Cowboy Heaven

by Cheryl L. Brooks

  Trust Dusty not to let that pass without comment. I glanced over at my father, noting that he and Calvin had, thankfully, both fallen asleep in their chairs and were serenading us with a chorus of loud snores. Joe stared at Bull, clearly dying to hear his reply.

  “Someone has to,” Bull declared. “I mean, how happy could they be when they’ve only got each other? I don’t know a single goddamn hooker who’ll touch them.”

  “Bull,” I said, fighting back the laughter that threatened to overwhelm me. “They only want each other. That’s what makes them gay.”

  “I never could understand that,” he said with a shake of his head. “How could any man live without pussy to fuck? It’s unnatural.”

  Troy pounced on that one like a duck on a June bug. “Holy shit, Bull! You said fuck in front of Angie. Joe, you’re the new foreman. You should fire him right now, on the spot.”

  Bull blushed to the roots of his hair—or he would have if he’d had any. “I’m so sorry, Miss Angela.” His wide-eyed, stricken expression was downright comical. “Don’t know what came over me. Please don’t fire me on Christmas.”

  “No, we won’t fire you, Bull,” I said, trying desperately to sound sincere when inside I was giggling harder than I ever had in my life. “And while it was very kind of you to offer to marry us, I think we’ll stick with the more traditional ceremony. There are legal issues to be considered—future ownership of the ranch and all. I’m sure you understand.”

  “No problem,” Bull said. “I’m only tryin’ to help.”

  “I know you are. Don’t worry about it.” Rising from the sofa, I gave his arm a quick pat before heading out to the kitchen.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Dusty called after me.

  “To make some hot buttered rum. Want to come along?”

  Dusty was on his feet in an instant.

  “Oh God, she wasn’t kidding, was she?” Troy’s voice sounded sort of strangled—like it had been choked off way down deep in his throat. “I should never have thrown in the towel. I should have kept coming up to your room every night and begging—on my knees if necessary.”

  “Wouldn’t have done you any good,” Dusty said. “I was way ahead of you from the start. You just got the ball rolling.”

  “Yeah,” I called back to him, “the hot, buttered rum balls. So tasty, so delicious, so—”

  “I know,” Troy groaned. “I’m trying to forget. So, Dusty, has she—?”

  I couldn’t see Dusty’s expression because I was rummaging around the kitchen in search of the proper ingredients, but I heard his reply.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “All the time.”

  I glanced at the doorway just as Bull darted into the kitchen right behind Troy. “Has she what?”

  This, I had to see. Momentarily abandoning my quest for brown sugar, I turned around and leaned against the counter.

  “Sucked his balls,” Troy replied in the most matter-of-fact tone imaginable.

  Following a gasping breath that should’ve choked him, Bull aimed a slack-jawed gape in my direction. The suggestion that he try sucking a few balls himself might’ve triggered a more astonished expression, but frankly, I didn’t see how.

  Having witnessed Bull’s reaction, Troy obviously intended to play it for all it was worth. “Honestly, Bull, you haven’t lived until Angie’s sucked your balls. Just ask Joe.”

  “Joe?” Bull’s normally loud, ringing voice was barely a whisper. “She fucked Joe too?”

  “Oh yeah,” Troy said. “She did us all the night Rufus was arrested. What did you think set him off like that? He caught us cluster-fucking her in the bunkhouse and wanted to kill the whole fucking lot of us.”

  Troy was a bit drunk on the spiked eggnog or I doubt he would have ever said anything of the kind. However, the effect his lie had on Bull was such a treat I didn’t give a damn—despite the fact that my reputation was taking a major beating.

  “I don’t believe it.” Bull must’ve regained enough of his composure to be struck by the inherent unlikelihood of such an event. “Miss Angela, you haven’t really—”

  “She jacked me off in the truck the day she picked me up,” Troy insisted. “She likes to fuck. Trust me, she’s not the proper little princess you all thought she was. Are you, Angie?”

  “Oh no.” Tossing a devilish smile at Troy, I added, “I did him every twenty miles and twice when we got here.”

