How To Catch A Cowboy: A Small Town Montana Romance

by Joanna Bell

  "Answer the question, girl!"

  I affected a tone of voice like it wasn't a topic that had ever crossed my mind and confirmed that yes, Jack McMurtry was hot. Or, that that's what someone who cared about that sort of thing – someone who wasn't involved with him in a professional capacity – might think.

  "Oh my God!" Jess yelled, and in the background there was a thud, like she'd just slammed her hand down on a nearby surface. "Oh my God, Blaze! I knew you sounded funny! This is why, isn't it? This guy – Jack? Well, what's his deal? Are you going to tell me about him?"

  I rolled my eyes. "Jessica, you need to calm down. It was – it was, uh, it was just convenient –"

  "It was, it was, it was," Jess mocked my stuttering hesitance. "Listen to yourself, Blaze, you're all tongue-tied. That's adorable. So, this really happened, huh? You almost drowned and this handsome farmer-boy rescued you from the raging flood –"

  "He's actually more of a cowboy," I said, without thinking. "Or a cowboy-rancher. Whatever. Not a farmer. He has a herd of cattle. Well, two herds, actually. Different kinds."

  Jessica was still doing that silent, dumbfounded thing, the way girlfriends do when someone has just dropped big news and is trying to play it down.

  "He has two different kinds, does he?" She asked eventually. "Sounds like you two got to know each other. And what else does he have? A crush on you? Were you hiking with him, Blaze? Is that why he was out there to do the whole saving-the-damsel-in-distress routine?"

  "Good lord!" I exclaimed. "I should get you a job at the office, Jess. You're freakin' relentless."

  The interaction with my closest friend was good-natured, as it usually was if we were catching up after not speaking for a few days, but I was tired. Jess must have heard it, even under my joking around with her about Jack.

  Hey," she said, a few seconds later, "I hope you're not taking me too seriously here, Blaze. Like, you definitely have to meet up with me tomorrow or at the weekend and give me the whole story on what happened in Montana, but I can hear you're a little emotional."

  "Can you?" I asked.

  "You're not as good at hiding how you feel as you think you are," she replied affectionately. "Anyway. You should probably sleep. Do you want to go out for drinks on Friday? I promise not to interrogate you. And if you need any advice about the puppy or anything, let me know."

  I agreed to drinks on Friday and we hung up. It wasn't like Jess to drop a topic like that so quickly. Maybe she really had simply heard the fatigue in my voice? After the stress of the day – the traveling, the puppy, and all the emotions that came from dealing with those things – and with Jack McMurtry – the tiredness suddenly hit me like a brick wall. I almost didn't have the energy to get off the couch and walk to my bedroom. When my head hit the pillow, there was no room for thoughts or worries anymore. There was nothing but the need for sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  Jack

  There wasn't really a lot of time to waste on feeling sorry for myself – and thank God for that. I checked in Blackjack's study for the paperwork Blaze said she needed, and found nothing but empty drawers and empty bottles of whiskey covered in a thin film of dust. It crossed my mind to call a lawyer but a) I didn't know any lawyers and b) I didn't have the money to pay a lawyer, even if I did know one.

  None of it mattered anyway. Not the paperwork, not this or that procedure. What mattered was I owed more money than I had any chance of rustling up, and that meant I was going to lose Sweetgrass Ranch. I remembered Blackjack talking in the past about selling off chunks of the property, and wondered if that might still be possible. I'd have to call someone about that. But who? A real estate agent? Did Little Falls even have any real estate agents? A town planner? Little Falls definitely didn't have town planners. Sheriff Randall might have some ideas. I resolved to call him the next day. Not that day. I needed some time, even just a few hours, to do the things I always did, to pretend that nothing had changed.

  That afternoon, as I was out cleaning the cattle stalls, a sharp pain suddenly bloomed on the back of my left hand. I ignored it at first, figuring I'd just pulled something, and that it would go away, but it didn't. When I looked down, there was a big, fat wasp sitting on my hand. And as I looked, I became aware of blobs in my peripheral vision, dark shapes. Buzzing shapes. FUCK. I ran out of the barn screaming curses – and pursued by a cloud of angry insects. They didn't let up, either, not until I was back in the house with the door slammed shut behind me. I grabbed some junk mail, rolled it up, and set about killing the few evil bastards that had managed to get in the door before I'd shut it. Then, when that was finished and I couldn't hear any more buzzing, I looked down at my hand.

