Montana Cowboy

by Debra Salonen

  He left.

  Serena shook off the thought and got to business. She took off her gloves and grabbed the bottle of pink liquid and an injector. She depressed the drench syringe mechanism and pulled back, filling the hollow tube to the exact dosage.

  “They make alpaca Pepto-Bismol? Who knew?”

  “It’s not breed-specific.” She held up the bottle for him to see.

  His grin said the question had been in jest. Her cheeks went hot. She thought she had a good sense of humor, but her college roommate had been quick to point out that many jokes went over Serena’s head. Certain social nuances were beyond her ken, simply because she had been homeschooled at a time before self-directed learning had become mainstream. She and her brother had missed out on the kind of integration and group activities available to families committed to home-based education today.

  She walked around the animal’s hindquarters—keeping outside of the kick-zone. “Okay, now, secure her head. Firmly. Don’t forget, she’s more powerful than she looks. Alpacas and llamas use their heads as battering rams when it suits them.”

  “What if I choke her?”

  She appreciated the way his brow wrinkled and his jaw set firmly as he turned his focus on his job. He might look like a city boy, but he took orders well—a virtue that spoke to his upbringing, in her father’s opinion.

  “You won’t. A nice, firm headlock and tilt her chin up.”

  She used her free hand to pull down Betty’s lip so she could wedge the small, spoon-shaped metal end into her mouth. She pressed the plunger sending the pink liquid down her throat. “Keep her head up so she swallows. That’s good. Great job, but don’t let go. She needs some electrolytes, too.”

  “Good girl, Betty Lou. Take it easy, sweetheart. We’re almost done.”

  Betty gave a squeak and kicked, her small, sharp hooves poking the air behind her. “Easy, girl. This is going to make your tummy feel so much better. Relax.”

  The last, a reminder for her. She’d done this a thousand times with her father, but this was her first time on her own. Did that make her a virgin?

  She looked at Austen, whose entire focus was on Betty Lou. He murmured in her ear and soothed her with his beautiful hands.

  Serena swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat and grabbed the second bottle she’d brought from the house. It was a human sports drink she’d diluted. She opened the lid and filled the drench syringe a second time. “Almost done, girl. You’re doing great.”

  Did her voice really sound that breathless?

  “Better hurry. I’m running out of sweet nothings,” Austen said, dancing a bit with the nervous alpaca. He appeared to be sweating. She’d never seen anything sexier. “Can we change places?”

  She hurried to his side. “No way. If you don’t get this down the right tube, she’ll aspirate. The last thing I want is a vet bill from an alpaca with pneumonia.”

  “Okay. One more dance, Betty Lou?”

  That he addressed her alpaca by name was nearly Serena’s undoing. She’d never dated a man who regarded her animals as anything but things, not living breathing beings with individual personalities. Her hand shook a tiny bit as she gave Betty her liquid.

  “Good. One more and we’re done.”

  She swore both Austen and Betty groaned. This time, Serena did the procedure quickly without hesitation. “Done. Let her go.”

  Betty gave a little buck as she leaped to safety to hide behind her friend. Serena disposed of the apparatus and the bottles in a paper bag. She set everything just outside the stall.

  This particular stall had an outside exit. “You might want to get out of the way.”

  She unlocked the latch then pushed with her right arm. Jezebel, old pro that she was, trotted to freedom without the least bit of drama. Betty, who had been nibbling on a piece of last night’s dinner, glanced around to discover she was alone… with two humans.

  She bolted, losing traction on the concrete under the straw. She wheeled to the left and tried to pass Austin on the opposite side he expected. Austen staggered back to avoid being stepped on.

  A dainty hop and rock-solid poke of her head against his chest and Austen went down—butt-first into a pile of alpaca poo—the running, icky reason they’d been treating her.

  “Crap,” he muttered.

  “You got that right,” Serena said.

  She tried not to laugh. Really. She did.

  Chapter Three

  “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

  She held out her hand—the one she’d had down the small, but powerful she-devil’s throat a few minutes earlier.

