In a Cowboy’s Bed

by Cat Johnson

  Heather stepped forward. “Maybe you could tell me what to do.”

  Against Ben’s will, the image of him bound, with Heather looking up at him from between his thighs, had him hard as a rock. Crap. He glanced over to see Ned grinning at him. “Change your mind?”

  Ben shook his head more at himself than at Ned. “Maybe.”

  “Better tell the boss to get to work writing that sequel where you become the master instead of the slave, darlin’. Now get over here. I’ll show you how to make the knot so Ben and I can’t get out of it.”

  Heather went to him as willingly as if Ned would be instructing her on how to tie a knot found in the Boy Scout handbook, instead of showing her how to bind two men for sex. “Hang on. I gotta go grab a few more things. Stay right here.” Ned shot off toward the tack room.

  Heather waited, looking like any man’s wet dream. Damn. It was going to be hard to let her go. In fact, that brought up a question Ben couldn’t put off any longer. “When do you have to leave again?”

  “I need to be back in California by the first of the month. And before that I have to return the car.” She winced. “Piece of crap or not, it’s not mine.”

  “Buy her a new one.”

  She laughed. “It’s a good idea. But I really should face my mother. Straighten things out so I can go back to the set with a clear head.”

  “While you’re clearing your head, don’t forget about us.” Ned propped his chin on her shoulder.

  “That would never be possible. In fact, after the shoot is over, maybe I’ll take a few weeks off. Know of a nice place in the country where I could go? Someplace pretty. With lots of grass and animals . . . and leather.”

  Heather was promising to come back to them. Ben’s spirit soared. He tried to tamp it down out of habit. He was so used to reining any hope in so he wasn’t disappointed, it was strange to let himself feel it for a change. He let himself feel it now. “I think we know of the perfect place for you.”

  “I’m all set here.” Ned tossed what he had in his hand onto a bale of hay. “Let’s get naked.”

  Ben took a closer look and saw more strips of leather, a riding crop, and a tube of veterinary lube. He shook his head and started to wonder what he’d gotten himself into. A hell of a messed up threesome they made, and he’d never been happier.

  Soul of a Cowboy

  VONNA HARPER

  My family has long had a summer cabin in the mountains. Every fall as it grows cold, the range cattle gravitate to the highway, where they’re picked up by the ranchers who own them. A few times I’ve been lucky enough to see men and women on horseback loading large, fat cattle into stake trucks. When I do, I’m reminded of those who make their living from the land instead of sitting in offices. This dedication goes to those hearty souls who don’t punch clocks.

  1

  A man. Man with capital M. Sitting tall, strong, and proud in the saddle. One hand lightly held the chestnut gelding’s reins while the other rested on a jeans-clad thigh. His body was still, but his eyes seemed to be in constant movement. Obviously, assessing his surroundings was vital to him.

  Watching him from behind a ponderosa pine, Kathy Vinoza couldn’t remember what had brought her here. She’d known a few minutes ago, but her agenda no longer mattered. Only wrapping her mind and nerves around the sight of someone totally at home in the wilderness did.

  The mare she’d borrowed for her trip into the mountains was broad across the back. As a consequence, her legs were widely spread, yet she didn’t attempt to blame the position for what was going on in her core. Not having sex for longer than she wanted to think about contributed to her awareness of that part of her anatomy, but more to the point, something about the stranger touched her on a primal level.

  She wanted to watch Mike Moss for the foreseeable future, just watch him. If the stars would align themselves as she wanted them to, he’d rein in his gelding and strike a Greek god pose. Of course, to do the pose justice, he’d have to strip off his all-weather coat, boots, and faded jeans, which made no sense given the cold late-fall morning.

  When she’d first spotted Mike, his horse had been more interested in selecting solid footing on the rocky slope than its surroundings. Now it lifted its head. Its nostrils flared. Perhaps picking up on an unspoken message from the other animal, her mare whinnied.

