Wild for You

by Daisy Prescott

  “Ew.” I wipe my other hand over my mouth. “Dog kisses.”

  Sadly, this is the most action I’ve had in months.

  Stretching my arms over my head, I lean into Sage’s super comfy couch. The cushions are probably stuffed with feathers from angel wings. Or naturally shed organic angora fur from pampered rabbits. Something ridiculously expensive and out of my price range.

  In my horizontal position, I realize the cake box is tilted on its side, and I panic. Dogs can’t have chocolate and this cake is chocolate held together with butter and sugar. Shit. Crap. I’m a terrible dog sitter. I scramble to find my phone while checking the box for evidence of paw-prints or tongue marks.

  Unless I continued eating after I passed out in my sugar coma, it’s clear someone besides me has helped themselves to some of the deliciousness.

  There’s no way I ate half a cake and wouldn’t remember. Is there?

  I inspect both dog’s muzzles for chocolate and smell their breath for the telltale sweetness.

  Neither gives me a definitive answer, so I call Mara.

  “Hello?” her sleepy voice answers on the third ring. “Why are you calling me so late?”

  “It’s ten o’clock.”

  “Tomato, tomahto. What’s up?”

  “I think the dogs ate chocolate cake.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t give them cupcakes.” She yawns. “How much did they eat?”

  “Swiss triple chocolate cake. And I’m not sure the amount because I was passed out in a sugar coma.”

  “Yum.” Another yawn follows along with sounds of shuffling fabric. “It happens. How much did you eat?”

  “I’m not sure. After the first few bites, it’s all a haze.”

  “Did you slice it?”

  Even though she can’t see me, I feel my cheeks heat. “No. Listen, sometimes a woman needs cake. As a grown up, I’m allowed to eat a cake if I want. Without judgment or slices.”

  “I’m not judging. I’m trying to figure out how much the dogs ate. If they ate it.”

  “Hunter had some frosting on his nose and was licking my face when I woke up.”

  “I think they’re okay given their weight and the type of chocolate. If you want, you can bring them over here and we’ll induce vomiting. Or you can watch them overnight for symptoms.”

  “Let’s avoid unnecessary vomit.” I gag at the thought.

  “They might throw up on their own. If they do, call me and bring them over. And next time, don’t pass out with chocolate cake.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  This is my life now.

  Chapter 7

  Justin

  I’m up with the rooster this morning.

  When I push back the curtains of my bedroom window, the faint purple-tinted light barely creates shadows among the tall lodgepole pines.

  A glance at the clock on my nightstand confirms my fear.

  It’s not even six a.m. yet.

  Shoot me. So much for sleeping in on my days off.

  Or better yet, shoot the rooster.

  Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

  From my cabin, I can see the cock preening around the yard like he owns the place. The way he prances around and squawks reminds me of some of the cowboys I know. Dude ain’t even the biggest cock in the yard.

  If we’re having a competition around here, I’ve got nothing to worry about. Never have.

  Do guys compare? We can’t help it.

  Women say it doesn’t matter, but the way their eyes light up when they see me naked for the first time says different.

  Sounds like this makes me the cockiest bastard around. Maybe, but I don’t need to fluff up my feathers to prove a damn thing.

  My morning wood still heavy in my boxers, I meander my way into the bathroom. Even though she shot me down, or maybe because of it, the memory of beautiful deep brown eyes and pouty lips from the rodeo a couples weeks ago help me take care of business.

  Sure some guys count their worth by the notches on their bedposts, the numbers in their phones, or the size of their buckles, but not me.

  In the end, when we take our last breath, none of that bullshit will matter.

  After a quick shower, I sweep my hand over my head, pressing the buzzed hairs down and then back up. When I was a kid, my grandmother would shave my head the day after school ended.

  The woman grew up sheering sheep and knew her way around a pair of sheers. She’d leave me as bald as a kid with hair could possibly be, earning me the nickname Buzz.

