by Anne Marsh
“I did those things once.” She gives me a devilish grin.
Okay. So she’s the best kind of trouble.
“You cemented my saddle to the tack room wall and I woke up one morning and you were all sleeping in the cattle chute.”
“Those were pranks,” she protests. As if it makes everything better that she did it for fun and laughs. The guys in my SEAL team were also pro-prank. Shit got so frequent there that I’d had to think stuff up proactively. Of course, everything’s fun right up until someone dies or fires a mortar round into your fucking tent.
Case in point? “When I discovered you in said cattle chute, I’d just pulled up with a load of bulls.”
The discovery took at least ten years off my life. After you’ve seen a grown man go down beneath a thousand pounds of animal, you know exactly what would happen to a small girl like Rose. “What do you think would have happened if I’d unloaded directly into the chute?”
“You didn’t. We all knew you wouldn’t run cattle in that chute without double-checking first. You were always careful.”
Rose pulls her hair up into another one of those gravity-defying twists she likes so much. Her new do exposes the back of her neck and the top of her tattoo. There’s an orange flower right where her hair meets her neck. It’s half-open, half-closed, a bright pop of color.
“I closed gates. You opened them.” I could list her misdemeanors for hours, and not because I hold a grudge—but because there were so goddamned many of them. It’s a miracle she got any sleep. “You drove that car of yours twenty miles an hour over dirt and we all knew you were coming when we saw the road dust. I said: Be home by nine, and you’d drop my brothers off at nine. The next morning.”
“A simple misunderstanding?” She grinned over at him. “Next time, you knew better. You clarified.”
“No games today. You do what I say.”
“Sure thing, boss.” She flicks me a two-fingered salute.
As we jolt down the dirt road, Rose hums along to a country hit playing on my appropriated radio dial. Her taste in music has certainly changed since she was sixteen. I’m not sure it’s improved, though. The song is all heartsick love and loneliness, suiting the sky ahead of us, which is filling up fast with dark clouds. The air is pure tension, and I’ll have a storm on my hands soon enough.
When we reach the trough, the galvanized tank that should hold almost a hundred gallons is as dry as a bone. The pipeline from the source well runs almost a mile to this particular trough. If that well is running dry, too, Mother Nature has just raised the stakes on me.
Grabbing my tool belt from the back of the truck, I wade through the thirsty cattle and swing myself up onto the trough. The inch or so of standing water is barely enough to wet my boots, which explains the cattle’s unhappiness. They’re depending on me to drink, and I’m failing them. I get busy with the wrench, working the valve until the water seeps out grudgingly, flowing just a little faster.
Bottom line? There’s not enough. The pipeline is only delivering maybe five, ten, gallons per minute—far less than I need to keep the trough full. The cattle will drink today, and there may even enough to get the herd through the rest of the summer, but the well is clearly running on empty. Exhibit A is the sluggish trickle from a pump that should flow hard and fast.
Never content to watch, Rose slides out of the truck and wanders over to lean on the railing. Watching.
Her eyes move over the milling cattle and the too-empty trough. “Empty?”
I don’t want to have this conversation right now. Silently, I point the wrench at the too-slow stream of water feeding into the trough.
She frowns, fingernails tapping on the railing. Those nails are bright blue today with teeny-tiny yellow polka dots. Rose loves color. “You checked the pump?”
Better to have a broken pipe or a clogged pump than the truth. I’ve brought three drillers out to the ranch, and they’ve all said the same thing. There wasn’t enough rainfall this last winter, and the aquifer is done. My ranch drained it dry. The change hadn’t happened overnight, but the slow, steady suck—decades of overuse—still spells the end unless I pull the ultimate Hail Mary and strike cheap water.
“Pump’s sucking air.” I give the valve one last, hard twist. Tightening the hardware won’t help, but better to do something than nothing. “Water level’s just too damn low.”
She chews on her lower lip, running through an unseen mental checklist. “You had someone out here to take a look?”
Yeah. And they told me my only hope is the water underneath Rose’s beloved house. Bulldozing those walls means knocking down her dreams, too.