  Busted.

  Kathy thought Mike might react with alarm. Instead, he lightly drew back on the reins and patted the gelding’s neck, instantly calming it. The gesture said something about the deep connection between man and animal. Maybe it all boiled down to trust.

  “Chet? That you?”

  “No,” she said, as she guided her mare from behind the tree. His attention locked on her. The way he studied her as she approached, she wondered if he’d picked up on her nervousness. She hadn’t expected to feel this way around the rancher, but then she’d had no way of knowing he’d be so . . . so what, male? Infused with primal sexuality.

  Just minutes ago, she’d been wishing it wasn’t so cold. Now she was grateful for the hint of snow in the air. Between the sharp wind gusts and swaying evergreens, the mountain felt alive, welcoming winter.

  Did she belong here? Did the wilderness and, more importantly, Mike Moss want anything to do with her?

  Swallowing, she struggled for something intelligent to say. “My name’s Kathy Vinoza. I talked to you the other day.”

  “I remember.”

  Try as she did to get a handle on his mood, she couldn’t. She sensed something new in his posture, perhaps caution that hadn’t been there when he’d first seen her. Given her reasons for wanting to meet with him, she couldn’t blame him. Under normal circumstances, she’d brush aside his reluctance and plow ahead, but except for the illusive Chet, they might be the only two humans on this track of Bureau of Land Management land. The last time she’d checked, her cell phone hadn’t been picking up a signal.

  “I wasn’t sneaking up on you,” she said. Just a little covert observation. “I’d heard the cattle and was hoping to spot them.”

  He jerked his head indicating behind him. “Most of the herd’s back there. There’s always strays.”

  And you’re out here on your own looking for them. “How many acres are we talking about?”

  “Hmm. Around ten thousand.”

  The number boggled her mind. She’d educated herself about the leasing program that had long allowed cattle ranchers to run livestock on public lands managed by the BLM, but until now she’d been focused on those who opposed the program. Finally, she was where beef cattle spent months roaming throughout parts of the southern Oregon mountains. More, much more to the point, she was face-to-face with a man who epitomized everything the word cowboy stood for.

  “I, ah, I know I said it before, but thank you for agreeing to see me.”

  He nodded. They were now close enough that their horses were getting to know each other via sniffs and snorts. She took note of Mike’s eyes, which were somewhere between dark gray and black, a little light easing the midnight quality. His thick eyebrows and stubble practically screamed masculine. The thin scar along his right cheekbone and slightly crooked nose said this man knew the meaning of the word physical.

  Unlike cowboys of the old west, he didn’t wear a Stetson and his boots were more suited to hiking than days in a saddle, but he sat his mount as if he’d been riding since he could walk. In contrast, she hadn’t been on horseback since . . . since her world stopped revolving around rodeos.

  Judging by the dark hairs trailing over his neck, she concluded Mike Moss usually wore his hair short but hadn’t had time to go to a barber lately.

  Yes, a barber. This man with the suntanned face, out to there shoulders, and big, strong hands would never think of having his hair styled. Personal grooming was something to get out of the way so he could concentrate on caring for his cattle.

  “I was afraid you might say no,” she added when she realized he hadn’t said anything. Her heart rate
had picked up, and although she could probably slow it by not looking at him, she wasn’t about to let him think she wasn’t up to the task she’d given herself. “Maybe I’m wrong, but I got the impression you weren’t thrilled.” There, she’d said it.

  “It didn’t take you long to find me.”

  Was he deliberately changing the subject? “Actually, I spent yesterday afternoon in the area. As it was getting dark, I came across proof of the cattle’s presence, so that gave me a jump start this morning. I spent last night at the Crystal Lake Lodge.” Her hands were sweating, but she didn’t want to give anything away by wiping them on her jeans. “I take it you spent the night out here.”

  “It’s hardly the first time.”

  She noted a bedroll and two waterproof bags behind his saddle. A rifle was within easy reach.