  Austen tried standing on his own but the size and scope of the dirty straw eliminated any chance of him getting to his feet with grace.

  “I was on my way in here to clean up when you arrived.”

  So, this was his fault. Typical. Blame the new guy.

  “How can one little animal make this much… crap?”

  She latched onto his hand firmly and tugged with more force than he expected. He rebounded to his feet and would have mowed her over if she hadn’t hopped adroitly to the side. She immediately grabbed the flat-nose shovel leaning against the wall. “The manure isn’t all Betty’s. Only the runny stuff. That’s why I had to dose her. Alpacas pick one area to do their business—poop and pee—and they all go there.”

  Once upright, the wet spot on his posterior began to migrate to his thighs. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not the strip off his pants—underwear, too. “You’re saying I fell in a communal toilet?”

  “The girls were only here one night. It could be worse.”

  He backed up, to avoid getting smacked in the head by the loaded shovel. “Let me guess. You’re one of the glass-is-half-full crowd, right?”

  She carried the smelly load to a wheelbarrow in the main part of the barn and repeated the process three times before answering. “Half-full? No. I wouldn’t say that. I’m definitely no Pollyanna. I might have been once, but reality has a way of making itself known whether you’re whistling a happy tune or not.”

  He agreed.

  So they had one small thing in common. That didn’t mean he was interested in finding out more about her. He wanted to get the hell away from these funny looking quadrupeds, but first he needed some good strong soap to get rid of the smell of alpaca poop.

  She apparently had the same thought. She used the shovel like a mike stand and checked him out. Her nice, slightly upturned nose wrinkling. “No way am I putting you in my truck. How would you feel about a shower with a stranger… at a stranger’s house, I mean? Not with me. Not that you were thinking that…” She made a crazy face and turned to leave. “Follow me.

  “Downwind.” He thought he heard her add.

  The glare of sunlight after being inside the barn robbed him of sight. He would have tripped over the big white doorstop dozing in the shade if a piercing whistle hadn’t stopped him.

  “Beau. Get out of the way.”

  Serena returned to take Austen’s hand. Like he was a toddler. “What you must think of my operation. It’s not always going to be a circus around here. I’m still getting settled. Sorry.”

  Her tone mollified his soggy pride a tiny bit. And her hand felt nice. Sturdy. Genuine. Nobody had reached out to help him in so long; he’d forgotten what a comfort a little human touch could give.

  “The people who lived here before me left tons of stuff behind,” she said. “Including one upstairs closet filled with men’s clothes.”

  “Jack Sawyer. He died a month or so ago.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess he won’t mind if you take a pair of jeans. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait in a towel while I wash yours.”

  Austen wasn’t superstitious. He didn’t have a problem wearing a dead man’s pants if they fit. He hadn’t seen Jack in years but anything would be better than hanging around for an hour or more while his sexy neighbor laundered his clothes.

  “Anything. Even a pair of sweats
would work.”

  “Anything? I found one of those cowboy raincoats hanging in a back closet. I think it’s called a duster. Of course, you run the risk of looking like some kind of flasher.”

  The humor in her tone should have pissed him off. Normally, he abhorred being the butt of anybody’s joke. He’d lived his entire life adhering to a strict credo. To be the best, you have to believe you are the best.

  But the best didn’t get investigated for misappropriation of campaign funds. The best didn’t struggle every day to reclaim their life, their reputation, until they reached the point where chucking the whole damn mess and starting over seemed like their only option.

  She let go of his hand when they reached the sidewalk leading to the back porch. The yard, which from Paul’s description had been littered with leftover crap from the Sawyers, now looked neat and tidy. Even the lawn appeared mowed.

  “You’re a good renter, aren’t you?”

  “I try,” she said modestly.

  She trotted ahead, pausing at the back door. “Wait a sec. I’ll be right back.”

  He used the privacy to twist sideways to see how bad his backside looked. Brownish tan streaks against the nearly black fabric of his favorite Diesel jeans made his stomach flip. He tried to breath shallowly to keep from gagging.

