The more she researched, the more excited she became. At five thirty she decided to take a break and, on a whim, searched the net for Manhattan stores that sold cowboy boots. She found a shop called Wayne’s Wild Wild West just blocks from her apartment. The shop closed at six on Sundays so she took a taxi, stopping to pick up batteries for her vibrator on the way. Half an hour later, she was back with a beautiful pair of hand-stitched boots in chocolate brown leather. Unlike Sarah’s bejeweled and dazzling pink pair, her new boots had a simple design of an eagle done in gold stitching on each side.
By nine, she was packed for an overnight trip. By ten she was in bed, hoping to get a few hours sleep before getting up at five to catch her flight. Sleep, however, fell victim to the excitement of possibly finding an uncataloged painting by one of America’s best known Western artists, and to the trip to Texas itself. She’d never thought about going to Texas. There were lots of places higher on her must-visit list. But now that she was going, even if just for overnight, she was looking forward to some scenery much different than Manhattan’s concrete canyons.
Chapter Two
Texas. Texas!
Her only connection to the state was a girl from Dallas that she had roomed with during her senior year of art school in Pennsylvania. The girl, another art history major, was an attractive, big-breasted coed named Nichole. Nikki—or Nookie to a large number of male students—was the epitome of what Amanda’s mother called a slut. She was also one of the brightest people she had ever met.
For the first few weeks of the semester, they were roommates. She didn’t care that Nikki spent more time smooching and groping boys than she spent studying. Amanda’s time was spent with her nose in art history books, not in Nikki’s business. But by the fourth week, the smooching and groping had turned into fucking, and Amanda spent almost every night lying awake in the dark, listening to Nikki getting it on with one stud or another and sometimes two at the same time. To Amanda’s amazement, Nikki somehow managed to screw her brains out and still maintain a 4.0 grade point.
Even though the two women had very different personalities, especially when it came to sex, for a short time they became very good friends. As with her friendship with Sarah, Amanda seemed to be drawn to women who actually did the sexual things she only fantasized about.
There was no question in her mind that Nikki enjoyed a highly active libido. But did that make her a slut? And if it did was that such a bad thing after all? Would it be terribly wrong to enjoy making love to two men at once?
Forget about it, she thought. She hadn’t had a whole lot of success with just one lover. Thinking about fucking two at a time might be overreaching a bit.
****
With the exception of a squalling two-year-old and lightening-laced thunderstorms that kept the plane in a holding pattern for an extra hour, the flight from New York to Austin via Dallas was uneventful. Amanda spent the time on her computer, studying everything she had downloaded about Charles Marion Randell and several other Western artists working in the late 1800s and early 1900s. When the plane finally landed, she had a good overview of the artist and his contemporaries.
By the time she picked up the rental car, it was almost noon, and it looked like she would have to spend at least one night at the Morgan ranch. She’d wanted to avoid staying at the ranch, if possible, since God only knew how rustic a cattle ranch in Nowhere, Texas, might be. Economy and ecologically minded Sarah had rented her a new little hybrid for her drive to the ranch. Amanda didn’t own a car of her own and didn’t need one in New York, but she knew how to drive and the rental didn’t appear to present too much of a challenge. Before she left the airport, she used her computer to access the university faculty roster for Nichole Nelson, hoping her former roommate hadn’t married or at least was still using her maiden name.
She was in luck. Nichole Nelson was listed as professor of art history in the College of Fine Art. She dialed the office number listed and Nikki answered on the second ring. “Nichole Nelson.”
“Hi Nikki. It’s Amanda Sloane.”
“Oh my God! Mandy Sloane. I haven’t heard from you in years. What are you up to? Did you get that job in New York you wanted?”
“I did, with Peabody, Patterson & Cope. I’m in Austin, on my way to a ranch to look at a painting that might be an uncataloged Charles Randell.”
“How exciting. Will you be here a while? We need to try to get together.”
