Espino, Stacey - Hardcore Cowboys [Ride 'em Hard 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour)

by Stacey Espino

  “Look at you,” she said to her reflection. “What have you done with your life? You’re thirty years old, not twenty!” She stared into her eyes, so dark and dominant on her face. She wanted to be a friend to herself when she didn’t have a real one in the world, but her inner strength was diminishing by the day.

  Then she remembered the business card from last night. She returned to her bedroom and rifled through the pockets of the pants she wore the night before and examined the small, white card as she sat on the edge of the bed. With an entire week at her disposal and no money to do anything but sit inside and feel sorry for herself, she came up with a brilliant idea.

  Samantha had been born and raised in Toronto. The only time she’d ever left was a school trip to Ottawa in the eighth grade. She planned to get her free rental car and free gas, hit the highway, and drive. No, she had no destination in mind, but she had nothing else to do, and seeing the sights was an appealing idea. Ontario was picturesque once a person escaped the concrete jungle, and she wanted to see as much of it as she could. Maybe she’d dare to venture cross-country, along the Trans-Canada Highway, and visit as many provinces as she could before her time ran out. This opportunity would be the perfect catalyst to her new beginning. She wanted to make the most out of the rest of her life.

  * * * *

  Getting to the rental place by streetcar had been a bitch and then some. Now Samantha was on the verge of crying or snapping altogether. The blonde woman behind the counter insisted she knew nothing about any deal made with a Samantha Brown and the manager. The lineup behind her had grown by several people as she attempted to explain the situation. She’d bartered her waitressing services for a free car rental and gas. The way the woman looked down her nose at Samantha brought out her hackles. She was a grown woman and didn’t deserve to be treated as a second-class citizen because she didn’t have blonde hair, or wasn’t carrying a Louis Vuitton bag.

  “Can I see the manager then? He’ll remember me.”

  “I’ve already told you he’s not in,” said the lady, no longer hiding her agitation.

  Customer service at its finest.

  “Fine. I’ll wait.” Samantha ignored the heated glares from the lineup and sat on one of the waiting room chairs along the full-length glass wall that overlooked the parking lot. Rows and rows of shiny new vehicles waiting for drivers. She crossed her legs and planned to sit there for the long haul. Where else did she have to be?

  About twenty minutes later, the man from the restaurant came in the front doors wearing a full-length tan trench coat over his dark suit.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.” He faced her, one hand on his hip, the other wagging a finger in the air. The blonde behind the desk looked dumbfounded and disappointed that Samantha hadn’t been lying. “You’re from the restaurant,” he said triumphantly.

  “I came to take you up on your offer. If it’s still available.”

  After a mountain of paperwork, she pulled out of the parking lot in her new rental, feeling a sense of freedom and growing excitement at the possibilities. There were no ties binding her to the city for a good, solid week. She had no one to answer to and could do as she pleased. It was time to start a new page in her life.

  Chapter Two

  Cord nailed the last sheet of plywood to the front window of their house. His hands were nearly frostbitten, but securing their home before the worst of the storm hit had to be done if they wanted to avoid a massive cleanup. Val was busy securing their stock of cattle, the horses, and dogs. They were calling it the storm of the century, and if all the stories were true they hadn’t gone overboard in preparing. Their cellar was stocked full with nonperishables—canned goods, rice, beans, preserves—you name it. Two gas-powered generators were on standby in case the power went out. The Carson home was already warmed by woodstove, but they’d spent the past few days chopping enough firewood to last the next two winters. They’d gone to town and stocked up on gasoline, candles, bottled water, lamp fluid, and plenty of ammunition.

  When disaster struck, there were always a few individuals who looked to take advantage of others. If anyone expected to come and take over their well-prepared ranch, they’d have to answer to the barrels of two loaded rifles and a cache of others. Nobody stole from the Carson brothers. They’d worked their fingers to the bone since they could remember. Their daddy had died in a mining accident when they were teenagers. When the dry spell had swept across the state leaving farmers bankrupt and desperate, their father had left to look for work—and never came home.

