by Pam Godwin
“Yep.”
Fuck me sideways.
The soggy jeans slide down my hips, and I yank them back up.
“Looks like you two have this under control. I’ll leave you to it.” Jake mounts his horse and trots off.
“All right, Chicken.” I adjust the rope around her squirming body. “We can do this.”
“Did you just call her Chicken?” Jarret squints at me.
“That’s her name.” I toss the wet rope up to him.
He catches it and removes the slack. “Rule number one on the ranch. Never name cattle you plan to sell for slaughter.”
Panic grips my lungs. “You can’t sell her!”
I know I’m being irrational. It’s not like I can keep her. I don’t even have a place to live.
Raising cattle to be butchered is what he does. I didn’t come here expecting to change that, but dammit, it hurts. Maybe I’m an emotional bleeder after all.
He knots the end of the rope on the saddle horn and swings up onto the horse. “Ready?”
“Yeah.” I nudge Chicken forward, helping her navigate the rocks.
Jarret leads the way, guiding Ginny along the ledge with the rope connected to the saddle.
A few minutes into the water-logged hike, he leans down and nudges up his hat. “Why Chicken? If you’re going to name her, it should be Big Mac or Tenderloin or Angus.”
I shoot him a glare. “She represents all the chickens that need to be saved.”
With a grunt, he straightens and focuses on the path ahead of him.
It’s a long goddamn walk. Not because I’m wearing wet jeans that won’t stay up. Or because the sun beats down on my shoulders like a furnace. Or because Chicken stops every few feet to fight the rope that pulls her forward.
It’s long because every time I run a hand over the little white cow licks on her head, my heart bleeds. I can’t bear the thought of her ending up in a cardboard box tossed out a drive-through window.
When the walls of the creek give way to sloping banks, Chicken runs up the dirt ramp and bounces through the tall grass around Ginny’s hooves.
“That was longer than a mile.” I shuffle out of the creek and collapse on my back in the mud, eyes closed.
“It was closer to two miles.” Jarret’s shadow falls across my face. “I can take you back to the house if you need to rest.”
I crack an eye open. “Is there more work to do?”
He laughs and folds his arms across his bare chest. “The day just started.”
I might not have his physical stamina, but I’m not quitting until he does. “What’s next?”
“Fence repair.”
“I thought you had a guy on that?” I push myself to a sitting position and fight a bout of lightheadedness.
“You need water.” He retrieves a sports bottle from the saddle and offers it to me. “With ten-thousand acres to fence in, there are more repairs than we can keep up with. It’s the second worst job on the ranch.”
I drink deeply, savoring the cool refreshment. “What’s the worst?”
“Paperwork.”
I try to smile, but I don’t have the energy to make my cheeks move.
He glances back at the frolicking calf. “I need to take Chicken to her mother.”
My heart swells. “You called her by her name.”
“You like her.” His brows knit.
“It was a harrowing journey of bonding and friendship. I love her.”
“You’re serious.”
“Look at that cute black nose. It can’t be helped.”
“She won’t be weaned until winter.” He shuffles his boots. “We can work something out after that.”
I gasp. “You won’t sell her?”
He shakes his head, frowning.
“No way!” I leap up and tackle him in a hug. “Thank you!”
“Just this one.” He frames my face with his hands and gives me a stern look. “You can’t save them all.”
“I know.”
“Stay away from the other calves.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t even look at them.”
I nod my agreement.
“You’re a mess.” He swipes a thumb across my cheek. “A beautiful mess.”
“Thank you.”
His gaze dips to my mouth, and I’m certain he’s going to kiss me. My body aches for it, pulsing in places that haven’t been touched in so long. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to lose myself in another person.
“This is the first time I’ve ever considered missing a day of work.” His hands lower from my face.
“You love it that much?”
He nods. “Not as much as I love the look in your eyes.”
I glance away. “I’m ready to earn my keep and…” I wave a hand at Chicken. “Whatever it’ll cost to keep her happy indefinitely.”
His chuckle slides across my skin like velvet. “You have a lot of pliers and stretchers in your future.”
“I really hope those are tools for fence repair.”
He gives me a wicked wink and hoists me into the saddle.
Crouched beside a mangled portion of the fence, I wipe the sweat from my brow and sit back on my heels. We’ve been repairing barbed wire for hours in the heat, and Maybe hasn’t tuckered out yet.
Not only is she a fast learner, she doesn’t fill the silence with empty chatter. While I prefer to work alone, I find I actually enjoy her company.
A few yards away, she rises from the section she’s fixing and stares along the fencing that goes on for miles.
“There’s not enough daylight for everything that needs to be done.” She pulls down the brim of the hat to shade her eyes. “No wonder you inhale your food.”
When we stopped for lunch, she gave me hell for wolfing down my sandwich. Meanwhile, she nibbled on cheese and lettuce between slices of bread, as if it were a normal thing to eat.
“Take a break.” I tilt my chin at the shade beneath a nearby tree.
“Not until you do.”
Stubborn woman. I’m accustomed to grueling work. She’s not.