  Out of habit or nostalgia, I tend to keep the tradition. End of ski season, I break out the clippers and say good-bye to the long mess of brown waves. Easier and cooler when I’m out on the trails to have zero hair than be that guy who has a ponytail. Or a man bun.

  Never. I’d have to punch myself in the face and I hate violence.

  Ponytail cowboys only exist on the cover of my grandmother’s romance novels. She gets older, but her fantasy cowboys never age. She’s a saber tooth tiger compared to the younger cougars who show up at the rodeo.

  Wearing only my boxer briefs, I set the kettle on the stove, then grind beans for coffee. When it comes to my morning brew, I’m more than particular. Even when I’m on the road or on a trail ride, I demand good coffee.

  The sound of a triangle jangles the quiet morning.

  Breakfast’s ready in the communal dining room.

  Slamming screen doors create a random drum beat around the ranch as everyone answers the call for grub.

  Most of the bunkhouses are doubles, some are even quads, but I have a single. Living room in the front, small kitchenette against one wall, then a hallway with a simple bathroom and a bedroom dominated by a queen size bed in the back. Nothing fancy.

  Just the way I like it.

  Life is better when it’s simple.

  My grandfather sold his soul for this land.

  To say I feel an obligation to keep this place going, to protect what they made with blisters and blood, is to underestimate the Garrison sense of home.

  A few miles down the road, people spend millions on condos where they might spend a couple of weeks in a year.

  The Easy Z ranch is the marrow in my bones.

  I’ll do everything I can to protect it, and my family’s legacy.

  After pulling on a pair of faded jeans I find tossed over the chair in the corner of my bedroom, I grab a white T-shirt half-folded on the top of the dresser. Uncertain if it’s clean or not, I give it the sniff test. Good enough for this bunch of yahoos, I tug it over my head feeling a slight tinge in my shoulders from my rough dismount off a bull last night.

  By the time I stuff my feet into a pair of worn work boots, I know I’ll be scraping up the dregs of breakfast from the buffet. Around here it’s not dog eat dog. More like a swarm of locusts, leaving nothing edible in their wake.

  I zip my fly and tuck in the front of my T-shirt as I hop-walk back into the kitchen. After pouring my coffee into a stainless travel mug, I jog to the larger log building holding the dining hall and kitchen. Living on the ranch is a lot like living at summer camp. A camp only populated with half-wild men.

  Sure enough, there’s no bacon and a single, sad patty of sausage left in the meat tray of this morning’s buffet. I manage to scoop enough eggs to fill the spoon from the dregs. Looks like I’m eating mostly hash browns and toast today. Who needs vegetables or color on their plate? Evidently no one around here.

  Tammy, head cook, steps through the swinging door from the kitchen as I wait for the toaster to pop. Her cheeks are flushed and her curly gray hair is frizzier than normal.

  Wiping her hands on her stained red gingham apron, she frowns at my mostly empty plate. “That all you’re eating?”

  “Morning to you, too. Got here late.”

  She sighs and stacks the empty containers. “Two eggs over easy, extra pepper, coming up.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  The swinging door tells me it doesn’t matter wha
t I say. I’m getting extra eggs.

  In the time it takes for my toast to finish, Tammy returns carrying a plate with the two eggs as promised along with three slices of bacon.

  “I’m not a growing boy anymore, T.” I accept the plate, adding the other food to this one before buttering my dark toast. Just shy of burnt and exactly how I like it.

  “You’ll always be that scrawny kid to me.” If she were closer, she’d probably pinch my cheek or waist like she used to do when I first arrived here as an angry teenager.

  “If I keep gaining weight, Cisco’s going to have a gripe with you.”

  “You spoil that horse. I keep sayin’ you need a woman.”

  “When you gonna marry again, Tammy? It’s about time you find a new husband.”

  Her lips tighten into a small ball and her eyes narrow. “You don’t think three exes are enough for one woman?”

  “Fourth time might be the charm,” I tease.

  “The first three were charmers. I’ve had enough charm to last me well into my old age.”

  I tip my chin down.

