by Alta Hensley
He could have kicked himself the moment the words left his mouth at the flash of pain in her eyes but she just said, “Well, it smells delicious.”
He helped her to the ground and escorted her to the tiny shack of a building. He could smell the fragrance coming from the smokers that lined the back of the restaurant. His hunger pangs were escalating to the point of starvation. “I could eat an entire cow.”
Anson was waiting at the door, holding it open. “Come on, you two. Jennie is waiting for us back at the ranch, so we’d better make this quick.”
Zoya looked between them, her brow furrowed. “You two seem awfully scared of this Jennie lady. For two big strong men, she sure does wear the pants in the family it seems.”
Stryder shrugged. “That is a fact. We accepted that a long time ago.”
Anson chuckled as they walked to an old wooden picnic bench-like table covered in a red and white plastic checkered tablecloth. “Jennie’s a sweetheart, and you’re going to love her. But she likes to keep us all balanced and harmonious.” He laughed again as he nodded at the waitress who was already approaching.
Stryder helped Zoya swing her legs over the bench. When she had disappeared into the bathroom at the hotel, he’d made a call. The dress the copilot had managed to find and bring to the plane along with the gown and choice of underwear was at least a size too large but it was better than just his black tee. He hadn’t thought about shoes and so she was forced to continue wearing the ridiculously high heels. Though he couldn’t help but notice they made her already great legs look even more fabulous, he knew she had to hate them. They were the ones she had stood in… those heels and nothing else on that stage. He forced his mind back to the present, watching as she looked all around. She was clearly distracted by all the mismatched décor that covered every inch of wall space. Hundreds of baseball and trucker hats hung with no rhyme or reason from the ceiling. The walls had random shit placed everywhere from weird pictures, odd ball antiques, vintage plates, a moose head, and ribbons and awards that The Flying Pig had won in cook out competitions.
“Interesting decorations,” Zoya said, taking it all in.
“Howdy, ya’ll! Welcome to The Pig. What can I get you?” the waitress asked, holding her pencil to the pad while she waited.
Stryder turned to Zoya and the fact that her mouth had dropped open into a little “O” didn’t surprise him. He was pretty sure the waitresses in Russia didn’t wear their hair up in braided pigtails, the ends tied off with rubber bands that had fat, pink piglets dangling from them. The woman wore a pink and white plaid shirt, the ends tied just beneath her very generous breasts. A pair of shorts, aka Daisy Dukes, left a great deal of flesh visible before her next clothing which was a pair of pink cowgirl boots. He doubted Zoya had even heard the question.
“Do you trust me to order for you?” Stryder asked softly, leaning close to Zoya.
“What?” Tearing her glance from the waitress to him, she nodded. “Oh, yes, I do. I will have whatever you think I’d like.”
“The full rack of ribs and the Squealing Pig sandwich for each of us, meat over the top and extra sauce, sides of pinto beans and slaw. Oh, and a tower of onion rings to start,” Stryder ordered, handing the menus that he hadn’t even looked at to the waitress.
“Make that three,” Anson added.
“Drinks?” the waitress asked.
“Iced tea,” Anson said, which Stryder knew he would do. The boy wouldn’t even have one drink if he were driving.
“Beer… your pale ale,” Stryder said, looking at Zoya to see what she wanted. He didn’t want to even guess what she would want.
“I’ll have a beer too,” she said with a wide smile.
“Ah, a girl after my own heart,” Stryder said with a chuckle.
“You’d better marry this girl, bro,” Anson teased. “Finding a girl who will eat pounds of pork and drink beer…”
“Pretty on top of that.” He looked at Zoya, who was blushing and looking down at her hands. She was pink in the cheeks, but so freakin’ beautiful. It filled his heart to see that she seemed genuinely happy as they sat there.
When the waitress left, Anson was the first to speak. “You’d better get used to constant teasing and playing. When us brothers get together, we can be pretty ruthless.”