  I've been stung before. Bees, wasps, horseflies, you name it. It hurts, but it's never done more than hurt. That time, though, something was different. My hand was already about twice its normal size. I blinked, not quite believing what I was seeing, and tried to wiggle my fingers. They moved, but they were noticeably stiff.

  "Well isn't that just wonderful," I said out loud, to myself. It's not like having a messed up hand means the chores magically go away – they don't. Now I was going to have to do them with one good hand. I was going to have to destroy that wasp nest, too.

  I got up angrily and stomped into the bathroom, yanking the medicine cabinet open and rummaging through the various bottles and tubes. Aspirin that expired in 2005, various muscle-relaxing unguents, that pink medicine Blackjack used to swig like apple juice whenever he had a hangover, a dusty old box of Q-Tips, acne cream from the era of my adolescence. But nothing for a sting. And my hand was getting bigger. I looked at it again. Yeah, that was going to need a doctor.

  I'm not a moron about injuries the way some of the McMurtrys (the men in particular) have been. Blackjack had a mild limp from the time he was 34 and a minor cut on his leg got badly infected when he stubbornly refused to see a doctor until it was almost too late. I was more practical, especially given the fact that I was now the only person around to get things done. If I got hurt, there was no one to take over.

  So with a heavy sigh and a feeling like how could this day possible go any more wrong, I grabbed my keys and walked back out to the truck to drive back into Little Falls and have my hand seen to.

  Turns out I probably didn't need to go into town, because all they did at the clinic was confirm I wasn't itching or having any trouble breathing, clean with site of the sting and give me a small tube of antibiotic cream. I'd started out at about 4 out of 10 in the irritation scale that morning. The blow-up with Blaze Wilson had upped it to a 6 or, if I'm honest, a 7. The sting – and the time wasted on a useless trip into town – was beginning to push it dangerously close to a 10. I drove too fast on my way back to Sweetgrass Ranch, fishtailing on a curve and sending a spray of dirt and gravel into the ditch.

  That was it. There's only so much bullshit a man can take in a single day. I finishing mucking out the Moileds, fed them, watered them, and took a brief look at the haying equipment, which was going to be in use soon if the weather held up. There were other things to do, a ditch that had partially collapsed and needed digging out again in one of the pastures and more fencing to check but I just... couldn't. I felt like one of those cartoon characters with a bright red face and the sound effect of boiling water indicating the pressure build-up. Nope, no more work.

  I bandaged my hand – not because it helped with the pain or swelling, but because it looked rather gruesome – and headed, for the third time that day, back into town. That last time, however, I intended to have some fun.

  There are two bars in town – the Little Falls Saloon and the Shady Lady. The Shady Lady went full-tourist in about 2012, complete with signs out front about cattle rustlers being hung and loose women being welcome, but the Saloon was still an alright place to grab a beer. Or a shot. Or five or six shots.

  I parked the truck, walked in the front door and sat down on the first available stool. The place wasn't empty, but it wasn't packed ei
ther.

  "Well, look who it is!"

  I looked up. DeeDee Schneider. She went to high school with my brother Jake – even dated him briefly before he slept with her best friend and caused a huge mess.

  "Hey DeeDee," I said, keeping my head down – most of the patrons probably knew me, and the last thing I wanted was some kind of impromptu high school reunion.

  "Jack McMurtry! Haven't seen you in – damn, it feels like years. What can I get you?"

  "Shot," I said, pointing at the Jameson whiskey behind the bar. "And keep 'em coming."

  I watched DeeDee as she grabbed a napkin to place in front of me, then a shot glass and the bottle of Irish whiskey. She still looked the same, maybe a little rougher around the edges. I suppose she was thinking exactly the same thing about me.

  "You alright?" She asked, when I downed the first shot immediately and she poured me another. "How's things up at Sweetgrass? I heard about old Blackjack last winter. I'm sorry, Jack. We all drank a toast to him on the day he was buried."