  Bull swallowed hard and attempted to wet his lips with a tongue that had to have been as dry as a desert during a twenty-year drought. “And Joe?”

  “Oh yeah.” With a nonchalant wave, I resumed my search for the brown sugar; otherwise, I probably couldn’t have kept a straight face. “He’s an absolutely awesome fuck. You should see him in action. He’s really quite impressive.”

  Bull didn’t say a word.

  Having gathered the necessary items, I measured the ingredients into a saucepan, turned on the burner, and began stirring the aromatic concoction, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Joe sauntered into the kitchen, smiling. “Why, thank you, ma’am. It’s nice to know I’m appreciated.”

  “I know he’s got a dick big enough to satisfy a horse,” Bull said, his voice sounding rather strained. “But are you saying you like that too?”

  I took in a deep, shuddering breath before replying. “Gives me chills just thinking about it. Too bad Jenny’s claimed him now. I’ll never get the chance again.” With a sigh of regret and a slow wag of my head, I went back to stirring the rum.

  “What about Dusty?” Bull was grasping at straws now—desperately. “I thought you were going to marry him. What’s he got to say about all of this?”

  “Oh, she’s mine now,” Dusty insisted, indicating the ring on my left hand. “But that was the night she made her choice, which was why I was up here fucking her brains out when Rufus came gunning for me.”

  “What’s so goddamned special about Dusty?” Bull demanded.

  I still hadn’t decided whether he actually believed our crazy story, but the note of jealousy in his tone suggested that he did.

  “Just the sweetest, most succulent cock and balls I’ve ever tasted, that’s what.” I wasn’t lying, either. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to soak them in rum and get drunk licking them dry.”

  “Rum balls!” Troy shouted. “Let’s have some rum balls!”

  “I thought that was bourbon balls,” Joe mused, rubbing his chin.

  “Maybe so, but I prefer rum.” I gazed at Dusty with lust-filled eyes. “Sweet. Hot. Buttered. Rum.”

  Dusty’s lips curled into a sexy grin as he unbuckled his belt in a blatantly sexual fashion, his hungry eyes never leaving mine for so much as a second.

  “Fuck!” Bull bellowed at the top of his lungs. “I missed out on that because—”

  “You were off fucking a hooker,” Dusty said as he unbuttoned his jeans. “I guess you should’ve come home with the rest of us that night. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s something I’ve got to do for my Angel.”

  The veins in Bull’s head and neck looked like they were about to blow. “Fuck!”

  Joe cleared his throat. “That’s twice you’ve said that word in front of the boss now. One more strike and you’re—”

  “Of all the goddamned, motherfuckin’ bullshit I’ve ever heard in my whole fuckin’ life…” Bull ground out the words as he raked a hand over his head. If he’d had any hair, he probably would’ve yanked out a handful.

  “Out!” I yelled with glee.

  Bull was struck dumb after that. I would enlighten him later, but at the moment, peace on earth was infinitely preferable to his blustering. I set out several punch cups and ladled some of the rum mixture into one of them.

  “Here, Dusty,” I said. “See if this is the right temperature for you.”

  Bull watched
goggle-eyed as I held the cup, not anywhere near Dusty’s mouth, but closer to his waist. Dusty dipped a finger into the warm, buttery concoction and slipped his hand inside his open fly. The little slut wasn’t wearing any underwear—again—and judging from his pleasurable sigh, the temperature was perfect. He ran his tongue over his fabulously kissable lips, provoking a delighted giggle from me.

  Bull let out a screech, then stomped from the room without another word.

  Troy stared after him with awe. “Jiminy Christmas! For once in his life, he’s actually speechless.” As he turned around, Troy’s expression went from wonderment to wicked in the space of a heartbeat. “I also thought he’d never leave.” With a smirk, he swaggered toward me as that big, silver calf-roping belt buckle flashed open with a touch of his fingertips. “Mind if I try some of that?”

  I nodded toward the pan on the stove. “Help yourself. There’s plenty more. Dusty and I are heading upstairs.”

  “But it’s Christmas!” Troy protested.

