by Tawny Taylor
I used to ride Aunt Sandee’s ancient, rusty bike sometimes. It had only one gear—go. And the brakes didn’t work. But it had two tires that weren’t flat. And it would get me to town a lot faster than my two feet.
I jumped on and started pedaling.
The dry air gusted against me as I worked up to speed. Thighs burned. Lungs expanded. The world rushed by in a blur of green and brown. I forgot how exhilarating it felt to ride a bike. I hadn’t ridden in years, not since starting college.
Steering around loose gravel and ruts, I pumped furiously.
I was flying. Free! Woo hoo!
And then I was flying. Literally.
And landing.
And dying.
Oh shit.
I lay on my back, the brilliant cerulean sky stretched out above me like a sheet.
Shit, that hurt. Now, what had I done to myself?
Terrified to move, I wiggled my fingers, figuring if that hurt I was in real trouble. Fortunately they worked. And I didn’t die from pain.
Encouraged, I carefully rocked my head from side to side. My neck seemed to be okay. Another good sign.
Now, to test my arms.
I started to slowly move my right arm but stopped abruptly when I heard a sound. A frightening sound.
A car or truck. Roaring toward me.
Oh shit, if they didn’t see me...
I looked to my right.
Was that a…dead raccoon? A dead, flat raccoon?
To hell with caution!
Waving one arm to try to catch the driver’s attention, I made promises to the Big Man Upstairs that I would stay out of bars and in a church for at least a year and attempted to push myself upright before I was flattened by the huge tires barreling at me at a million miles per hour.
Prayer answered.
It stopped. The vehicle ground to a halt, tires tossing gravel into the air. A few pieces showered me.
I would not go the way of the poor raccoon. I owed The Big Man Upstairs. I owed Him big time. I’m yours every Sunday. I promise.
“Babe!”
Okay, maybe I didn’t owe Him so big.
“Of all the people, why send him?” I whispered as I stared up at the fluffy clouds marching across the sky.
Clay’s face blocked out my view. “Are you alive?”
“I’m alive,” I said on a sigh. “And my name is not ‘Babe’. It’s Morgan.”
“Fine. Morgan, are you breathing? Do you need mouth-to-mouth?” He licked his lips.
My gaze locked on that mouth, and a crazy impulse raced through me. Mouth-to-mouth sounded kind of good right now. Clay was, by far, the best kisser of my life. Maybe one kiss wouldn’t hurt. What the hell am I thinking? “Yes, I’m breathing. No, I don’t need mouth-to-mouth.”
“Damn.” He squatted, arm extended. “Hurt?”
“Not sure.”
“Let’s get you out of this road, darlin’, before you become roadkill.”
“Good idea. But it’s Morgan. Mor. Gan. Not darlin’. Not babe. Morgan.” I placed my hand in his and slowly sat up. The world spun. Not just a little, but fast, like an out-of-control merry-go-round.
The dizziness had to be because of the fall, right? Right? I blinked. “Whoa.”
“Easy. No need to hurry. I won’t let anyone run you over,” he promised, that wicked sin-with-me look firmly in place.
“No offense, but I don’t believe that.”
His laughter vibrated through my body, making my nerves tingle. Tingle! I didn’t want them to do that. Because tingles always led to other things.
Bad things. Very bad.
Especially with this heart breaking, v-card punching jerk.
“None taken.”
Strong hands supported me as I gingerly climbed to my feet. My knees and elbows were scraped raw and burned, but otherwise I’d survived my massive crash mostly unscathed. I turned to find the bike and stumbled. Clay clamped his hands around my upper arms, steadying me. I looked up into his face and became breathless all over again. Wow, did he look totally hot in that cowboy hat, day-old stubble coating his jaw.
“Easy, darlin’. You knocked yourself silly when you fell.”
“I sure did,” I agreed as I fought another wave of weakness. I reached up, fingering my scalp. I must have given myself a massive concussion. Odd. I didn’t feel any bumps or blood. But the weakness and instability had to be because of the knock on my head. There could be no other cause.
“Come here. I’ll drive you home.” Supporting me with both hands, Clay steered me toward his pickup truck, parked a few yards away, but my knees were so wobbly I stumbled forward and nearly did a bellyflop on the road. He didn’t ask for permission, just scooped me into his big, strong arms, hauled me to the truck, and, after yanking open the passenger door, plopped me onto the seat. “Where were you going in such a hurry?” he asked as he tossed the bike into the back then circled to the driver’s side. “You were racing faster than a spooked pronghorn. On this road, that’s suicide.”
“I needed--“ I cut myself off, remembering what happened the last time Clay did a favor for me. I so did not want to repeat that mistake. “I was getting some exercise. I forgot how bad this road was. I thought it was pretty smooth in the summer.”