  The wet stuff was starting to dry and flake off, but his underwear and skin remained damp and itchy. What if the smell had permeated his nose hairs? Could the spa at the Bar V5 cure him?

  “Sorry it took so long,” she said, launching herself through the doorway, arms laden with towels and several pairs of jeans, neatly folded. “I boxed up all the last renters’ stuff and forgot which box contained the clothes.”

  She set the pile on the weathered picnic table a few feet away. He spotted three choices in jeans and one familiar looking T-shirt. “The shirt is new. Your brother left it as a housewarming present, but it’s too big for me. And green is not my brother’s color.”

  She has a brother somewhere. He filed away the information. Why? Habit, he figured. A good memory came in handy in politics.

  “Here’s a beach towel. Wrap up in this and I’ll toss your clothes in the washing machine. My parents taught us never to track barn stuff into the house.”

  He took the towel. “No washing necessary. Just give me a trash bag.”

  She crossed her arms. “You mean to throw away a perfectly fine pair of jeans because they’re stinky? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “They’re my pants.”

  She didn’t argue. But he could tell she didn’t approve. “I’ll be right back. If I can remember where I put the trash bags.”

  He used the privacy to pull off his boots. No easy task since he couldn’t sit on one of the padded lawn chairs and the picnic table looked too rickety to support his weight. He hopped and grunted and nearly fell on his ass again, but, finally, he stood in stocking feet on the cracked sidewalk.

  He undid his belt and removed it from the loops then hesitated. He wasn’t a prude, but the last thing he needed was for somebody to accuse him of indecent exposure.

  Serena returned before he could unzip. She seemed flustered. The look flattered her, made her appear less rigid and well out of her comfort zone.

  “I’m out of garbage bags.”

  A twitch in her left eye told him that was a lie.

  “Leave your clothes on the table. I’ll wash and return them tomorrow. I promise.”

  “They’re just jeans.”

  She looked him up and down before letting out a sigh. “My parents are old hippies. From day one, I was taught to do more with less for the sake of the planet. Gratuitous waste makes me a little sick, actually.” She sounded apologetic. “My brother wears Diesel. I bought him a pair for Christmas. I know how much they cost. And I know I should be okay with you burning them if you want. They’re your pants, but… I’ve landed in my share of shit, so I know it will wash off.”

  She dashed off before he could reply.

  “It will wash off,” he repeated, peeling off the wet, stinky pants. He stepped behind the table for a small degree of privacy and yanked off his undershorts. His shirt showed a suspicious stain so it went into the pile, too.

  I’ve landed in my share of shit.

  The jury remained out on whether or not Austen’s tumble into the political toilet would leave a permanent stain on his career. Friends like Sheri Fast insisted his debacle would be old news by the end of summer. In his gut, Austen knew that wasn’t true. Not when he had his own personal blogger who was hell bent to see Austen fry for his so-called crimes.

  At the moment, Helena seemed like a reality TV show he’d voted himself off. Screw Helena. Screw politics. And screw Serena James. He’d barbecue his stinking pants if he wanted.

  He added his socks to the pile and walked… hobbled, actually, given the deteriorating condition of his brother’s sidewalk to the house. The bathroom, which he found without a problem, screamed Paul Zabrinski remodel. Pale mocha, twelve-by-twelve tile with tight grout fittings and high-end fixtures, including a square stainless steel rain-type showerhead.

  “Nice,” he murmured stepping onto the pebble floor.

  Once glance at his shampoo and conditioner choices told him, Serena James lived alone—and didn’t have any male friends who showered here. Lilac and lavender appeared to be her favorite scents.

  Not that he could fault either. When she’d brought him the clothes, he’d gotten a whiff of her non-barn scent. Girly. Sweet. Nice.

  So not his type.

  She’d hung a new, tag-still-on nylon mesh scrubber on the door handle. He squeezed a large dollop of liquid soap into the hot pink mesh and started to scrub. The texture felt good. Just the right amount of abrasion to rid his skin of the stink.

