by P. Dangelico
I glanced at the quiet man in the driver’s seat of the smelly pickup truck that we’d left at the airport, his profile unforgiving. He seemed to have no recollection of the events of the night before. After getting him back to his bedroom, he’d begun stripping before I could make a hasty exit. And yes, maybe I did move a little slower than I should have. But he’d ripped off his shirt, exposing the cut muscles of his chest sprinkled with dark hair and a V adjacent to hip bones pointing to parts unknown, and my compass broke. I couldn’t tell you which way was up, down, left, or right anymore. The last image I saw before I closed his door were those blessedly naked buns of steel of his. One had to wonder what he did to get muscles like that.
The scratching of claws on a hardwood floor and doggy whines could be heard on the other side of the front door of the cabin. Scott pushed it open and motioned to the far side wall. “The inflatable mattress is in the closet. Sheets and towels too.”
What a gentleman.
The elephants danced around us, almost knocking me off my feet. Scott practically got on all fours to greet them. He spared not a single word for me, but for the dogs he frolicked like a six-year-old. That irked.
“Can you give me a ride into town tomorrow?” I dared to speak, hating to be at his mercy until I figured out what I was going to do about a car. Normally, having to rely on anyone gave me hives, but I was good and stuck. I hadn’t anticipated Frank asking me to stay a while, to lend the story credence. “I need to buy a few things before my stuff gets here.”
First order of business was to purchase a pair of Hunter boots. I walked to the vintage refrigerator and opened it. A few bottles of water and ketchup. Second order of business was groceries.
“Take the truck. I’ll have one of my guys pick me up.” It was more than he’d said all afternoon. “You get the bathroom first.” Without sparing me another glance, he walked into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. Welcome to marriage.
Scott
“What in sweet Jesus’s name happened to your finger?” Laurel called out from somewhere behind me.
I hadn’t heard her walk into the office, too busy inspecting the finger in question. The one looking worse by the hour. I turned away from the coffee pot I was about to reach for and held up my left hand. By the looks of it, if I didn’t get the godforsaken thing off soon, I’d have to have it surgically removed.
“Don’t just stand there, Laurel, help me get this off.”
She gave me a brisk nod. “Hold on, I got this.” A minute later she returned with a big jar of Vaseline, slathered a glob of it on my finger, and twisted the ring back and forth until it slipped off.
“I don’t wanna know why you have a tub of that in your desk drawer but thank you.” Flexing my hand, I groaned in relief. “You’re an angel.”
“Remember that when I ask for a raise,” she shot back.
Grabbing the coffee pot, she poured two cups and studied me critically while she drank hers. I didn’t like it.
“So…how’d it go?”
“I’m married,” I told her, adding a shrug while I wiped the excess Vaseline away with a paper towel. I couldn’t muster even the slightest bit of fake enthusiasm. “It went.”
“When do I get to meet her?”
Best I could do was a noncommittal grunt. I didn’t want Sydney involved in my life any more than she already was which was too damn much already. As if on cue, the woman who wore my ring waltzed through the door of the offices of the Lazy S wearing a pair of running tights––black this time––and a matching fleece that she must’ve bought in Vegas because it had the Wynn logo over her heart.
She turned her head, ponytail bouncing, and smiled when she saw me. It was immediate and reached her eyes, making her look about ten years younger and the opposite of the uptight bitch I kept mentally accusing her of being. That tentative smile punched me in the chest. Which naturally made my face look like I’d eaten bad shellfish.
“Good morning,” she said, addressing both of us.
“You must be Sydney,” Laurel exclaimed in a chirpy voice and left me in the dust to shake my new wife’s hand. She never sounded chirpy when she spoke to me. I made a mental note to speak to Laurel about an attitude adjustment.
Crossing the room, I sat at my desk, and from behind the screen of my desktop, studied Sydney as she shook Laurel’s hand. Shit. My wife was beautiful I belatedly realized. Karma was laughing in my face and screwing with my best-laid plans.