“I was an only child,” Zoya said. “This sibling rivalry is definitely new to me.” She looked at Anson, then back at Stryder. She did this a few more times before asking, “Why don’t you two look alike? You say you are brothers but you don’t share any of the same features.”
“We were both adopted,” Stryder answered. He wasn’t one for talking about himself. His past was his business and no one else’s, but she seemed genuine in her question, and he had no desire to avoid it. “We were both brought to the ranch as young boys.”
“Pops saved my life,” Anson said with a faraway look in his eyes.
Stryder nodded. “He found me alone in Argentina. My mother had just died and I had no one. If it weren’t for him, I would have died of hunger and illness, or entered a life of crime. There weren’t any other options for a poor street rat living in the alleys of Rosario.”
“Oh… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so nosey. I didn’t mean to make you revisit bad memories.”
“I don’t mind.” And he really didn’t. It struck him that despite having bad—horrid—memories of her own, she’d expressed concern for him. That glimpse into who this woman was only made his anger grow at the injustices that had been done to her and the other innocent women. It seemed odd how easy it was for him to reveal his past to her. He didn’t talk about his past, and other than his family, no one truly knew the hell he had once lived. No one knew his mother had been a whore who had ended up dead and penniless.
“He sounds like a good man, your father.”
“It doesn’t take blood to make family,” Stryder said, watching the waitress walk back with their drinks and appetizer. “Anson and I are proud to be Steeles, even though we weren’t born one.”
Though Zoya thanked him for the beer he handed her, her eyes were on the tall wooden contraption that had perfectly golden fried rings, graduating in size from huge to smallish forming a tower. He chuckled as she shook her head.
“That could make an entire meal!”
“Nah, these are just to get the juices flowing. Here.” He plucked the first ring off the tower and laid it on a small plate, putting it before her. “These are made from the best onions on the planet. They are called 1015s and I’m telling you, you’ll love every bite.” Taking his own ring, he held it out as she lifted hers. Touching the two was silly but when he added, “To your first taste of Texas fare,” it brought a smile to her face which grew when she took her first tentative bite. “Good?” he asked, half his ring disappearing in one bite, the crunch audible.
“Delicious,” she agreed, taking another bite before returning to the earlier conversation.
“Who all lives at the ranch?” Zoya asked, sipping her beer and letting the foam coat her upper lip.
“Pops, Jennie, Maddox and his new bride Adira, Anson and myself. We also have ranch hands who live on the property.”
“It sounds big.”
“It is. But cozy. We all built it from scratch. Even though we run our operations out of it, we wanted to make sure it always felt like home.”
Anson nodded in agreement.
“There are several horses as well. We breed and sell. So it’s really busy and something is always going on.”
“And none of them will mind me coming to stay?” Worry washed over her face, and Stryder wanted to instantly bring back the soft smile and happiness that was once there.
“They will love you. And besides, it’s what we do. We rescue and provide safe haven to people in need. Everyone is used to guests on the property,” Stryder assured her.
“Why?” she asked, her tone indicating she really wanted to understand.
Stryder shrugged. “Our pops decided
a long time ago that he would make it his mission to help those in need. To help those who maybe the government wouldn’t help because they were mixed up with the wrong people. He believed that all deserved help if they needed it. He’s a good man.”
“And you and your brothers decided to take on the family business? No other jobs or goals?” There was no judgment in her voice, just simple curiosity.
“We all went away and joined different branches of the military,” Anson interjected.
“We trained for this,” Stryder added. “But yes, it is our family business. The Black Stallion Ranch is far more than just a ranch that breeds horses. We act as a witness protection for the underground. Like with you. You will stay with us and remain protected.”
“For how long? How long will I live there?” Her look of worry intensified.
“Depends. I won’t let you leave until Vasily is dead or behind bars for good.”
“I prefer dead,” Anson chimed in.
“We all do,” Stryder agreed.
The food arrived, and any worry that was once on Zoya’s face was replaced with shock, surprise and amusement. “That is a lot of food! How are we going to eat all this?”
Anson chuckled. “Oh, we will. Don’t you worry about that.”