  “You keep your mouth shut. I’m still in my prime.”

  I don’t remind her she’ll be sixty-five before I turn thirty in three years. Old enough to be my grandmother, she’s taken on the role of a mother hen. Not only for me, but most of the guys who work around the ranch.

  “Eat your food and keep your thoughts to yourself. Nobody wants cold eggs.” Waving me away, she heads back into the kitchen.

  “Look who turns up late and gets fancy eggs.” Jeb jabs his fork at my plate when I join him at a rectangle table with a nicked and scarred top. “You flash Tammy your new buckle?”

  I fake a chuckle. “She’s not like the women you hang around. A little flash of brass doesn’t charm her.”

  At least not anymore. Tammy’s first two husbands were rodeo cowboys. When ex number two left her for a stripper he met in Reno, she stayed behind on the ranch. She’s run the kitchen operation here for thirty years. Like the wide beams and pine tables, she’s a fixture in the dining hall.

  “All women need is to see me walking in with the hat and boots. They’re practically in my lap even if I’m standing.” Jeb leans back in his chair, full asshole smirk on his freckle dotted face. His nose peels a little from too much sun and his blond hair dips over the collar of his wrinkled red plaid shirt.

  “Then what happens when they get a good look at your ugly mug in the light?” I dodge his attempt to flip my plate by lifting it and cradling it away from him.

  “Not all of us can be pretty boys from California like you.” His teasing holds an edge. It’s too early for bullshit.

  “What crawled into your boot and bit you this morning?” I stab my egg with my bacon and scoop up some of the soft yolk.

  Tammy always gets them just right. She deserves a raise. I know, I’m the one who oversees the ranch’s operating expenses.

  Knowing her, she’d tell me to give the money to someone who needs it more. She has a cabin of her own, a little garden, and can ride any time she wants. According to her, what does she need with money sitting in the bank?

  I wish more people were like Tammy. Hell, I wish I were.

  I’m trying.

  Jeb’s droning on about something. I catch a few words, but don’t bother to listen to today’s list of complaints as I eat my breakfast. Twenty-two and been here for four summers, he’s too young to be this cynical.

  “Well, you know what I always say.” Finished eating, I wad up my napkin and toss it on my clean plate. “Don’t like it here, you’re welcome to try out another ranch. See how it suits you.”

  That shuts him up. “I’m not saying I want to quit the Easy Z. No way.”

  “Then maybe lay off the complaining and focus on what you can do to make things better.” My tone is crankier than I mean it. “When you’re in the horse business, you have to deal with shit.”

  “Okay, old man. Thanks for the wisdom.” Jeb pushes himself away from the table. “I’ve got a group of ladies showing up here in an hour for a trail ride.”

  “First, I’m twenty-seven, not seventy-seven. Second, behave yourself.” I finish my coffee and start thinking about today’s to-do list.

  “I’m here to show them a good time. And I always do.” He gives me a proud smirk. “You may be the rodeo champ, but I’m keeping our customers happy and spreading the word about the ranch. You should pay me extra for the good PR.”

  I’d be worried about him harassing customers, but he always has good reviews and we haven’t had any complaints about inappropriate behavior. Yet.

  “Do your job and maybe you’ll get an extra s’more at the campfire.”

  “Cheap ass bastard,” he mumbles, picking up his hat.

  Like most guys around here, myself included, Jeb’s all talk and no action. We put on a good show, but the truth of the matter is we live in a bunch of cabins in the mountains, working from dawn to dark. Doesn’t leave a lot of room for too much mischief.

  Depending on our mid-season review, we might need to reinstate the nighttime curfew. Nothing good ever happens around here after midnight. Nothing but trouble shows up at that time of night.

  When my grandfather started the ranch, he had a strict nine o’clock curfew and expected everyone to show up for breakfast by five thirty. Said it kept the men honest.

  He’d balk at how we run things around here now. Sometimes I think he haunts the place to keep an eye on us.