I’d checked in on her when I snuck out at four in the morning. Buried under three blankets, she was sound asleep on the inflatable mattress on the floor with the dogs surrounding her like two parentheses. I’d been around women like her all my life. Rich, pampered, used to getting what they wanted at all costs. And I was certain the ice princess would’ve had her small bag packed, sprinting to the hotel by now. Or even better, back to New York. And yet here she was in my office, invading my space, unbothered by it all.
The two women smiled at each other as they talked. Then Sydney turned sideways, and I nearly swallowed my tongue. Skin. I could see skin. A transparent stripe of material ran up the sides of her tights.
Chrissake, had the guys seen this?
As a general rule they missed nothing where a woman was concerned, especially a beautiful one walking around the property in see-through leggings. If she was going to spend time here, I couldn’t have her running around distracting my men with revealing clothing. Ranching was dangerous work. Someone could get killed if their attention lapsed because of a pair of long sexy legs and a blue-ribbon ass.
My dick stirred and I bit back the urge to swear out loud.
“What is that?” a regressive Y chromosome impelled me to say out loud. Both women turned to look at me. Laurel glared while Sydney’s forehead wrinkled, my tone clearly knocking the poise out of her. Sadly, only for a brief moment. A beat later she shook off the confusion and leveled a flat stare on me.
“What are you wearing?” I clarified.
“Leggings…and a fleece,” she said, annunciating it slowly––like she considered me an idiot.
“Your pants are see-through. I can see skin. You can’t wear those here.” My jeans were growing increasingly uncomfortable.
“That’s New York fashion, Scott,” Laurel cut in, having appointed herself my wife’s attorney less than a minute after meeting her. “Or have you forgotten already?” Then, turning to Sydney. “Those are real cute.”
“I could bring you a pair when I get back from the city,” my wife offered with a smile. I didn’t like it.
“Oh no, sweetie. You gotta have long legs to wear those and I’m barely five feet.”
“Scott, that old sunavabitch bull…” Ryan walked through the door and stopped short at the sight of Sydney standing in the middle of the room, his voice fading to silence as his unblinking eyes openly appraised her.
Removing his work gloves, he stuck his hand out. “Ryan Sutter. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Blackstone.” The last was said with a teasing note in his voice and a good-for-nothing, one-sided grin. I didn’t like it, my temper sparking.
Smiling, Sydney shook his hand. “Call me Sydney.”
I didn’t like that either.
Ryan’s smile grew wider, the right side lifting to mirror the left side. “Will do.”
“Ryan––” I finally barked because I didn’t like any of this shit.
Ryan’s attention reluctantly turned to me. “Tiny is giving us trouble again. Won’t breed and won’t let any of the younger bulls near the ladies. I gotta take him out.”
“Take him out?” Sydney suddenly spoke up, a concerned look on her face.
That look called to all the reasons she didn’t belong here. Why she didn’t belong with me. “Babydoll, look around you. This isn’t Woketopia. If having animals ethically put down is an issue, you’re not going to like living on a working cattle ranch.”
Silence. Both Laurel and Ryan frowned at me. Sydney simply stared. Not even a vague semblance of
a reaction to my microagression. Could I have said it with a little more delicacy? Maybe. But I was fresh out of patience––my erection being the primary cause, an erection that I was too damn old to be having in the middle of the day.
Ryan gave Sydney a sympathetic smile. “I meant put him in a smaller pasture by himself. Problem is, he gets harder to handle when he’s all by his lonesome. Gets meaner––like most males.” My best friend aimed an accusing glare my way. “But we don’t have a choice at this point. He hurt one of the younger bulls pretty bad.”
“Let’s give him another week to see if he’ll breed,” I told him. “If not, we’ll have to get rid of him.” I put my head down, went back to pretending to check out the inventory spreadsheets. If I continued to stare at my wife, I’d embarrass myself. Meanwhile, Ryan crossed the room to pour himself a cup of coffee.
“Pete and I would love to have you over for dinner this week,” I heard Laurel jabber on. “Tomorrow night, Scott?”