Stryder helped the waitress organize the food on the table. “Think of this as your last meal. You may never see real meat, real juicy fat, or really delicious anything for quite some time.” Stryder looked at Zoya and winked. Her blue eyes were as wide as saucers as he set a red plastic basket filled with huge yeast rolls, thick slices of Texas toast, and muffins on the table.
“We didn’t order bread—”
“Don’t need to. Bread is a staple; you’ll use it to soak up all those juices and sauce. Here, try a corn muffin first.” He placed a golden yellow muffin on her plate. “I warn you, you might find it a bit spicy as there are jalapeños inside but man, they are great, especially with some whipped butter and local honey.” He placed two small bowls containing butter and honey next to her plate as well.
Zoya shook her head at the next plate he put before her. It wasn’t even large enough to hold the rack of ribs as they hung over the edge. “If this is how you boys eat, I don’t blame Jennie one bit for controlling you. This looks like the butcher slaughtered every animal on the farm!” Her angelic laugh made Stryder smile. She unwrapped her silverware and began to put the napkin in her lap.
“No, not like that,” Stryder said, “like this.” He took the oversized napkin from her and reached to tuck it into the collar of her dress. As his fingers grazed her skin, he felt his pulse jump. Get a grip, man, he told himself. Spreading the napkin out until it covered her entire front, he tried not to let his fingertips graze the rounded swells of her breasts.
After tucking his own napkin into place, Stryder rubbed his hands together in excited anticipation. “No fancy manners required. Except for the sides, fingers are the only silverware you’ll need. Ready?” At her rather bemused expression, he grinned. “Let’s dig in!”
“Jennie is probably pacing back and forth waiting for us, but man, you can’t ask a starving Texan to hurry through BBQ,” Anson said as he placed a rib to his mouth, closed his eyes, and moaned.
Chapter 8
After pulling off the fifth paper towel from the huge roll sitting on one corner of their table and wiping her sticky fingers, Zoya finally gave up. She’d been shocked seeing how the two brothers took care of the sauce that clung to their fingers, but with a grin, she finally followed suit and stuck her fingers into her mouth. It was certainly not the best in table manners, but she couldn’t deny it did the job. She gave her finger a final suck and happened to look up to see Stryder, a rib halfway to his lips, staring at her. Feeling her face flush, she yanked her finger from her mouth, grabbing another paper towel.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t be,” Stryder said, the corner of his mouth curling up. “I’m just happy to see you enjoying your meal.” He finished lifting the rib, and she watched as his teeth tore the meat from the bone. Well, in all fairness, tear was a misnomer. He’d explained that the epitome of a great rib was if the meat practically fell from the bone. She didn’t even have to cut a rib from the rack on her plate. A simple tug and the individual ribs separated from their mates. As Stryder reached for another, only to realize only naked bones remained on his plate, she smiled.
“Here, have the rest of mine.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t eat but a couple. Don’t you like them?” Stryder asked with what sounded like genuine concern. Then again, why should that surprise her? He’d been concerned about her from the moment they’d met. Forcing the circumstances of their actual meeting from her head, she nodded.
“They are delicious, but honestly, between them, the onion rings, the sandwich, the bread and beans and slaw…” She paused, her head shaking as she considered the ton of food the three were still plowing through. “If I eat another bite, I’m going to explode.”
“Well, we can’t take it with us,” Anson said, reaching for the remainder of her brisket sandwich. “The best way to hide the evidence is to consume it.”
Zoya smiled. It was truly amazing watching the amount of food disappear. When she’d first picked up the Squealing Pig sandwich, she’d barely been able to wrap her hands around the bun, there were so many slices of brisket piled inside, and sauce splattered down onto her plate with every bite. When she’d mentioned the size of the sandwich, she’d learned that when Stryder ordered “meat over the top” it hadn’t referred to the amount of thick, sauce dripping slices of brisket, but actually indicated what portion of the brisket slab they’d been cut from.