“It is. Later. The county hasn’t been out to grade it yet. In another couple of weeks it’ll be smooth as silk. Though you still have to watch the loose gravel.” He shifted the old, rattly truck into gear and it bucked forward. I grabbed the Jesus handle and held on as it lurched down the road and skidded to a stop in front of my house. “There you go. Safe and sound.”
“Thanks.” I grabbed the door handle and gave it a yank, but it didn’t budge.
“Sorry,” he said as he pushed open the driver’s side door. “That door doesn’t work so good. Here, I’ll get it.” He swaggered around to the passenger side and opened the door, offering me a hand as I slid to the ground.
Instead of accepting his hand, I held onto the truck’s door to steady myself. Immediately I realized I still wasn’t very coordinated. But I didn’t want to accept any more of Clay’s help. I knew firsthand what happened when that jerk did me favors. He would demand repayment. And he was extremely persistent with collecting it.
Once, a long time ago, I’d owed him for something he’d done for me. And had I ever regretted it.
That once had cost me a lot.
My virginity for one.
And my pride for another.
What more could he take from me? I didn’t even want to guess.
Chapter 2
Clay tried, mightily, to assist me into the house, but I shrugged away every offer. I could not, would not, fall for his hero routine. Not after what he did to me last time.
As the old saying went: Burned once. Shame on you. Burned twice. Shame on me.
I’d learned my lesson. Years ago. This guy deserved no second chances.
Now truly safe and sound, and no longer hungry, thanks to what was probably a massive concussion, I sat at the kitchen table and opened the binder containing the ranch’s financial records. Aunt Sandee hadn’t owned a computer. She’d kept all her records the old-fashioned way. By hand. On paper.
But it didn’t take fancy computer accounting reports to see the ranch was in trouble.
The pages (figuratively) were bleeding red ink. I flipped through the last year and saw that it hadn’t operated in the black for at least that long if not longer.
Oh, hell.
According to my aunt’s will, I had access to no assets outside of the ranch and the meager bank accounts that were associated with it. She had other holdings. Stocks. Bonds. And who knew what else. But I couldn’t use any of those assets to keep this place going. And yet I had to not only live on the ranch but keep it running for five years. Five!
If I failed, all the rest of her assets went to someone else. I didn’t even know who. All I had was a corporate name—Pronghorn Holdings, Inc..
My sweet old aunt sure had thr
own me a curveball. She’d put me in one hell of a position.
I flipped to the expenses page and checked every entry. I couldn’t cut back on most expenses. They were either set expenses or vital, like feed for the animals. Utilities were what they were. I could try to cut back a little, but there was only so much I could do there.
However, the wages for the employees looked high. Maybe I could cut back on hours and do more of the work myself? It was my only hope.
I started there, taking down notes as I tried to fashion a workable budget that would put off what appeared to be the inevitable for as long as possible. Then, not feeling well, after that crash, I flung myself onto my bed and closed my eyes.
Tomorrow, I would do better.
My head would be clear.
The answers would come.
Tomorrow.
That rooster. That goddamned, big-mouthed cock.
I hated him. Despised. Loathed.
What time was it?
I checked the clock. Five-thirty? AM?
I smashed my pillow over my ears.
I didn’t need to get up at five-freaking-thirty. No, I didn’t.
Thumping. Now I heard thumping. What the hell was that?
Why did everything have to happen at five-thirty in the morning? Why couldn’t everything wait until a reasonable hour, like nine-thirty? I lifted the pillow and blinked through the thick sleep-haze blurring my vision.
That wasn’t thumping. It was knocking. Someone was knocking on the door. At this hour. I was going to have to get up.
Well, dammit.
I rolled out of bed, stomped to the door, and ripped it open.
“Good morning, darlin’.” Clay strolled in carrying a paper bag and thermos.
Good morning? It was definitely not a good morning. At least, not yet. After I’d had some coffee, and a few more hours of sleep, I might be singing a different tune.
“Clay, what are you doing here so early? And where are you going?” I grumbled as I tracked his progress with heavy-lidded eyes.
“To the kitchen,” he answered with an audible eyeroll, as if I’d asked a stupid question. As he passed me, he gave me an up-and-down look. “Did I wake you, princess?”
“No,” I lied as I barefooted after him. “You did not wake me.”
“Good.” He dropped the bag on the table and twisted open the thermos. “Breakfast?” he asked my chest.
Why was he talking to my…? I looked down.
Nipples.
Bastard.
I crossed my arms to hide the pointy peaks. It was a little chilly. Did he have to be such a worm? Staring? Really? “Are you asking me or my tits? Because my tits don’t drink coffee.”
