—all in mismatched wood and styles. The window was open, the heavy curtains parted to let the meagre breeze into the room. It was simple living, but he wasn’t one to complain.
The family seemed nice enough, and he’d been a boarder a hundred times during his travels. The McCay daughter was a beauty, with pixy-like qualities, but her mother took the prize. Her pale-blonde hair was just past her shoulders, and her feline-shaped eyes the bluest of all blue. He scolded himself for checking out her curves in those tight jeans because she was a married woman. Jackson was no home wrecker, but he still couldn’t help his immediate attraction to the country woman.
Even when he’d taken off his shirt, she didn’t bat a lash. He was used to the buckle bunnies chasing after him at events, begging for his affection. They were young with big tits and superficial smiles. He bored of fast women around the same time he began to tire of a life on the road. But he was following a great tradition of rodeo riders, and wouldn’t give up because of his weakness for craving roots. A stable life was not in the cards for him, and he expected to meet his maker in the ring like his father. A man’s death, one of honor.
After his shower, he returned to his room and lay down for a few minutes, not expecting to doze off. The next thing he knew there was a knock on the door. He sat to attention, slightly confused as he reentered the world of the waking. It seemed every time he woke up he was in a new bed, until he didn’t know if he was coming or going.
“Mister. My ma told me to fetch you for dinner.” It was the daughter. She had blemish-free skin and a thin, dainty figure. A vision of innocence, everything the women on the road weren’t. But he only saw the childish side of her looks—the soft curve of her cheeks, tight skin, and youth. He could never be attracted to someone who reminded him of a girl just off the cusp of puberty, even though he suspected she was in her twenties. But, damn, her mother had mature, sculpted features. There was history written on her skin and knowledge in her eyes. She’d be able to handle herself in difficult situations, not needing to ask a man for help. Her inner strength and outer beauty drew him to her. Stupid. She wasn’t his to claim or consider.
“Well, thank you for the wake-up call. I didn’t catch your name…”
“Christine McCay.”
“Jackson Taylor,” he returned. “You tell her I’ll be there in two minutes.” He smiled, but she only rushed away, reserved like her mother.
After slipping on a fresh button-up from his travel bag, he followed the smell of savory stew to the kitchen. Three women sat around an old country table, battered and dinged from age. It reminded him of the one in his childhood home. He briefly glanced around the kitchen. Herbs were hanging in bunches on hooks near the window above the sink. Cast-iron pans and steel pots hung from an extension lowered from the rafters.
“Ladies.”
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Taylor. This is my daughter, Kylie, and you’ve met her sister, Christine.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sat at an empty seat across from Mrs. McCay. He didn’t even know her first name, but supposed it wasn’t appropriate to call her by it anyway. “Is your husband not joining us?”
The two girls froze in place, the soft tink of cutlery hitting china suddenly ceasing. “No, he won’t be. Not tonight.”
“That’s too bad. I guess I’ll meet him after my event tomorrow. I won’t be too late. This week I’m just registered in some barrel racing.” He began to eat the food served to him since nobody seemed interested in conversation. It tasted like heaven after his usual diet from greasy spoons.
The two girls resembled their mother with remarkable similarity, but age had been kind to his hostess. She didn’t look old enough to have two grown daughters. The woman had a raw sensuality to her, full lips, mature features. Her fingers were long and tapered, her breasts small and perky, and hips strong like a woman’s should be. He had to get his illicit thoughts in check because he was developing an instant crush on the beauty in front of him. She had a quiet strength about her, a guarded vulnerability that he was tempted to discover.
They finished dinner in silence, and then he excused himself. He wandered around the back of the house, enjoying the twilight and symphony of insects around him. Out on the prairies night was night. As soon as the last remnants of color in the sky faded, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face. Jackson dug in his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lit up after striking his match several times. He exhaled, the drag calming him further, and cloud of smoke mingling with the moonlit shadows.
“Don’t mind our mother,” said the female voice. He searched the dimness along the rear of the house and found Kylie standing there, a shawl around her shoulders. “She’s not exactly Martha Stewart when it comes to guests, but she means well.”
“She’s been perfect,” he said. He prayed to God the youngest daughter wasn’t out here to hit on him. It would make a mess of the living situation, and he’d likely feel obligated to leave.
“You don’t have to lie.” She chuckled to herself. “She’s bitter about a lot of things, especially men.”
“Oh?” He took another drag before giving the girl his full attention.
“She’s a widow, has been nearly all my life. It’s what we all wanted growing up. You know…not having to worry about a new man taking our father’s place. I can’t even remember him because I was only a baby when he passed, but it was the point. But now that we’re older I hate the thought of her being all alone in this big, old house. There’re just the two of us left, and even that’s temporary.”
“I didn’t know. She never even told me she was a widow.”
“She thinks it’s best if you believe there’s a man around somewhere. That woman thinks the worst of everyone.”