I looked up from my computer screen to find both women watching me.
“Can’t tomorrow.”
Laurel’s face pinched. “Wednesday then.”
Lips pressed tight, I scratched under my chin. “I don’t know. I’ll have to see.”
“Friday,” Laurel tried once again, her lips thinning.
“I’ll let you know.”
My gaze flickered over to Sydney. She was wearing her go-to blank expression while Laurel and I went at it.
“Sydney––” Laurel started when her impatience with me reached critical level. “Why don’t we go to lunch on Friday. I could show you around town. Would you like that?”
Relief spread on Sydney’s face and an uncomfortable feeling parked itself over my chest.
“That would be great. Should I meet you here?” she said.
“Works for me,” Laurel cheerfully replied. What the hell was there to be so cheerful about? “The drive will give us time to get to know each other.”
Fuck. I had to put a stop to this. “Don’t we have the feed delivery coming that day?”
Laurel leveled me with the same expression she gave little Pete when he misbehaved and was close to crossing the line that would earn him a whooping. Little Pete was ten.
“No, Scott. It’s comin’ on Thursday. And Imma tell you right now that I’m taking an extended lunch on Friday.”
Before we could exchange another barb, Sydney stepped forward. “I’m actually here to let you know that the water heater’s broken.”
I expected her to be overwrought about it. Instead, I got indifference.
“I had to take a cold shower this morning,” she added, not even mildly upset.
She didn’t say anything about the furnace. I’d jimmied that too. And barely slept. First, the mattress was arguably the worst on the planet. Second, as it happened, we had our first serious cold snap last night. I’d snuck out early, to take a shower back at my place, but how long could I sustain that before she caught on? This plan was already starting to backfire and I was only on day one.
“Send Drake to the cabin to check on the water heater,” I told Ryan.
“The cabin?” Ryan echoed, the question edged with confusion.
“Yeah, the cabin. Tell him to go check on it.” My tone said no more questions. So did my face.
Sydney made for the door. “I’m going grocery shopping. Can I get you anything?”
Then she hit me with that single malt whiskey–colored stare of hers, the type a weaker man could get drunk on and turn amenable to persuasion. Good thing I wasn’t that guy.
“No.” Jan, my housekeeper, did all the food shopping. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
“Okay, well, text me if you think of anything later.” Then, after directing a, “Nice to meet you both,” at Laurel and Ryan, she walked out.
The silence didn’t last long.
“I like her!” Laurel jumped in as per her usual, her face lighting up as if she just hit triple diamonds on a slot machine. Whether her opinion was wanted or not didn’t factor. “She’s real sweet and pretty.” An examining, squinty look came my way. “You didn’t say anything about her being so pretty.”
“She’s gorgeous,” Ryan spat out around a mouthful of doughnut. Sinking onto the couch, he exhaled longingly. That earned him a glare. “What? She is. And don’t pretend you don’t agree. If you two weren’t married, you’d be all over her.”
And wasn’t that a kick in the head. Because Ryan was right. Had I not been forced into marriage I could’ve maybe dated Sydney. Explored this attraction. It was a moot point now though. She was my father’s accomplice in this injustice done to me.
“That woman’s a shark,” I told them in no uncertain terms. “My father says she’s the best legal mind he’s ever known. You know want that means? That she’s a master manipulator. Don’t let her fool you.”
“Damn, you’re worse than Tiny.” Ryan shook his head with an expression that said he pitied me. He could keep his pity and I would keep my dignity. “If you don’t want her, I’m happy to take her off your hands. She can manipulate me all she wants.”
Another uncomfortable feeling. This one crawled over my skin, but I schooled my reaction. Any evidence that I was feeling even the smallest amount of possessiveness over my wife would only incite more taunting. “We’re not keeping this one. I’m sending her back to where she came from.”
“For ef’s sake, she isn’t a rescue dog.” Laurel was back to glaring at me.
“I don’t wanna know what you’re cooking up,” Ryan jumped in. “Keep me out of it.”