“Hmm. You’re right. I haven’t met a tit yet that drank.” He sat and poured some steaming coffee into the thermos top and offered it to me. “I’m asking you. You look like you could use some caffeine. Not used to the early hours, yet?”
I shook my head. “No, thank you.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He motioned toward the bedroom. “Tell you what, why don’t you get some more sleep? I’m sure you need it after everything that happened yesterday. And I’ll get to work,” he suggested with a smile that said something else entirely.
The jerk. He was actually trying to say I was too weak, too girly, to run the ranch.
I would show him.
“No way. I know what you’re doing.” I shook my finger in his face. “Acting all sweet, coming to my rescue. I know you better than that. I know everything you do has a string attached. That cup of coffee, what would that cost me?”
He shrugged. “A kiss? Maybe an accidental touch of your tit?”
“What is it with you and my boobs?” My blood turned to steam. “Asshole!” I grabbed his stupid thermos and bag of whatever and shoved them at his chest. “Get out.”
“Are you sure you don’t want a pastry?” he asked. “I bought cream-filled. Your favorite.”
“You mean, your favorite,” I shot back, venom darkening my voice. Then I realized the terrible mistake I’d made.
Our gazes tangled.
His cocky grin widened.
“You got that right. I love cream.” He licked his lips.
What a sick bastard.
I wanted to smack that smug look right off his ridiculously gorgeous face. But I didn’t. Because I knew that was exactly what he wanted. He loved to push my buttons. I was not going to give him the satisfaction.
I stabbed a finger at the door. “Out.”
“Sure, anything you say, boss.”
“Yes, that’s better. Boss. I am your boss. Remember that. I sign your paychecks.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He moseyed out the door. The ancient wooden screen door slammed shut behind his ass with a satisfying smack.
My stomach rumbled.
Shit. I had nothing to eat but pickles. And no car. But there was no way I could accept one of Clay’s cream-filled pastries. Or any of that delish-smelling coffee. No matter how much I needed caffeine.
Which I did. Desperately.
I dragged my still groggy self back to the bedroom and eyed the rumpled bed with regret. How I wanted to dive back in that soft, comfy bed and go back to sleep! I wanted that almost more than anything.
But I couldn’t. It was now almost six o’clock and my stomach was screaming at me to get something in it. Not to mention Elvis, the rooster, was going to make sure I didn’t get another wink of sleep until tonight. Little bastard. He was still cock-a-doodle-doing like his freaking life depended upon waking everyone within at least a five mile radius.
If he kept that up, maybe I’d cook him for dinner tonight. Roasted rooster. Yum.
My stomach growled louder.
So what if I’m a vegetarian. A girl’s got to eat.
I dug through my boxes for some clothes, quickly changed and headed outside in search of something to eat. It was too early in the season for any of the berries or fruit. The garden area was an untilled patch of weeds.
But clucking came from the hen house.
Now that was a sweet, sweet sound!
Clucking hens equaled eggs. Fresh eggs. Scrumptious eggs. Eggs were on my okay-to-eat list. They didn’t have a face.
I scurried to the wooden henhouse and ducked inside, sneezing at the dust and feathers. Eyes watering, I poked around in the straw nested in each box, looking for eggs.
I found one.
One?
Surely there had to be more. There were at least ten chickens cackling and scratching around my ankles.
I checked again, actually lifting the clumps of straw and inspecting each compartment. The girls squawked, pecking at my shoes, tugging at shoelaces.
The door swung open and Clay caught me redhanded, my hand shoved under the ass of one pissed-off hen.
“I heard the commotion and thought I’d better check. There’s been a coyote eatin’ the hens. Saw the door hanging open and thought it might’ve gotten in again.” He took a step back. “But I see it’s no coyote.”
“Why aren’t these birds laying?” I displayed the single egg I found as I pushed past the chicken police. The instant I stepped outside I sneezed, bobbling the egg in my palm.
“Too old,” Clay said.
“Too old? What?”
“The hens. They’re too old. Sandee knew they weren’t laying anymore. But she couldn’t get it in her to slaughter them. She said she was an old bird too, and didn’t want anyone snappin’ her neck just because she was too old to lay eggs.”
Now, that sounded like my aunt. I felt myself smiling, despite my hunger. “I see.” I carried my one egg with great care as I made a beeline for the house. “Well, I guess I’ll figure out what to do about that later.” I yanked open the door and headed straight to the kitchen.
Skillet. Yes.
Butter? No, no fresh butter.
And no patience to milk a cow and make some.
No biggie. I’d fry the damn thing dry. I didn’t care.
&
nbsp; I clunked the old cast iron pan onto the stove and lit the burner. Flames flared. I cracked the egg and it plopped onto the pan. Within seconds the whites were sizzling and the air was filling with the mouthwatering scent of fried egg.