  Cord and Val had been only eighteen when they took over responsibility for the family farm. They cared for their momma, but the toll of losing her husband left her a broken woman. She’d survived him by nine years before something as simple as pneumonia took her life. Cord believed it was because she wanted to die, wanted to join the man she loved in whatever place awaited people when they passed on. That was five years ago. It was just Cord and his twin brother now.

  Their eldest brother was off traveling the rodeo circuit. He showed up when it suited him, usually between November and March when the paying events dried up, but not this year. Wyatt had never been the same after their father’s death and grew more distant with each passing year.

  Some days Cord wondered what the fuck the point was. Neither he nor Val had a woman or a dream, and, at thirty-two, it seemed like everything was bound to go downhill. One day he’d wake up unable to even get a hard-on.

  “Barn’s secure,” shouted Val. The wind had picked up, blowing freezing sleet across the open land with an eerie howl. Cord slid the hammer into his tool belt and squinted his eyes to see his brother. “We best get inside.” His brother's voice was drowned out by the wind.

  He followed Val to the side entrance of the house that led into the oversized country kitchen. His ears burned from the quiet, and his frozen flesh tingled in the warm air once inside. They’d kept a strong fire going all day, and the place felt like entering an oven after freezing one’s ass off for hours.

  Cord kicked off his boots, unbuckled his tool belt, and shrugged off his heavily padded jacket. The sofa called his name. All he could think about was crashing and clearing his mind. The thought of being holed up in their century-old home for days should have brought him comfort, but he’d still have to take turns with Val to venture into the elements to feed and check on the animals.

  “Beer?”

  “Yeah, pass me one.” Cord turned on the TV, but the satellite was down, so he shut it off. Great. They could stare at the walls, or each other, until the storm passed.

  Val settled in his worn reclining chair, bringing a chilled bottle to his lips. “Season will be ruined.”

  “We’re not the only ones. I don’t think the storm spared anyone for miles. Winter should be leaving, not thriving like this. It’s nearly April, for God’s sake.” They lived in the Snowbelt, devil’s alley, but it had never been this bad in late March. At least they’d been prepared for it. He hoped the animals adapted to the bitter cold spell. The horses were already starting to lose their winter coats in clumps when they’d need the extra warmth. God willing the storm would leave as quickly as it had moved into their province.

  “The crop farmers are fucked,” said Val, running a hand through his mop of dirty-blond hair. “Wonder if the government will help out?”

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Cord hoisted his weary body off the sofa and strode to the bay windows at the front of the house. He tested the frame for air leaks with a flattened palm, wishing it was a usual Sunday evening. By now the sun would be setting and he’d watch the sky transform into one of God’s masterpieces, a canvas of purple, pink and orange. Now all he saw was the ugly brown plywood, stealing the view and making him feel boxed in like a rat in a cage.

  “Wanna play some cards?” asked Val, who had to be as bored as him. They weren’t just twins in physical appearance, but identical down to the last gene. Working the ranch together was like a perfectly c
horeographed dance. They rarely spoke, just sensing what the other would do and knowing what needed to be done. Cord and Val woke at sunrise and didn’t settle into the house until nightfall. Although they could easily afford hired help for their thriving cattle ranch, they only took on farmhands during the busy season and when branding new stock. Nothing beat keeping business in the family. With no woman to occupy their time, work was all they had.

  “What I want is to work my fields, mend the east fence that needs fixin’, and take a ride down to Carter’s for a game of pool when it’s all said and done.”

  “Dream on, brother. We’ll be holed in for at least a week. Then it’ll take ages for the snow to melt.”