“That would be fun. But it will have to be on my way back. I’ll be at the ranch a couple of days.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m here all week teaching classes. Call me when you get back in town. We can at least have lunch or dinner.”
“I’ll try to. It would be good to see you. We can talk over old times.”
“You mean wild times.”
“I think they might have been I little wilder for you than me.”
“Guilty as charged. You said Amanda Sloane, so I assume you aren’t married.”
“Nope. And no immediate prospects. You?”
“The same. There are too many good looking men out there to be tied to only one. And right now, I’m swamped. They’ve appointed me acting dean of the College of Fine Arts for the next two years.”
“Nikki that’s great! Congratulations!”
“Thanks. Listen, I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes. Call me when you get back to Austin. Early or late. It doesn’t matter. And take down my cell number.”
She jotted down the cell number. “It was nice to talk to you Nikki. I’ll call you in a couple days.”
“Please do. I’d love to see you.”
Chapter Three
Amanda left the airport and half an hour later she was enjoying the rolling terrain of the West Texas Hill Country. It was late May and the hillsides, splattered with colorful Black-eyed Susans, Blue Bonnets, and bright red and yellow Indian Paintbrush, looked like an Impressionist painting. Even more amazing than the rolling hills of wildflowers was the vastness of the Texas sky. From horizon to horizon, the vault of the sky stretched in an azure arch, totally cloudless except for remnants of the thunderstorms that had delayed their arrival now skidding off to the east.
Rolling all the windows down in the little car, Amanda let it fill with fresh Texas air. Even though she’d spent endless hours studying the art of Western painters like Charles Randell, she had only been west a couple of times; once to Santa Fe and Taos and once to Denver. This trip, she decided, was more like a short vacation than a business trip. And if the Randell turned out to be genuine, that would just be icing on the cake.
She checked the map she’d printed out before she left, making sure she was on the right road. She had phoned the ranch from her cell to explain that her flight had been delayed due to weather, but had gotten only their voice mail. She left a message that she would be arriving sometime between three and four, wondering as she did just what the Morgan brothers were like. Whoever had spoken on the answering machine had a resonant baritone voice, deep but mellow. Not that it mattered. Her objective on this trip was evaluating art and hopefully finding a hundred-year-old multi-million dollar painting.
A swirling cloud of dust suddenly blew across the road in front of her and she felt the car pull to the right. Adjusting, she looked toward the west and saw puffy white clouds billowing high into the sky. Another gust of wind pushed her toward the edge of the road and she twisted the steering wheel, almost over-correcting. She’d left the main highway an hour earlier and was now on a state road, paved, but just two lanes. According to the map, she would be turning onto a county road next.
To the west, the puffy cottonball clouds billowed higher and higher, maybe thousands of feet, but they still looked miles and miles away. She could see curtains of rain stretching to the ground in three or four places. Hopefully, she would make it to the ranch before she got caught in a rainstorm. As if to punctuate her thought, lightening forked from the clouds to the ground in the distance. Several seconds later, Amanda heard a sha
rp crack, followed by the faint rumble of thunder.
Turning off the two-lane county highway, she found herself on a gravel road. A couple of miles later, the gravel turned to dirt and strong gusts threw up clouds of dust around her car.
Damn, this can’t be right, she thought. The gravel road is supposed to lead to the ranch house. She glanced at her watch. She should easily be at the ranch by now. She stopped the car, wondering if she should turn around. Suddenly, a huge glistening brown eye in a white face was staring at her, just inches from her open window. She screamed and jerked back from the window, scrambling to find the button to roll it up. Another face appeared on the passenger side and then a dozen more brown bodies and white faces surrounded her, bleating and slobbering from their mouths and noses.
It was the first time Amanda had seen a cow up close and her immediate reaction was to scream and honk the horn. At the first beep, the cow on her side of the car leaped away, crashing into another cow. Two more cows leaped out of the road in panic, trying to get away from the blaring horn. One of the frightened animals defecated, splattering cow shit all over the front fender of the car.