  I remembered the day we buried Blackjack. One of those clear, cold winter days when the wind gets into your bones no matter how many layers you have on. A lot of people showed up, almost the entire population of Little Falls, to say goodbye to the great-great-grandson of the town's founder. Some of them cried. I didn't cry. I didn't cry because I actually had to live with the man – the real Blackjack, not the winking, old-timey Irish charmer persona he always played up when he was out and about.

  "Did you?" I asked DeeDee, not at all eager to talk about my dead grandfather.

  She seemed to pick up on my lack of interest and poured me a third shot. "So how's that brother of yours? Now him I really haven't seen in years – last I heard he was out east with some rich girl. How did that go?"

  I shrugged, closing my eyes as the warmth of the alcohol began to kick in. Thank God for whiskey. "Last time I spoke to Jake was 2011, maybe 2012. Yeah, he was with some rich girl, sounded like she was running him ragged. Nothing much since then."

  As I reached for the fourth shot, DeeDee reached out and gently grabbed my wrist. I looked up, fully prepared to tell her to stop babysitting me. Instead of telling me to slow down, though, she just looked sort of wistful.

  "What happened to you?" She asked, pausing to shake her head sadly before continuing. "I don't mean just to you, I mean to all of you – the McMurtrys. Used to be you couldn't swing a dead cat in Little Falls without hitting a McMurtry. Remember high school? Damn, you and those wild brothers of yours used to run that school! And Emily – oh, she was such a beautiful thing, wasn't she? I swear to God I almost died of jealousy every time I saw her..."

  DeeDee trailed off and then smiled. "Sorry, I'm rambling. It's just been so long since I saw any of you, Jack. This place – not just the Saloon but the town in general – just doesn't feel the same without the McMurtrys raising hell."

  I waved my hand and gulped my fourth shot. "No problem, DeeDee. But, yeah, it's just me at Sweetgrass Ranch now. It's funny you mention it, actually – how odd it is not to have us around anymore. I was just thinking the same thing this afternoon."

  "So what brings you by today?" She asked, wiping down the bar and then thankfully leaving to deal with another customer before I could awkwardly try to avoid getting into a conversation about why I was in the Little Falls Saloon guzzling whiskey like a man with a serious grudge against his own liver.

  I put my elbows on the bar and shut my eyes, grateful for the feeling of carelessness that always comes on the wings of a significant amount of alcohol. Another couple of shots and I was getting very close to that place where only the very drunk reside – the present. Nothing matters except the moment, and whatever problems exist back in Soberville, they can always be postponed with more alcohol.

  "DeeDee can I get another...?" I said, listening to my words run together and laughing out loud. "DeeDee canigenother?"

  Just as I was about to pour the next shot – the eighth? the tenth? who knew? – down my throat, I felt a hand on my thigh. I lifted my head, which suddenly seemed to weigh about a hundred pounds, to get a look at who it was feeling me up. Blonde. Big lips. Big sausage lips like you see on the cover of those celebrity magazines they keep by the till at the grocery store. And a lot of that sticky black stuff women put on their eyelashes. Yeah, a lot of that.

  "Kay?" I said drunkenly, because I think I recognized the woman sitting beside me. "Kay? Kayla? Kayla Laaa –"

  "Landers," she said, obviously realizing just how wasted I was by that point. "Jack McMurtry. Long time no see."

  I laughed out loud again, even though no one had said anything funny, and Kayla waited for me to say something more. I didn't, because I was too drunk to understand it was my turn to talk.

  I'd known Kayla Landers since we were both 5 years old. We dated briefly in high school, although it ended almost as soon as it started when she revealed an annoying tendency to need to know where I was at all times, and then to tell me off if she didn't approve. It didn't fly, especially for a 16 year old boy intoxicated with girls, parties and his own freedom. Not that I remembered much of this in the Little Falls Saloon that night.

  "How much has he had to drink?"

  It was Kayla, and she was talking to DeeDee about me, as if I wasn't right there in front of them. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Their conversation seemed somehow very far away.

  "A lot," DeeDee replied. "I'm going to have to cut him off if he doesn't slow down. I'll put a pot of coffee on – try and get him to drink some, OK?"

  I normally hate women doing that – 'handling' me. But that night I couldn't possibly have cared less. DeeDee was going to make coffee? Great, give me a cup. Give me ten goddamned cups of coffee, I'd drink 'em all. But don't cut off the shots.