  Cord exhaled his irritation and looked around the living room. Nothing had changed over the years. Everything a monument to a life long past. They hadn’t changed a thing since their mother died, and she hadn’t dared to change a thing since their daddy was officially pronounced dead. Cord assumed it was just one of the reasons why Wyatt couldn’t stand the sight of the ranch. They could sure use an extra hand most days. Winter months were a bitch for Alberta cattle ranchers. Besides, families were supposed to stay together. The three of them only had each other in the world, yet Wyatt couldn’t settle down. He moved with the circuit—with only the clothes on his back and a death wish. One of these days Cord and Val would get a phone call telling them Wyatt had been trampled or maybe drunk himself to death. As much as the thought tore at his heart, it was pointless to try and convince their older brother to move back home. God knew they’d tried in the past.

  * * * *

  Samantha pulled into a highway diner after her third night of tossing and turning in the car. The weather had already begun to change, no longer just a light snow, but growing colder and more blustery. It wouldn't be too much longer until she met the storm they spoke about on the radio.

  Samantha pushed open the glass door to the restaurant, every head turning to face her at once. She smiled shyly and sought out the restroom. The regular staff and customers probably weren’t used to strangers out here in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t need to worry as she had no plans on sticking around long.

  When she emerged from the bathroom fifteen minutes later, she was changed and refreshed. The red vinyl covering the stools was aged and cracked, but she sat on one and ordered a coffee and a cruller. “Where you headin’?” asked the middle-aged waitress from behind the counter. Her thin, blonde hair was pulled back at the sides by childlike barrettes. Once the woman spoke to Samantha, it seemed to appease the men in the diner.

  “West. Maybe BC if I can find it.” Samantha chuckled, but stopped herself quickly when the waitress maintained a stoic expression.

  She leaned over on an elbow. “Storm’s a-coming. Not a good time to be traveling.”

  A warning? She felt like she was in the middle of a bad ’80s movie. The tone of the woman’s voice was serious, carrying a life-or-death intensity People didn’t really stop traveling for a storm, did they? In Canada? Besides, she’d kissed the worst of the bad weather good-bye hours ago.

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  The waitress only shrugged and grabbed the coffee pot off the machine. She refilled the mugs of other customers along the far side of the laminated counter. As Samantha sat and watched the other patrons eating their bacon, conversing and laughing, she began to recoil into herself. What the hell was she doing? A grand adventure—for what? Dreams didn’t come true for women like her. But if she turned back now, she'd always wonder what she may have missed.

  Chapter Three

  Wyatt heaved his saddle into the back of his pickup truck beside his two duffel bags. It was time to head home. He usually returned to the ranch mid-November after his last competition. This year, he’d felt especially down. He wasn’t growing any younger, and traveling the circuit had begun to lose its appeal. Settling down at the Carson ranch with his brothers to raise cattle seemed equally pointless. Wyatt wasn’t sure what he needed in his life, but he hoped to God he found out soon.

  He turned and looked at the old, one-story motel he’d been staying at for the past few weeks. It was a shithole, but cheap, and nobody asked him any questions. On occasion he’d bring a woman to his room. Those one-nighters usually knew better and kept quiet, no matter what he subjected them to, but the sound of his hand or a paddle against flesh could garner unwanted attention in better run places. The rodeo would start full swing next month. He’d already signed up, as usual, but something deep within tugged at him to return home for the couple weeks before he’d be on the road again in April.

  Wyatt loved his twin brothers to death. They were his blood, his memories back to better days. But the old ranch brought with it painful memories of parents who were no longer with them. He blamed himself for not being around to help his father when times had been tough. If he’d contributed financially, instead of traveling the circuit in the name of glory and cheap thrills, his father would have stayed on the ranch rather than get killed in that fucking coal mine. He may have only been a young man back then, as his mother and brothers had constantly reminded him, but it wasn’t an excuse in Wyatt’s books.

  The prairie backdrop of Saskatchewan’s endless fields was the only thing of beauty around the parking lot of The Bucking Bronco Motel. He had been the only tenant for days. The motel relied on season traffic heading to local rodeos and the Calgary Stampede in the next province over. Alberta was home, not just the epicenter of the Canadian rodeo circuit.