  “You bet it is.” Dusty put his arm around my shoulders. “And I’ve got a present to unwrap.”

  Troy heaved a sigh and glanced at Joe. “Care to join me?”

  “Sure,” Joe replied. “Just don’t put any rum on my balls. Jenny wouldn’t like that.”

  “I don’t blame her.” I gave Troy the once-over. He was a nice guy, and he was gorgeous. Why was he alone on Christmas Eve? “We’ve gotta get you a girl, mate.”

  “I have one in mind,” Troy said. “Think it’s too late to call Rachel?”

  “Probably not. If you wish her a merry Christmas now, you might get lucky on New Year’s Eve.”

  “True.” Not bothering with the ladle, Troy poured the remainder of the hot rum into two of the cups. He handed one to Joe, then took a sip from his own. “Not bad. Might taste good on Rachel too.”

  “Remind me to give you the recipe.” I winked at Troy. “Well…good night, guys. Merry Christmas.”

  Joe held up his cup in salute. “Merry Christmas to all…”

  “And to all a good night!” Troy downed his rum in one gulp, making me glad I’d only heated it enough to melt the butter.

  Chuckling, Dusty gave me a squeeze as he steered me toward the stairs. “I’m betting some of us will have a much better night than others.”

  “Probably so,” I whispered. “Just don’t let Troy hear you say that.”

  “Too late!” Troy sang out. “Better give me that recipe now, Angie.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna need it.”

  Order Cheryl Brooks's next book

  in the Cowboy Heaven series

  Cowboy Bliss

  On sale October 2015

  Read on for a sneak peek at the next book from Cheryl Brooks

  Cowboy Bliss

  Coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca

  Bunkhouse cook wanted.

  Experience preferred.

  Must love cowboys.

  “You’re looking for who?” The eyes beneath his dark, forbidding brow were an indeterminate hazel, yet I’d never seen a more intense gaze.

  “Mr. Douglas,” I replied. “Calvin Douglas. He’s supposed to work here. This is the Circle Bar K ranch, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. He’s here. Just never heard him called ‘Mr. Douglas’ before.”

  Anyone else would have smiled at that point, but his expression didn’t soften in the slightest. From beneath the brim of a dusty brown cowboy hat, his eyes bored into me like a pair of drills, setting off an attack of nerves that made my hands shake and my throat go dry. He was precisely the kind of man I tended to shy away from.

  Who am I kidding?

  I shied away from all of them.

  “M-may I see him?”

  Getting out of my car had already taken most of the courage I possessed, even with Ophelia by my side. A mix of German shepherd and several other breeds, Ophelia had been rescued from an abusive home and taken to the shelter where I had worked as a volunteer during my senior year in high school. Usually, she was fairly timid and tended to cringe at loud noises. But she could turn into a fierce, growling protector whenever she thought I was in danger—as several suspicious characters I’d encountered while out walking near the park could attest. Surprisingly, she didn’t growl at this man.

  Obviously, she didn’t consider him a threat.

  I disagreed. I couldn’t even look him in the eye, much less argue with him.

  Not that he was arguing.

  He nodded toward a long, one-story building near the enormous barn. “He’s in the kitchen fixing dinner.”

  That occupation certainly fit with what little I knew about my grandfather’s old Army buddy. According to the letter I’d received from him, their friendship had begun in boot camp and continued on through active duty. Calvin had served his unit as a cook, while Grandpa became a combat soldier. While I could only guess at Calvin’s current state of health, Vietnam and Agent Orange had certainly left their mark on my grandfather. Grammy had been pregnant with my mother when Grandpa was drafted and had no other children even after he returned. Five years later, unable to deal with the way the war had changed him, she divorced him and remarried. As Grandpa’s only child, my mother wound up being the one to deal with the mood swings and poor health that were the legacy of his tour of duty.

  Although Grandpa wouldn’t talk about the war, I’d seen the scars and witnessed the sickness, both mental and physical, that had only worsened with the passage of time.