Picking up the phone on my desk, I dialed my sister’s number. While it rang, I placed a hand over the mouthpiece and fixed Laurel with a pointed stare. “Don’t get attached.”
Chapter Seven
Sydney
As I drove through town, passing the famed elk antler arch on my way to the grocery store, a splash of color in a store window caught my eye. Something about Jackson Hole pushed my boundaries. Back in Manhattan, my life was structured down to the minute. My position at Blackstone, with its immense responsibilities, required it. Even my spare time was carefully planned down to the minute. Exercise, bills, grocery shopping. There wasn’t much room for anything else. But for once, in this place that seemed both foreign and familiar, I didn’t ignore the urge to drift, to indulge. To just be.
I parked the pickup and wandered around, window shopping the art galleries on E. Broadway. My eyes reveled in the colorful large-scale abstract paintings, the impressionistic depictions of classic cowboy culture, the statues, and handblown chandeliers.
My old friends guilt and shame followed me around. I could always count on them to show up whenever I didn’t have my nose to the grindstone. I doubted they would ever go away. Having been trained at such an early age to believe that anything that made you feel good was inherently evil was impossible to completely root out. About as easy as straightening a bone that had grown crooked. Any attempt to fix it was unlikely to succeed and with the trying would come a lot of pain.
“Would you like to come in and take a closer look?” a man in his mid-fifties with a bushy red beard and a happy twinkle in his hazel eyes said to me. He stood in the doorway of one of the galleries, hands in the pockets of his khakis leaning against the doorframe. Either the owner or manager, I assumed.
My eyes drifted back to the surrealist painting in the window. It was large, spanning the entire storefront. The background was a collection of scenes painted in sparkling jewel tones––a jungle scene, a city, a beach, and more. The naked female figure, however––the one in the middle suspended amongst the colors––was painted in shades of gray. The skin on my arms broke out in goose bumps. The image hit way too close to home.
Most of my life up until the day I left Pennsylvania had been a black hole of anything that remotely resembled pleasure. The food my grandmother cooked was purposely bland and tasteless. Boiled chicken with no seasoning. White rice with no seasoning. She made sure to only bu
y the pieces of beef at the local supermarket that nobody wanted even though we could afford better; my grandfather owned a local car dealership. She’d then cook it until it was as tough as shoe leather and serve it up with a smile as if it were Michelin-rated fare.
“Find pleasure in uprightness, Sydney,” she’d say over and over.
Most of the time I choked it down only to avoid a beating.
And the clothes? The ones my grandmother bought me could’ve come from an Amish fashion catalogue, if there was such a thing. White long-sleeve blouses and black pants. Wool for winter and cotton for summer. Calf-grazing dresses. I lived in a pretty remote town. My high school was relatively small and not at all on the cutting edge of pop culture. But even in a town where some guys routinely came to school dressed in deer hunting fatigues I stood out as “one of the weird ones.”
“Come take a closer look,” he urged.
“No…I…” I glanced over and met the patient gaze belonging to the man in the doorway. “It’s beautiful but I…I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” A pressing need to get away, to get back to the safety of routine, had my feet moving before I’d finished speaking.
By late afternoon I was back at the cabin and immediately started on dinner for the both of us. A peace offering of sorts, let’s call it. I was determined to show Scott that there were a few perks to this marriage.
So we didn’t get along. So he held a grudge. I’d dealt with worse. Much worse. How hard could this be? What were three years in the grand scheme of things?
As soon as I’d moved out of my grandparents’ house, I developed a rabid interest in all things food related. Having been denied the good stuff for so long, I made it my mission to learn how to cook, teaching myself how by watching YouTube videos and reading cookbooks. And since it had more to do with my palate and less my stomach, it resulted in piles and piles of food my roommates and neighbors were more than happy to take off my hands. By the time I was working full-time for Blackstone, cooking had become my happy place, a safe way to turn my brain off and act on impulse, my way of decompressing from all the stress of the corporate culture Frank fostered.