Every day, I use wire, leather gloves, fence clips, staples, pliers, and splicers. I smile at the fence stretchers in my hand, loving where her mind went when I mentioned them.
“Snowdrifts destroyed a lot of this over the winter.” I gesture at the fence. “Some of the wire is older than I am and it—”
“You’re two years younger than me.”
I squint at her. “You’re twenty-six?”
“That surprises you?”
“A little.”
I hadn’t given any thought to it, but with her hair in braids, dirt streaked across her face, and that tiny tank top hanging off her shoulders, she looks barely legal.
“What were you saying about the fence?” She props a hand on her hip.
I shift back to the wire in my grip. “See how barbed this is? It’s so industrially well-made most of it hasn’t needed repairs until now.”
“Why are you fixing it instead of replacing it?”
“Wire isn’t made like this anymore. It’s dangerous to work with, but the cattle won’t go near it.”
“There must be miles of it on the property.” She scans the horizon, taking it all in. “I noticed some of the fences are made with wooden railings, too. Do you have someone who runs the perimeter every day, checking for breaks and holes?”
“There’s no way to do that when the land goes on forever. We check the problem areas regularly and rely on the cattle to let us know when the fence is down. Because they’ll find a way out. Same with kids. When the four of us were little, we disappeared all the time. Our dads would have to send out search parties.”
“I bet.”
She returns to her section of wire, her hands protected by heavy leather gloves as she works. She appears focused, but at the mention of my dad and Dalton, something shifted in her mood. I anticipate what’s coming before she opens her mouth.
“John Holsten
and Dalton Cassidy borrowed money from people outside of financial regulators. You know who those people are.”
I know who those people were. But she used present tense.
“Where’s Rogan Schroeder?” she asks, confirming she doesn’t know he’s buried at the bottom of the ravine with his truck.
“Why do you assume I would know?” I watch her profile out of the corner of my eye.
“Your dad told me you and your brother know where to find all the men on my list.”
My stomach hardens. I should be happy Dad didn’t tell her they’re dead. But instead, he sent a suspicious reporter to us armed with potentially incriminating information.
“Why would you believe anything John Holsten told you?” I infuse my tone with boredom.
“Instead of denying his claims, you answer my questions with questions. That’s telling, Jarret.”
We agreed to speak honestly or remain silent. My silence would’ve been more telling. I can’t stop her from making assumptions about what I’m not saying. But when she leaves here, assumptions are all she’ll have, and that doesn’t make a worthy news story.
“I know Rogan Schroeder has been here.” She keeps her gaze on her work. “When was the last time you saw him?”
Of all the men she named, Rogan is the only one who met with my dad on the ranch. The others worked for Rogan as hired killers or loan sharks.
I don’t know how much she’s uncovered, but I understand why she’s not telling me. If she reveals what she knows, she loses her bargaining power. Maybe she knows nothing, but the fact that she has that list of names makes me hesitant to call her bluff. She knows something.
“Did my dad explain his relationship with Rogan Schroeder?” I ask.
“He confirmed what I already know.”
“And that is…?”
“You and Jake are involved in bad business.”
I chuckle. “Define bad.”
“Illegal.” She lowers her chin, avoiding my eyes.
“Do you believe that?”
She breathes in deeply and releases a sigh of uncertainty. “I would be naive to ignore the evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“You tell me, Jerry.”
“I’m not answering to that.”
“You just did.”
We’re talking in circles, and it’s giving me a fucking headache. The suffocating heat only heightens my aggravation.
“Look at me.” I shift toward her and wait for her gaze. “You have a place to stay and food to eat. There’s no urgency to get your story, right? Nothing pressing?”
“That’s not…” Her brow pinches. “I don’t know. I mean—”
“You either have a deadline or you don’t.”
“There’s no deadline.”
“Then forget the interrogation for now.” I tilt my head, studying her as she studies me. “Work with me during the day. Relax with me at night. With time, we’ll get to know each other and trust each other enough to have this conversation.”
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth, scrutinizing me with tapered eyes. “If you have nothing to hide, why not just answer my questions?”
“I want you. I’ve been clear on that point.”
“Are you saying you’re pretending to hide information so you can get me in bed?”
“In a bed, on the kitchen table, against a wall…” I shrug. “Sounds like a plan.”
I’d rather her believe that than suspect me of murder.
“There’s more going on here than scratching an itch.” She huffs. “You can have any woman you want.”
“None as challenging as you.” I turn back to my work.
“So that’s it? Hard to get is your flavor of the week?” At my silence, she mumbles under her breath, “I should just fuck you and remove that from the equation.”
“That’s my call to make. I will fuck you. You’ll get what you need. Then we’ll go our separate ways.”
That night, I sit beside Maybe on the back porch. The outdoor couch we share feels like heaven beneath my tired muscles. The drizzle of rain beyond the overhang reduces the evening heat. Jake and Conor recline across from us, quiet and content.
Evenings like this center me. If Lorne were here, it would be perfect.
We grilled T-bones and potatoes for dinner. Maybe sliced a cauliflower head into steaks, brushed olive and steak seasoning over the tops, and tossed them on the grill like meat. We teased her about it, but she shrugged it off with a smile.