With her car surrounded by bawling, mooing cattle, she couldn’t move forward or backward. Suddenly, in place of the cow at her window, there was a boot in a stirrup with a silver spur on the heel leading up to a well-worn pair of leather chaps. A gloved hand reached down and knocked hard against the car window. She looked up into the face of a very angry cowboy, leaning down from the saddle of his horse. The man twirled his hand indicating that she roll down her window. Amanda rolled the window down an inch. At the expression on the irate man’s face, she rolled the window down a few inches more. Although the man was obviously very angry, she couldn’t help but note he was also ruggedly handsome.
The cowboy tipped his hat back so he could lean in closer as he yelled. “Lady, stop honking your Goddamn horn. You’re gonna have steers climbing all over your fucking car.” Amanda jerked her hand from the steering wheel, unaware that she had been honking the whole time.
“Sorry,” she apologized, but the cowboy had risen up and was shouting at another man up ahead.
“Jody! Go get that bunch headed to the creek!”
The other cowboy cut away from the herd, riding quickly after a small group of reddish brown, white-faced cattle that were running down the hill. A black and white border collie ran ahead of the cowboy’s horse, nipping at the heels of the wayward cows.
The cowboy at her window had finally cooled off a bit and she was getting over her initial fright. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare your cows. They just—”
“What the hell are you doing out here anyway?” The cowboy was close, hanging on to the roof of the car as he leaned down into the window. She noticed his boots were round toed and scuffed and worn, nothing at all like the shiny new pointy-toed boots she was wearing.
“I’m trying to find the Morgan ranch,” She said, regaining some of her composure. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to drive cattle down a public road?”
The cowboy studied her for a moment. “The road to the ranch is a mile back. Then you go a mile and a half north. If you’re the art appraiser, they’re waiting for you. And this isn’t a public road. You left that two miles ago.”
Amanda looked out the front window at the half dozen men who were rounding up the frightened cattle. When she looked back at the cowboy, he was staring at her chest. Her nipples quickly hardened under his admiring gaze.
That morning, she’d left New York wearing jeans, her new boots, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt over a gossamer bra and a thin white tank top. The shirt, in a dark blue plaid, was unbuttoned and open, clearly showing the fullness of her breasts and the hardness of her nipples against the material of her bra and tank top. She pulled the lapels of the shirt together, covering her nipples.
The cowboy looked up. Although he had been caught blatantly staring at her breasts, he showed no sign of embarrassment. Instead, his slight smile sent a flush up her neck to her cheeks. When he saw her blush, his eyes, a luminous emerald green, twinkled mischievously.
Amanda suddenly realized she was looking at an amazingly attractive man. Christ, she thought, unable to stop staring at his face. Men are not supposed to have eyes that pretty. Certainly not in a face that handsome.
“Sit tight for a minute,” the cowboy said. “We’ll get the herd around you. Then you can turn around.” He reached into a pocket of his leather vest and took out a cell phone. “If I can get a signal, I’ll tell them you are coming.” The cowboy looked over his shoulder at the lowering sky. “This weather coming in fast, I’d try not to take any more side trips.”
Side trips! I wasn’t on a side trip, you arrogant ass. I was trying to follow your lousy directions. She frowned at the man but he wasn’t paying attention. Still fuming, she watched in her rear view mirror as the cowboys drove the remaining thirty or forty cows around her car and on down the road. When the last animal passed, the green-eyed cowboy followed, tipping his hat slightly as he rode by. She could see he was dressed in full working cowboy regalia—hat, boots, spurs, chaps, and a red flannel shirt under a leather vest. His horse was a beautiful reddish brown with white stocking forelegs and a white blaze on its head. Holy cow, she thought, watching his posture in the saddle. I just met my first honest-to-God cowboy. Too bad I pissed him off.