  “No, I guess it isn’t. How long does fall roundup take?” There, that was the kind of question she’d come out here to ask.

  “Three, four days. Depends on the weather and how scattered the herd is.”

  So he was a man of few words, either that or he was deliberately keeping his replies short hoping she’d give up and go away. She could, she supposed. It wasn’t as if her livelihood depended on writing this article, but she’d pitched it to the online outdoor magazine she freelanced for. A piece about the pros and cons of private ranchers leasing public land had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  It still did, especially now that she’d come face-to-face with a living, breathing rancher—or it would if she could get him to open up and her to stop getting distracted by his sex appeal. Yep, sex appeal all right, man against the elements, a throwback to earlier times at home in the present. The wilderness.

  “How many hands—is that what you call them?—does the roundup take, and what’s the size of your herd?”

  He looked up, drawing her attention to a large gray and black bird perched on a tree with a missing top. “Clark’s nutcracker,” he said. “Only one I’ve seen since I got here. They usually leave right before it starts snowing.”

  “I caught the weather report this morning. That bird had better catch up with the others. I’m sure you know there’s a storm coming.”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  “We?”

  Chet’s my cousin. He and his wife, Sandy, help with the rounding up, as does my ex brother-in-law. We couldn’t do it without the two cow dogs.”

  She didn’t care about dogs, not after hearing he was divorced. “Is it awkward? Being around your former wife’s brother, that is.”

  “Jarred has his own herd, so he knows what I’m up against. I helped him with his cattle last week.”

  She tried to wrap her mind around the kind of men who put each other’s livelihoods above personal matters but couldn’t. Part of that was because her own family was so scattered and dysfunctional. The other reason came from having no real understanding of what it meant to be a rancher.

  “Look,” Mike said, “I have to get the herd to the road and loaded up today. Maybe you should wait until the roundup’s over.”

  She spread her arms as if trying to take in the whole forest. “This is exactly where I need to be if I’m going to produce a comprehensive article. I’d love to watch you in action.”

  “Yeah?” He let the word hang. “Look, I don’t believe in dodging around an issue. It’s possible you’re here because you want proof of the damage my cattle do to the land and waterways. I take it you have a camera with you.”

  Caught off guard, she backed her mare away from Mike’s gelding. At the same time, her body continued to respond to his, making concentrating on what she needed to say difficult. “Yes, I have my digital, but you’re wrong if you think the only reason I’m here is so I can write a one-sided article.”

  “That’s the problem. I can’t prevent you from doing whatever you want.”

  She couldn’t put a finger on his mood. He wasn’t confrontational so much as determined to put everything on the table. Honest and open. She’d started writing for Outdoor Odyssey because she enjoyed doing what she considered feel-good pieces. Unfortunately, after nearly a year of articles devoted to day hiking trips and campfire cooking, the publisher had decided to confront a lack of growth in readership and advertising revenue by incorporating what he called rabble-rouser articles. He wanted readers to have strong opinions, to turn to Outdoor Odyssey when they wanted to think and maybe become politically involved.

  Toward that end she’d written comprehensive articles about modern logging and the politics behind the government wolf release program. She’d interviewed opinionated people, but this was the first time she’d been face-to-face with someone when she couldn’t call for help if things got out of hand.

  Even more problematic, this cowboy appealed to her on a level she’d nearly forgotten existed. An exciting, unnerving level.

  “Look,” he said, “I don’t have time to discuss this. Go ahead and watch me at work. I can’t stop you.” He took a moment to study her mount. “Quarter horse. She should hold up. How about you?”

  “I’m pretty tough.”

  His attention slid to her hands, causing her to do the same. She’d had a few manicures but considered them a waste of time and money. Because she spent a lot of time at a keyboard, she kept her nails short. Granted, her hands weren’t nearly as large or competent as his, but neither were they what she’d call sissy.

  “It’ll take tough. Come on.”