  Wyatt opened the driver’s side door which gave a groan of aging metal and pulled out his heavily padded plaid jacket. The weather report warned of a severe storm system close to home. Being a cattle farmer living in the Snowbelt had to be the place they sent men when hell was full. But he was a Canadian cowboy, not quick to complain or bow out from the hard labor needed to keep things running on a working ranch. It was time to head home.

  * * * *

  Samantha had been driving for way too many hours. She had a new respect for full-time truckers. Her eyes felt as heavy as lead, burning when she tried to hold them open for more than a few seconds. She barely noticed the sign welcoming her into Alberta, Canada. Only one more province until she reached the far west and the world-renowned British Columbia. The weather warnings had been valid. The farther she drove, the more intense the storm system became. The whiteouts were literally blinding traveling through prairie country. She drove at a snail’s pace, in fear of hitting another vehicle that could have been a foot in front of her. Although she hadn’t noted any other cars for over an hour, her nerves were still on edge.

  She’d need to hit a gas station soon. The red warning light on her control panel captured her attention every time she shifted her eyes from the white canvas beyond the windshield.

  “Shit,” she muttered. “What was I thinking?” Samantha wished she had of taken the advice from the waitress at her pit stop yesterday. Everything she’d warned about had come to pass.

  Samantha needed to sleep, needed gas, and needed a saving grace in the worst way. She finally decided her best bet would be to pull over to the side of the road and wait out the worst of it. The severity of the storm couldn’t continue like this all night. It would have to die down sooner or later, hopefully sooner. Her tires sank into the thick snow of the soft shoulder as she steered the car to the right. She flicked on her hazard lights and prayed to God that a passing car wouldn’t rear-end her.

  Minutes turned into hours. The storm didn’t cease, but continued to grow in strength and severity. She was sure the snow was high enough to block her from opening the car doors if she dared to try. Half an hour earlier, she had run out of gas and had no source of heat. Being used to city life, she wasn’t even sure if cops patrolled these highways. Would anyone even spot her?

  Exhaustion began to pull at her, tempting her to fall asleep and forget her worries. She imagined this was God’s mercy, allowing her to die in her sleep rather than in a state of panic. Samantha didn’t f
ight the urge to close her eyes and drift into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  “Fuck me!” Wyatt nearly fishtailed off the highway. The plows wouldn’t dare venture out in a storm like this, so he had to rely on his four-wheel drive. Everything was white. He was completely snow blind.

  The storm pelted his truck, and the thick snow grabbed at his tires. Good thing he was on his way home to help Val and Cord. Tending the animals in this shit weather was at least a three-man job. They’d have to hook the snowplow up to one of the pickup trucks and clear a way just to get to the fucking barn. Winter usually showed signs of receding this late in March, not this kind of strength. Farmers should be prepping their fields, not holed up in their ranches. He’d blame the old adage, in like a lamb, out like a lion, but winter in Alberta always came in strong and fought when it was time to leave.

  He’d be home in less than an hour, maybe longer if he continued to navigate at a snail’s pace. Wyatt’s mind wandered. He should have called home. He’d been gone for nearly a year with no word and no way to contact him. If anything bad had happened to either of his little brothers, it would just be another slash on his cold heart. Not so cold that guilt didn’t eat him up every day for not being there when his father had needed him. Then his mother. He supposed he was destined to let down everyone he loved in his life.

  It was too late to make amends now. He needed to stop running from the past, man up, and deal with the here and now. It was all too easy to let his feelings of guilt eat away at him. He knew he had to stop blaming his lifestyle and actions on events of the past. All he could do was hope his brothers were in good health and the family business was thriving. And hope to God they hadn’t disowned him. Without them, he had nothing in the world of importance. Drifting, traveling the rodeo circuit was for young men. Not thirty-five-year-old washouts. Wyatt’s body had begun to protest the physical demands he subjected it to in the ring, and his heart was no longer satisfied with fast women and long nights with his buddies. He needed more—but what?