  If anyone had the power to come back from the other side, it would be old Rex Garrison. I suppose when you make a deal with the devil, there are some perks.

  After clearing the table, I decide to take a stroll around the property. Today’s trail groups will be showing up soon and it’s a good time to check out the crew as they prep for the day.

  Sunlight peeks through the thin pines and aspens, casting the simple wood cabins in dappled light. I note some areas that need repair. Anything urgent will take priority this summer. Everything else can wait until things slow down in the off season this fall.

  I greet a few customers and flash my friendly smile at the women openly ogling the guys as they tack up the horses. Western saddles are heavier than English, so there’s plenty of bulging biceps action for the ladies to appreciate.

  We keep older mares in the stable for the newbie riders. Slow and gentle with zero desire to gallop or run off, they’re the perfect horse for tourists to have a Colorado horse experience. I compare them to those motorized scooters with the baskets at the big box stores. You’ll get where you’re going eventually, but not quick.

  Letting Jeb and Luke take the lead, I loiter around the edge of the group. A tall brunette in a baseball cap and braids catches my attention. From the side, I’m certain it’s the woman who fed Cisco the apple a couple of weeks ago at the rodeo. So convinced, I stroll over to her and tap her shoulder.

  My lips curve into a happy smile at running in to her again. “Glad you’re getting back on the horse.”

  Only it’s not the same woman. While she’s pretty, her blue eyes and narrow nose are not what I expected. Nor is the wide-eyed surprise. Or Botox filled forehead.

  She slides her eyes down my torso and legs before a sultry grin forms on her glossy lips. “Well, I’d rather ride you. If the saddle fits.”

  Abort! Abort!

  From my left, I hear Jeb’s snort that he tries to pass off as a sneeze.

  “Bless you,” I say, loudly.

  Distracted by glaring at him, I don’t see the hand snaking around my side until I feel a pinch on my ass.

  “Pardon me.” I try to keep my voice neutral and resist the urge to rub my right cheek. With a smile plastered on my face, I take a step away from the client.

  “Don’t worry, I’m only teasing,” she purrs. “I prefer bareback.”

  And with that, I’m out of here.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I won’t be joining the ride today. You’re in good company with Jeb and Luke. I’m sure they’ll be
happy to meet all your needs.”

  Cheesy innuendo or not, I know both of the guys can handle whatever she throws at them. Nothing we haven’t seen or heard before.

  “Happy trails!” I back away, keeping the smile on my face and my ass protected.

  Sometimes I need to feel the uneven earth beneath my own feet. The idea of summer being relaxing and lazy is foreign to any of us around the ranch.

  Between rodeos, trail rides, overnights, and riding lessons, the Easy Z buzzes with activity. Things won’t quiet down until the last aspen leaf falls. Then we’ll get a short break before winter season with the sleigh rides and snowmobile tours.

  We do all of this to keep our land in the family.

  Like a real estate agent going on about location, location, location, I know if we were to ever lose the ranch, we’d never have another chance to own acreage in these mountains again.

  My ancient olive green pack along with a solo tent, bedroll and supplies leans against the cabin’s wall, waiting patiently for our next adventure.

  Screw it.

  Missing two days of training isn’t going to decrease my ranking. I’m already number one and my lead is steady. What will improve my mood is getting away from people demanding things from me.

  I change out of my jeans into cargo shorts and stuff a change of clothes in the pack in case I fall in a stream or get caught in a storm. Wet socks are high on the list of things I can’t stand and the quickest way to get blisters on a hike.

  Finding Tammy in the kitchen, prepping for lunch, I tell her I’m taking off for the back country beyond Maroon Bells.

  “When you planning on being back? I need to know when to send out the search party for you.” She opens the fridge and stacks several sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, and some peaches on her bent arm. “You pack any food? Real food, not that dehydrated crap?”

  “You know the answer.”

  She shakes her head and sets her bounty on the stainless steel counter next to me. “I don’t understand rich people. You could be eating filet and lobster every night, and you insist on torturing yourself with freeze dried disappointment.”