A crack of lightening and a rolling peal of thunder made her look out to the west. The billowing storm clouds that had seemed so far away were much closer now, so close she could smell the rain in the air. She worked at turning the car around in the narrow dirt road, then drove back the way she had come.
At exactly a mile on her odometer, another gravel road angled north. This road, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, had barbed wire fences on each side, set back behind bar ditches that were three to four feet deep. On her right, to the east, the road was lined with occasional groves of cotton-woods. Beyond the tall trees, she could see pastureland sloping up to gently undulating hills. To the west, the land was treeless and flat, stretching in an empty plain toward the distant horizon.
Except now the horizon seemed much closer and was filled with dark curtains of rain sweeping rapidly toward her. A bright flash lit the sky and she jumped, startled by the boom of thunder that seemed to explode right above her. As the thunder rumbled away in the distance, the first big drops of rain hit the car, splattering loudly on the metal and glass. In seconds, the rain came down in torrents.
The car’s lights had come on in the weather’s gloom, but she could still barely see the road ahead. The wind-whipped rain came at her sideways in sheets, rattling against the shaking car like gunfire. She stopped in the middle of the road, unable to see more than a few feet in front of the car. She turned the caution blinker on, unsure whether to pull to the side of the road in case another car came along or stay in the middle away from the steeply sloping ditches on each side.
The rain pounding against the car grew in intensity, becoming louder and sharper. Thunder and lightning were almost constant now, one flash and boom and rumble following on the heels of another. Outside the car, she could see small white pellets hitting the ground, striking the hood, and piling up along the front edge of the windshield.
Fuck! It’s hailing. As she watched, the pellets grew from dime to nickel size, then as big as quarters. She had seen hail in New York, but nothing like this. As the hailstones thumped against the hood of the car, she knew they must be making hellacious dents on the roof and hood.
Between the howling gusts of wind that drove the rain and hail against the car in blinding torrents, Amanda could see the dark shape of trees arching over the road in the near distance. Hoping the overhanging branches might offer some protection, she eased the car forward, her windshield wipers whacking uselessly at the pounding rain and hail.
Just as she reached the shelter of the over-hanging trees, she saw an opening in the fence to her right. Through the opening, a narrow rutted drive wound toward a
grey, weather-beaten barn a hundred yards up a slight hill. The rutted road, now thick with mud from the rain, led directly to large double doors in one end of the long low-roofed structure. One of the double doors had been rolled aside a couple of feet.
At the far end of the barn, she could see a wooden railed corral that stood empty. Along the side of the barn a flat-roofed canopy jutted out, held up by wooden posts. A farm tractor sat under the protection of the canopy roof, out of the hail. There was an empty space next to the tractor, and she decided she would try to get the car up to the barn and out of the hail.
Gunning the car, she slipped and slid her way up the muddy ruts, finally pulling off to one side under the shelter of the canopy.
The absence of the sound of hailstones hitting the roof and hood of the car was a relief. The rain was still coming down in buckets, but the space under the canopy was relatively dry. She opened her door and got out of the car, standing for a moment to watch the rain and hail. The ground was not completely covered by hailstones, but in places the pellets had drifted up enough to look like patches of melting snow.
The wind was dying down somewhat and the hail had tapered off. The pellets were smaller, once more dime sized or less. Amanda felt that in a few minutes she might be able to get back down to the gravel road and make her way to the ranch. Slipping her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she scrolled to the preprogrammed number and pushed the call button. NO SIGNAL. She sighed and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Just then a loud whinny came from inside the barn.
She turned. On the other side of the tractor was a small opening in the side of the barn, about two feet square. The opening had been framed like a window but without the glass. Stepping around the tractor, trying to avoid the wet grass and mud beyond the canopy, she made her way to the opening. She had expected the barn to be empty. But looking in, she saw that wasn’t the case at all.
One Hard Ride Page 2