He shrugged. An easy life didn’t make hardened women like Mrs. McCay. He wouldn’t dare judge her, knowing she single-handedly raised her children and maintained a sizable farm. “I’m sure she’s just looking out for you and your sister.”
A screen door whined in the near distance. Kylie whispered, “See you around.” Then she snuck off around the other side of the house as quiet as a mouse.
Jackson stomped out his cigarette, looked up at the moon, and then closed his eyes briefly. That celestial icon in the sky was the only thing of stability in his life, the only thing he could count on besides himself.
“Nice evening.” That voice. It was feminine with a sexy, husky quality. At first he chided himself for his instant attraction, until he recalled her daughter’s words. Mrs. McCay was a widow, and very much on the market should he decide to make an advance. He’d never been attracted to older women. Most of his past girlfriends had been around his age, but never anything serious. He avoided stability like the plague, terrified to leave a woman in despair if anything happened to him in the ring. Jackson still remembered the years of suffering his mother endured after his father’s untimely death. Did Mrs. McCay remind him of his mother? Did he crave to be dominated by a woman? Or was it simple attraction, maybe even love at first sight?
“It certainly is lovely.”
She stepped closer, spotting the dying embers of his cigarette on the dry grass near his foot. “You shouldn’t smoke,” she said, grinding her boot into the butt. “Not only is it bad for your health, it’s downright dangerous in a drought like this. I know of less things to spark a prairie fire.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”
The moonlight reflected off the whites of her eyes and natural highlights in her hair. Her skin was flawless in this lighting, like a porcelain doll. But even in the light of day with faint lines around her eyes, and freckles spattering the bridge of her nose, she was a welcome sight.
“I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, we haven’t had rain for weeks. When you add record high temperatures, it makes life downright difficult for those who depend on the land. Sometimes being a farmer is a curse. I can imagine hell being similar to this—the heat, the stress, the despair.”
He could hear the worry in her voice even though she tried to speak flatly as if telling a story unrelated to her.
“So who helps you run things around here, besides your…husband?”
Would she ever offer up the truth to him? He’d just arrived, so couldn’t expect her to trust him. There were plenty of no-good cowboys traveling the circuit, but Jackson liked to think he wasn’t one of them. He believed in the morals his parents taught him, a cowboy code of honor. Never raise a hand to a woman, never steal, and your word was better than gold.
“Kylie’s starting college in September, then it’ll be just me and Christine…and my husband.”
He nodded, holding back his smile at her near slip. “While I’m here, I’ll do my best to help out. I know my way around a working ranch.”
“No need. I’ve managed this long without any help.” She started to return to the house, calling back over her shoulder. “Will you be here for breakfast?”
“Don’t bother getting up for me. I’ll be leaving at seven.”
She chuckled, a sound he didn’t think she was capable of. “This ain’t the city, Mr. Taylor. Breakfast is at five.” Then she continued on her way, becoming consumed by shadows.
Jackson laughed quietly to himself. Mrs. McCay was a real country woman if ever he met one. She wouldn’t need a man to open her pickle jar. But he liked that about her. His self-esteem wasn’t low enough that he needed to dominate in a relationship. Of course a romantic bond for a drifter was unrealistic. He kicked at the burnt grass where he’d tossed his cigarette, wishing he could take one more drag to help vanquish the inevitability of his love life.
* * * *
Wendy had served the boarder breakfast at first light, then she was off to do her list of duties around the farm. There was no time to be sitting around chatting, no matter how polite and friendly the young cowboy appeared to be. She had to slaughter three chickens for dinner so Christine could get the soup prepared when she got home from school. Then she had to head off to the feedstore.
Money was always tight. She couldn’t remember a year prosperous enough where she didn’t have to count her pennies. Some days she was tempted to throw in the towel, fantasizing of her knight in shining armor coming to take her to a life a peace and security. That fictitious knight was never her dead husband, and that alone bothered her.
Dust billowed around her truck as she navigated the dirt back roads. Everything was burning up under the dry heat with no reprieve in sight thanks to another cloudless day. She’d seen Jackson head out before she left. If she hadn’t, she knew she’d worry about him stealing something from her, not that she had anything much of value. Trust had to be earned, no matter how deceptively innocent a man appeared.
Wendy pulled into the parking lot of the feedstore. She needed enough supplies to get her through the next couple weeks. With only chickens, a cow, and a few horses, she didn’t need much, but costs had risen on everything. Wendy had succumbed to making her own soap, finances were so tight. She pushed open the glass door, the familiar rustic scent hitting her as she entered.
“Mornin’, Wendy. What can I get for you?” asked Phil, the owner of the store. He’d known her since her husband was alive. His parents handed the business over to him years ago after they retired. She’d much rather give business to the small family businesses rather than the big feed distribution centers, even if they cost slightly more. Some things were more important than money, like loyalty.