  He rinsed and scrubbed a second time. As he worked up lather, he closed his eyes and pictured his new neighbor. In addition to being sweet and nice, Serena James also showed spunk, independence, and moral certitude. All things sadly lacking in his choice of women of late.

  Excluding Sheri, who was the one pursuing him.

  They’d gotten together at a benefit a month or so back. Casual acquaintances acting on a mutual attraction. Maybe Austen would have thought twice if he hadn’t been drowning his sorrows in scotch. He liked women. He liked sex. He liked to think he was a discriminating lover. He didn’t screw friends. Sheri was a friend. Sheri wanted him to get back on the political horse, start a new chapter.

  “Easy for her to say,” he muttered, lifting his face to the rain shower.

  He didn’t want to think about Helena. Or Sheri. Or the future. Better to keep his mind on Serena James. Cute nose. Very nice teeth. Generous smile. Great tits. He couldn’t help noticing when she ducked under Betty Lou’s neck to get the dumb animal to swallow a few swigs of sports drink. Her shirt gaped and he’d gotten a damn fine view of a damn fine pair nestled in surprisingly bold turquoise and pink lace.

  He squirted a shot of shampoo into his palm and closed his eyes to scrub his hair. His fingers massaging his scalp reminded him of Serena stroking the little alpaca’s neck to get her to swallow. Strange as it sounded, he’d been turned on by the intensity of Serena’s focus. Her obvious compassion touched him on another level. As did the way her teeth worried her full, pink bottom lip. And the look of triumph when she emptied the tube of pink liquid.

  He rinsed the shampoo and looked down. “Well, hello, stranger.”

  Getting roasted in an online blog every day for a solid month had a way of emasculating one’s ego. It felt good to be hard. It would have felt even better if Serena James was naked in the shower with him, but she wasn’t.

  A nice slippery lather of lilac scented soap would have to suffice.

  * * *

  “Am I crazy? I am, right?”

  Betty Lou blinked her big brown eyes and pulled back her lips to reveal her sweetly endearing under bite.

  “Oh, you’re no help. You haven’t even been with a boy yet. You don’t know
about pheromones and hormones and sex.”

  Serena opened the gate and let Betty join the other girls. Monique, Charlene, Grace Ann and Thistle were due to be bred. She’d planned to do a spit-off this afternoon. But that required a second handler and she sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her gorgeous neighbor if he’d like to do a little breeding.

  She rolled her eyes. Breeding was elemental to a successful alpaca operation. Since a pregnancy lasted eleven and a half months, an owner needed to time cria births to spring and early summer. Her season might be extended in Montana, but her dad had never wanted babies born in hundred-degree heat or the bitter cold of a northern California winter.

  Betty had been in the breeding group when she developed the runs. Now, Serena would have to watch her a few days to make sure her stomach problems were cleared up before introducing Betty to Shakespeare, Serena’s favorite herd sire.

  Shake was a favorite with the girls—nine years old, a seasoned pro. Plus, the crimp in his fine, dense fleece was unmatched. She had high hopes for several upcoming shows if—a big word—she could find a reliable helper.

  She knew good help was nearly as difficult to find as a good lover. Two serious boyfriends and a handful of really bad dates in thirty-five years on this planet did not make her an expert—especially considering both relationships ended with a bored, slightly relieved sigh rather than any true angst. She’d been called a genius—okay, by her mother—when it came to matching alpaca mates, but her own future looked decidedly unromantic and barren.

  Unfortunately, Serena liked sex. Coitus was fun while it lasted, but all the after-stuff got tricky—commitments, making someone else happy, blending his ways with her ways. Unpacking gobs of messy baggage that might include hideous things like stalkers and underlying abandonment issues.

  I should have been a man. She closed the gate on her breeders. Love ’em and leave ’em. I could do that.

  She wondered if Austen Zabrinski was on the market. He didn’t wear a wedding band. She thought she’d detected a sparkle of interest in his eyes when he looked at her. She might be inexperienced where long-term relationships were concerned but she wasn’t blind. And the zing she’d felt the minute he hopped her fence hadn’t dissipated the entire time they were in each other’s company.