  All that was over now, and his ashes had been scattered in the Tetons as he’d requested. When his demons got to be too much for him, those mountains had been the only place he could find peace. I had often wondered why he’d never gone there to live, but I suspected even they were only a temporary fix. No doubt he became immune to their effect after a while, just as he’d become tolerant of so many of the drugs used to control his illness.

  The tall cowboy tipped his hat in a gesture that struck me as being more dismissive than polite and went back to the barn without another word, leaving me to find the kitchen on my own. I watched him go, wondering what his story was, why he had been so abrupt and unfriendly.

  Not that it mattered. I wouldn’t be there long enough to find out anyway. I was simply there to fulfill yet another of my grandfather’s dying wishes.

  “Come on, Lia,” I said, giving my dog a pat on her broad head. “Let’s do this and get going.”

  I wrapped my coat more tightly against the chilly wind. Grandpa had died the first of September. No doubt autumn in Wyoming would’ve been fine weather-wise, but with so many things to do in the aftermath of his death, I wasn’t ready to pack up and go before winter set in. Even he had suggested I wait until spring to scatter his ashes.

  “Go in April,” he’d advised in one of his more lucid moments. “The weather will be better then.” As cold as it still was in the mountains in late April, I wished I’d waited until July.

  I stared at the building the cowboy had indicated, unable to decide which of the three doors led to the kitchen. Scanning the roofline, I spotted a wispy vapor rising from a vent above the door near the center and headed toward it.

  Grandpa had come to live with us when I was a child, and since his bedroom and mine shared a wall, I often heard the rattling of my closet doors as he pounded away on the old manual typewriter he’d inherited from his father. I had always known he corresponded with someone on a regular basis, I just hadn’t known who he was writing to until I read his will.

  To be honest, I hadn’t expected the address to be current, but my letter to Calvin Douglas had received a reasonably prompt reply. In it, he thanked me for informing him of Grandpa’s death and offered his condolences, stating that he hadn’t heard from his old friend in more than two years.

  I climbed the two steps up to a small wooden landing. In response to my knock, a tall,
rail-thin man with sparse gray hair opened the door. “Tina Hayes?”

  I nodded, holding out a hand that was still trembling from my encounter with the cowboy. “You must be Mr. Douglas.”

  “Calvin,” he corrected. He looked even older than Grandpa had when he died, but his handshake was firm and at least he was smiling. Smiling men had become something of a rarity in my life. I’d become accustomed to Grandpa’s wild-eyed glares, his doctor’s solemn mask, and then there was the funeral director’s grave countenance. Even the lawyer hadn’t smiled much.

  “Thanks for your directions,” I said. “I might not have made it here without them—even with the GPS on my phone.” I’d driven across the country with Grandpa’s ashes in a box in the trunk and Calvin’s letter taped to the dashboard. Having lived in Kentucky all my life, Wyoming’s vast open spaces and rocky terrain were completely foreign to me. Now that I’d finally seen the Tetons in person, I wished I’d found the time to accompany Grandpa on some of his trips out west. Unfortunately, school and work had always gotten in the way.

  Always too busy.

  And now it was too late.

  “Those fancy gadgets don’t help much out here,” Calvin admitted. “Come on in. Dinner will be ready shortly.”

  “I hadn’t planned on staying that long.” I hesitated. I had no desire to sit down to dinner with a bunch of rowdy cowboys—if the one I’d met was any indication, they wouldn’t want me to—nor did I want to seem rude.

  I’d had no idea how this meeting would go. Calvin hadn’t heard from Grandpa in two years. A lot had happened in that time, and none of it good. Surely he wouldn’t want to hear all the gory details. I certainly didn’t want to talk about them, especially over dinner.

  “Do you really think I’d let John Parker’s granddaughter come all this way and not stay for dinner?” Narrowing his eyes, Calvin gazed at me from beneath bushy gray eyebrows and shook his head. “Ain’t gonna happen, young lady.”

  I caught myself smiling for the first time that day.

  Calvin apparently took my smile as acceptance of his dinner invitation. “That’s more like it. In honor of your visit, I’m making my famous chili and corn bread.” He shot me a wink. “It was your granddad’s favorite, although I work with better ingredients now than I did when we were in the Army.”