“I need my usual feed and a bag of lime.” She wandered around the store while he spoke with some other customers. The new tack displayed on the side wall called to her. She examined the shiny metal and lush leather, dreaming of the things she could never afford. She’d mended the cinch and girth straps on her saddle so many times they were practically held together by the fishing line she used as thread.
“We’re all set, Wendy.” She hadn’t realized how long she’d been standing there daydreaming. The two customers that were at the counter were gone.
She approached the counter. “Thanks, Phil. How much do I owe you?”
He leafed through his aged black ledger. “Including today’s order, just over six hundred dollars.” Six hundred dollars may as well been six million when she had so little to her name. How could she ask for more credit? But she didn’t have the money to clear up her account, especially when her harvest wasn’t even guaranteed at this point. She stalled, fiddling with the basket of hoof picks on the counter. Wendy didn’t want charity, but more time, or maybe a miracle.
“The weather affecting your crops?” he asked. “I’m hearing many locals have been hit hard from the drought.”
She nodded. “Don’t know how much longer my wheat will last until it’s not worth milling.” Wendy came prepared to pay for the day’s order, but not the whole bill. It wasn’t Phil’s fault she was suffering. He had to make a living like everyone else. She decided she’d have to sell one of her geldings to get caught up on her bills, and give her some wiggle room until hard times passed. The thought of giving up one of her three horses was heartbreaking because they really were like family.
“It’s hard times all around. I don’t expect you’ll be paying in full today. Just give me whatever you can.”
She took a cleansing breath to vanquish the emotion bubbling to the surface. “I can pay two hundred today, but I’ll be in before the month’s through to pay off the remainder.”
A new voice drawled from her side. “You need help, darlin’?”
How could she not have heard the bells chime on the glass or those heavy cowboy boots cross the wooden floor? Even that familiar chink of his spurs should have pulled her from her worries.
“No, I’m just fine, thank you.” She quickly pulled her cash from her front pocket and set in on the counter. Wade Laweson was the one man she didn’t want to see when faced with such a predicament. It was embarrassing, and she wanted nothing to do with his frequently offered handouts. How many years of her refusals would it take for him to leave her alone? To give her some credit that she was capable of surviving without a man?
“Can’t a neighbor help another? Nothing wrong with that.” He leaned against the counter, his subtle cologne surrounding her, a scent unique to him. Everything about Wade was a cursed distraction. He’d bought the next ranch over almost fifteen years ago, and to the day he’d been trying to woo her. She wouldn’t have any part of it. With young, fatherless children at home, a ranch in need of running, and a husband to mourn, she had to put distance between her and the tempting cowboy. The fact he made her heart beat faster from just a look made her hate herself and her traitorous desires. What kind of woman would she be to settle down with a new man? It would dishonor the memory of her late husband. She could imagine him watching her actions from the heavens. But as long as he couldn’t read her thoughts, she’d have made him proud by the way she constantly gave Wade the cold shoulder.
“I never asked for help.” She made the mistake of looking up, up, up at his face. His jaw was scruffy, his blue eyes penetr
ating. The man aged like a fine wine, even more handsome than he had been in his heyday. She suspected he was close to fifty, her senior by about six years.
“But I’m offering. It’d be polite of you to take it.”
She glanced at Phil. He was nodding discreetly, concern on his face. Wade Laweson may be one of the wealthiest ranchers in the province, but that didn’t impress her. She couldn’t be bought for any price, regardless of her personal financial situation. Her love was free, but unfortunately for him, she was plum out of stock. “The rain can’t hold out much longer, and when it comes, I’ll have a bumper crop on my hands. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She brushed past him in the narrow aisle of the cramped store.
He reached out and snagged her arm, bringing out her defenses. Wade was a tall, well-built man. He had to lean down to her level when he whispered in her ear. “How long you gonna hold out on me without giving me a chance, baby doll?”
She flashed her wedding band, the one she’d never taken off. “My husband may be dead and buried, but I’m still a married woman, and I’d appreciate it if you’d treat me as such.”
He scowled, returning to his full height. “It ain’t healthy to be talking like that. You’re still a young woman. It’s a shame you’d give up on love already.” With that he dismissed her, letting go of her arm, and returned to the counter. Wade had a large herd of cattle and cash crops, but unlike her, he had employees and expensive irrigation equipment she could only dream of affording.
Wendy drove around back to the loading dock where the hired hands dropped her feed and supplies into her truck bed, the suspension briefly dipping. The drive home was tiring. She felt mentally exhausted. Seeing Wade brought uncomfortable emotions and deep-seated longings to the surface. She wasn’t a woman, not any longer. Men should look through her because she only saw herself as a workhorse, getting through one day to the next. If her children all fared well, she’d have done her job in life. For Wade to see her as a conquest was foolhardy. She had as much interest in him as she did for kissing her milking cow. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself each time she saw him.
Espino, Stacey - Midlife Ménage [Ride 'em Hard 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 2