  "So," Kayla said perkily, turning back to me. "Did you miss me?"

  If I hadn't been so drunk, I would have cottoned-on right away to what she was after. That playful tone of voice, the little head-tilts and lip-bites as she looked at me. But I was drunk, so I just plowed through the conversation obliviously.

  "Did I – wha? Did I –? Ha ha ha!"

  It didn't take Kayla longer than a minute or two to give up the last vestiges of subtlety and grab my dick under the bar. I looked down at her hand and burst out laughing again, as if it was the most hilarious thing I had ever seen. Goddamnit if I didn't start getting hard, too.

  "Hey," DeeDee said, leaning over towards us. "Cool it, you two. I don't want to kick you guys out, but I will if this starts getting X-rated."

  Kayla giggled coyly. "No problem. It's his fault."

  "What?!" I blustered, drunkenly. "Me? I didn't even – I didn't – stop lying!"

  "Wow," she said, squeezing my thigh that time instead of the family jewels. "You are really drunk, Jack."

  "I HAD A BAD DAY!" I yelled. Not because I was angry, but because I had suddenly lost the ability to judge how loudly I was talking.

  "Shh," DeeDee said, shaking her head at me. "Jack, quiet down already."

  "OK DEEDEE!"

  Kayla squeezed herself onto my lap. "Maybe you need some fresh air, Jack?"

  I shook my head. "No. NO! DeeDee 'nother shot?"

  "Jack, listen. Go outside and have a little walk in the parking lot, alright? Let Kayla take you – and give me your keys. When you get back I'll make you an Irish coffee, OK?"

  I dug my hand into my pocket and handed my keys over to DeeDee without thinking – again, nothing mattered. Nothing except the flow of whiskey continuing indefinitely.

  I didn't appreciate it at the time, but DeeDee was taking care of me – even if she did send me out into the parking lot with Miss Grab-Ass herself, Kayla Landers. I'd always liked DeeDee, and always felt oddly guilty for the way my stupid brother had treated her when we were kids.

  In the parking lot, Kayla immediately wrapped herself around me, pulling my head down and forcing her tongue into my mouth without so much as a flirty smile.

  "Mmmph," I said, stumbling
backwards. "Mmmph!"

  But Kayla was a girl, and she was kissing me, and I hadn't gotten laid in over two months at the time. So I kissed her back, if that sloppy mashing of faces can be called as nice a thing as 'kissing.'

  "Mmm," Kayla giggled when we came up for air. "You're so hot, Jack. You're still so damn hot. I always think about you out there at Sweetgrass Ranch, all on your lonesome –"

  I lurched sideways at the mention of Sweetgrass Ranch, groaning unintelligibly. Sweetgrass Ranch was what I was trying to forget. Why was Layla or Kayla or whatever her name was talking about it? I shook my head. "No," I slurred. "No, don't – don' talk 'bout it. I don' wanna talk about it."

  But it was too late. The Ranch was back in my mind and I could feel the silly-drunk version of Jack McMurtry draining out of myself, soon to be replaced by the morose-drunk version. Damnit.

  "Hey," Kayla said, wrapping her arm around my waist as I stumbled over to the picnic table the Little Falls Saloon kept outside for the smokers to congregate around. "Hey, Jack? What's wrong?"

  "I don' wanna talk 'bout it."

  That was fine by Kayla. She sat down beside me and climbed onto my lap, kissing my neck, my face, my mouth – even my ears. My dick stirred again – just a little – in my pants. And when my dick stirred, the image in my drunken mind was not Kayla Landers. It was Blaze Wilson.

  Blaze Wilson. The woman from the IRS who seemed to have a void where a soul should be. She sure was pretty, though. When Kayla snaked her hand down between my legs and stroked the bulge in my pants, it was Blaze's hand in my mind. As soon as I pictured that – Blaze on my lap instead of Kayla, Blaze's soft, full lips on my neck, I was suddenly and borderline uncomfortably hard.

  "Whoa!" Kayla said, grinning. "Jack! No whiskey-dick for you, huh?"

  It wasn't Blaze on my lap. As much as I wanted it to be, it wasn't. And I was pissed off at myself for even wanting it, for the way my traitorous dick woke up like a caffeinated chihuahua at the mere thought of some IRS agent touching me. Jesus Christ.