“Those darkened bits around the edges are the best,” Stryder had explained. “‘Top’ just means you get what are referred to as ‘burnt ends.’ They might look burned but they’re not really.” Sipping her beer, she had to admit it had been just as much an adventure as it had been a meal. A few minutes later, every plate and bowl empty, the men licked their fingers clean one last time.
“You missed a spot.”
“What? Where?” Zoya asked, looking down at her hands.
“I’ve got it,” Stryder said, dipping another paper towel into his glass of water. Cupping the back of her head, he dabbed the makeshift washcloth on the tip of her nose. Evidently, he could sense her shock at her messiness as he chuckled. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, moving the towel to her cheek and giving a little rub. “Eating BBQ is an art. Any artist worth their salt will always have a dribble or two of paint missed in clean up. That’s what separates them from the fakers.” He finished by wiping the corner of her mouth and tossed the paper towel to the table, reaching for the napkin that had kept her dress from becoming a sauce-splotched mess. Pulling it away, he used one end to dry the areas he’d wet. “All signs that you, my little kukolka, are now an honorary Texan. Ready?”
It took her a moment to move from his calling her “baby doll” to understanding he was asking if she were ready to leave. “Oh, yes, sorry.”
“You need to stop apologizing,” Stryder said, helping her from the bench. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Swinging her legs over the bench wasn’t the most modest way to get her legs out from beneath the table, but it was the most efficient. Still, feeling self-conscious as his eyes seemed to be sliding from her ankles up to her thighs, far too much skin visible due to the dress hiking up, she felt flustered. “Do you like art?”
“Art?”
God, she sounded like an idiot but plowed ahead. “I mean, you were talking about artists, and I was just wondering if you are one.”
He didn’t immediately answer as he pulled bills from his wallet and laid them down to pay for their meal. When he looked up, his eyes appeared at least a shade darker than before… not in anger but in something akin to… pleasure? “I guess that depends on what medium you are talking about. It doesn’t always take paint and canvas but I do appreciate the talent required to produ
ce a version of what I’d consider a masterpiece.” He placed the flat of his hand against her lower back and guided her effortlessly through the crowded tables. “And you? What sorts of things do you enjoy?”
Trying not to think about how his palm touching her reminded her of the first time… the night of the auction, and then again in the shower when he’d bathed her, and now how it felt just right having it pressed against her back again, she forced herself to push the questions aside. She didn’t really want to consider the myriad of emotions that were clouding her head. Realizing she hadn’t answered his question, she said, “Run.”
The press of his hand disappeared a moment as she took a step and he didn’t mimic the move. Turning her head slightly back, she saw his eyes change again. A shudder ran through her as a flash of what she couldn’t think of being anything other than anger, flared for a moment. What had she said? Understanding came and she shook her head.
“I don’t mean run from… anything. I mean run… outside?” When his eyes cleared and he grinned, she felt tension that had held her frozen seep away.
“Jog?” he clarified, taking the step necessary to reconnect them. “Like marathons?”
“Oh, no. I just find it relaxes me. Running gives me time to think about things. I also enjoy gardening…”
Anson’s laugh had her pausing as he unlocked the truck door, pulling it open so that Stryder could help her climb up. “Jennie is gonna love you, Zoya. Though she prefers to get her exercise by communing with nature and dancing, she is artistic, and God knows what she’d be feeding us if she didn’t keep that huge garden going.”
From her seat, Zoya said, “I’d be glad to help her.”
“Just remember, you’ll be helping us as well. We’re gonna need all the intel you can provide on Poplov.”
Forget the last hour. The audible click of her seatbelt that he’d snapped into place seemed to be an emphasis on his statement, reminding her of why she was in Texas. Reaching for the blanket she’d used earlier, she pulled it up. “I remember,” she said softly. She didn’t want to think about the softness that appeared in his eyes with her words. She wanted nothing more than not to remember. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the door once Stryder had closed it and climbed into the front seat next to his brother. It wasn’t long before they were back on the highway, leaving The Flying Pig behind.