  She almost didn’t catch the slight movement in his forearms. Reacting to the unspoken communication, the gelding turned and headed toward an open area. Feeling a bit as if she’d been abandoned, she urged her mare to keep pace.

  The hill they were on was steeper than it had first appeared. Mike’s thigh muscles tightened under the denim, and he leaned forward a little. She wasn’t sure she’d ever thought of a man’s back as something sexual, but she did now. Unlike her with her thick parka, his jacket was designed for freedom of movement, as well as warmth.

  Even though she couldn’t see his backbone, she had no trouble imagining what it looked like. Reality was, he probably had a cowboy tan, which meant everything except his face and arms was pale; but this was her fantasy, her way of not thinking about the kind of conversation they’d have.

  If she touched his naked back—oh Lordy, if she trailed her fingertips over the hard ridges of his spine . . .

  Suddenly, breathing became next to impossible, and had the air become hot? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been alone with a MAN. Hell, the pathetic truth was, she couldn’t think back to when she’d wanted sex.

  That wasn’t quite true, she amended. More often than she cared to think about, she needed to be fucked. Because she didn’t keep a handy cock in her dresser, she took care of her itches with an assortment of battery-driven toys. They physically satisfied her but didn’t come close to supplying the emotional component.

  To her way of thinking, sex was something apart from self-pleasure and slid a little too close to lovemaking. She’d once believed a marriage anchored by love was possible, but the two years she’d spent with Ruy had put an end to that nonsense.

  This morning, with winter announcing its arrival via a sharp wind, rattling pine trees, and swirling leaves, she longed to press her naked flesh against Mike Moss’s equally naked body. She didn’t know anything about the man except that he belonged in this setting, on horseback, rounding up his livestock.

  In her mind’s eye she saw him throw a lasso over a steer’s head, effortlessly carry a hay bale to the cattle, brand, and castrate. Then she imagined him kneeling next to a straining cow and guiding a new life into the world. Maybe that, more than anything else, was why he did what he did for a living.

  A shrill sound splintered the images and thoughts. When it repeated, she realized Mike was whistling. She looked around expecting to see the others who were out here with him. Instead, a lean, speckled dog trotted into view. It stopped near the top of the hill and looked back o
ver its shoulder.

  “Good boy. Okay, let’s go get them.”

  Mike urged his mount into a trot and then a smooth canter. Thinking back to the thousands of times she’d watched rodeo riders do the same thing, she pressed her knees into her mare’s sides. Mike disappeared without checking to see if she was keeping up. When she first reached the high point, she didn’t see anything except where a forest fire had been several years ago. Pine trees, most of them no taller than her, grew near blackened stumps. The new evergreens shared the soil with a variety of shrubs and dry grasses. When she took a deep breath, she caught a faint burned wood smell. Hopefully lightning and not human carelessness or arson had been responsible.

  When she’d reached the BLM land this morning, the clouds hadn’t looked particularly ominous, but they now lay like a deep gray blanket over what she could see of the world. Despite the warning they represented, she simply sat and took in her surroundings. She hadn’t been out in nature for too long.

  After snapping a half-dozen shots that would have no place in the article, she concentrated on listening. The wind wasn’t making it easy, but then she caught the sound of cattle.

  “Let’s go see if we can find him,” she told the mare. As for why she’d thought of Mike instead of the cattle, chalk it up to femininity meets masculinity.

  2

  Stump—he’d been named by Mike’s middle sister’s youngest, who’d been fascinated by the cattle dog’s stub of a tail—had located a half-dozen cows and their calves near a summer-dry creek and was waiting for orders.

  Instead of giving Stump the necessary hand signals, Mike looked back to see if Kathy whatever her last name was had followed him. He didn’t want her here—and yet he did. Making sure she stayed safe and out of the way was going to complicate things, and he sure as hell didn’t want her twisting his words and what he did to fit her agenda. On the other hand . . . on the other hand, what?