I love that about her. She might’ve come here to wheedle information out of us, but not at the risk of losing her self-identity. As gorgeous as she is, she could resort to seduction to get what she wants. She hasn’t, and I respect the hell out of her for it.
“I want to hear you play before I pass out.” She motions at the harmonica in my hand.
Her hair, still wet from the shower, winds down her chest and around her hips. Pink colors her cheeks—from a sunburn, the warmth of the evening, or something else… I’m not sure. Her blue eyes glimmer in the dim porch light, her dense lashes dipping lower and lower with each blink. She’s fading quickly.
I lean back, resting my shoulder against hers. “I wore you out today.”
“You, Chicken, Ginny, the whole menagerie.” She yawns. “I’m not cut out to be a ranch hand.”
Conor and Jake heard all about Chicken during dinner. What I didn’t tell them is how impressed I am with Maybe’s work ethic.
“You did really good out there.” I angle toward her. “I didn’t go easy on you, yet you caught on quickly and never complained.”
She groans. “Flattery isn’t necessary. I know I slowed you down.”
“Jarret might have a charming smile.” Conor reaches for the guitar beside her. “But he doesn’t give a compliment unless he means it.”
“Good to know.” Maybe arranges her lips in a tired smile. “I’m glad I could help.”
I gave her one of my t-shirts to sleep in, and it swallows the little shorts she wears for modesty. Seeing her in my things today—my boots, my hat, my shirt… It stirs something indescribable inside me.
I’ve never shared my clothes with anyone. I don’t do overnights. I’ve never slept beside a woman. But before she returns to Chicago, I intend to do all that and more.
Because she’s different. She’s not desperate or clingy like the women I’ve been with. She doesn’t bend at my every command. She has convictions, and she stands up for them with fire in her eyes.
It doesn’t help that I get hard every time I look at her. She’s easily the sexiest woman I’ve ever encountered. Those perky tits, long legs, and fuck me, that smile… She’s a goddamn knockout.
“What made you decide to play the harmonica?” She twitches her fingers where they rest beside my leg.
“Conor and Lorne play guitar. Jake sings. I wanted to jam with them when we were kids, but I don’t have a musical bone in my body. The harmonica seemed like the easiest to learn.”
“He’s being humble.” Jake props a boot on the coffee table between us. “Play something by The Wild Feathers.”
“Which song?” I ask.
“You have to do the harmonica piece in Wine & Vinegar.” Conor plucks the strings, already rolling into the intro.
I cup the instrument against my lips and direct air in and out, vibrating the notes. When Jake begins the vocals, Maybe’s chest rises and falls with a happy sigh.
Conor leads us through the country rock song, singing along with Jake and tapping her foot. We flow together without effort, the music rushing in and around the back porch until my sore muscles give way to a comfortable purr in my chest.
It’s not the beats that assuage my heart and pump liquid energy through my veins. It’s us. My family. Our togetherness. I lose all sense of everything except for my connection with the people who mean the most to me.
And the woman at my side.
Maybe might be an intruder, but I can’t stop myself from soaking in
her reactions and savoring the lift of her cheeks. She feels it—the elevation of spirits, the harmony between us, and the rightness in simply enjoying one another’s company.
When the song ends, she presses a hand against her breastbone, her sleepy eyes blinking up at me. “Wow. You’re really good. Will you do another one?”
I rest a hand on her bare thigh. “You should get some sleep.”
“Nope. I’m good.” She slips deeper into the couch, the last ounces of strength draining from her body.
“This one will wake her up.” Conor flashes an impish grin and strums the chords of Whips and Things by David Allan Coe.
All three of us belt the lyrics, because it’s one of those songs that should be bellowed as loudly and obnoxiously as possible.
The raunchy words send Maybe into a fit of laughter, and by the time we finish, we’re all laughing, just like we did when Lorne introduced it to us in our teens.
“I’m going to play that song at our wedding.” Jake grins.
“You do that.” Conor tweaks his nipple through his shirt. “Because when I play it at your funeral, I’m bringing a date.”
He grips her wrist and yanks her close. “Put the guitar away. I have something else for you to play with.”
With a defiant look, she twists her arm free and strums the chords of another song.
I scratch the stubble on my jaw. “You’re losing your touch, Jake.”
“We’ll see about that when she comes to bed begging for a punishment.”
“So it runs in the family,” Maybe mumbles beside me. “Whips and things…”
“Whips are overrated.” I give her a wink and raise the harmonica to my mouth.
We play a few more songs before her head rolls on her shoulders, and her mouth parts in a quiet snore.
“We lost her.” Conor sets the guitar aside and crawls onto Jake’s lap.
“I’ll be right back.” I lift Maybe’s slack body and carry her into the house.
She stirs during the walk but doesn’t fully wake. Eyes closed, she curls against my chest and saturates my inhales with the minty scent of her shampoo.
As shadows dance along the soft curves of her hips and legs, I’m not above checking her out. The perfect shape of her heats my blood and awakens a primitive urge to keep her close just to prevent other men from touching her.