“I’m working on it,” I tell her, not wanting to take everything away from her right now. I’ll call it in. One of the hands can bring the water truck out here and fill her up.”
If I give her more time, will she see the light and decide to sell? I shoot her a sidelong glance. In addition to the tattoo that runs down her spine, she’s got tattoos inside her wrists and another, smaller tattoo twined around her ankle. She seems to be all about the flowers and bold swirls of ink. They’re fucking gorgeous, bursting with color and life.
“I don’t know how you lost that contest. The other guy had nothing on you.” Shit. My voice sounds gruff.
“You watched?” She sounds surprised.
“Every episode.” I give the equipment another once-over. The other guy had nothing on her.
“I want to open my tattoo shop here,” she says eagerly.
“Right here?” I say dryly. I love my ranch and have nothing but fucking appreciation for my herd, but it’s not where you’d head to get a tattoo done.
She punches me on the arm. “Don’t be so literal. The plan’s to do it in Auntie Dee’s house. Rory’s going to be my right-hand guy, and we’re going to give the best ink in the state.”
“Thought you might prefer somewhere busier,” I say.
She shrugs. “I love that house and I love my job. I can make it work.”
I understand why she wants to open her own shop. It’s just the Lonesome part that doesn’t make sense—it would be like me running cattle in downtown San Francisco. Some places are simply wrong for the job. She’s not going to have a million cowboys lining up for tats, not unless she’s inking dicks.
Fuck, but I’m screwed.
And it must be my un-birthday, because I discover fate isn’t finished with me yet. I’ve obviously pissed that bitch off big time. The truck has a flat. Punctured tires are an occupational hazard out here, but we’re not going anywhere until I change the tire. Taking the rough ranch roads on bare rim would jack the truck’s suspension and bounce Rose around like rocks in a can.
When I grab the jack out of the pickup bed, Rose pops up by my side. “You want a hand with that?”
Gotta wonder what makes her so uneasy with accepting help or letting someone else do the heavy lifting. Ignoring her, I strip off my shirt, hang my hat on the side mirror, and lower myself down, sliding under the truck to free the spare with the wrench.
Rose’s bare legs move in and out of my field of vision. She’s got the prettiest thighs, golden brown from the sun. Her ink seems to be focused on her back, shoulders and arms, but I can think of a few designs I’d draw on that smooth, bare skin. Granted, I’d be playing artist with my tongue and my teeth, but the insta-boner in my jeans is a distraction I don’t need.
She crouches down. I swear the world about stops because her crotch is right on my eye-level and there’s no way I’m not looking. Her shorts cut into the soft curve of her upper thigh, and I want to shove the denim out of the way and lick the shadowy hollow. I’ll bet she’s got on a pair of cute panties. Given how brief her shorts are, they’re gonna be real tiny panties.
“You need anything?”
Jesus. I’d be happy to give her a list.
“I’m good,” I tell her roughly, although I should be honest. I’m bad. I shouldn’t have brought her out here, and I shouldn’t be fantasizing
about stripping her shorts off, spreading her in the back of my truck, and eating her until she screams. But I am. Fuck, am I ever.
The spare pops free right before I spontaneously combust and I slide it out. She stands up, moving away because she’s never been one for sitting still. Somewhere close by, thunder rumbles, and the cattle call restlessly.
“We’re going to have rain,” I say, but there’s no response. Figures. When I want her far away from me, she sticks like a burr. When I want her close at hand, she goes off. Sliding out from beneath the truck, I sit up and spot the rain sweeping down from the hill. Water’s good, but the timing sucks. We’re gonna get soaked.
The gray sheet of rain heads for us with more accuracy than the last guided missile I launched at enemy aircraft right before everything went to fucking hell in Afghanistan. It was raining then, too, and we’d been ass-planted in a valley on the Pakistan border. The Indian monsoons had dumped water on us mercilessly, and it had been a toss-up which was worse—the never-ending wet or the baking heat. For too long, the razor-sharp, hostile peaks and the sodden grass of that Afghani valley eat up my ranch, my cattle, and my girl. I’m back in that hellhole, and I want to tell that stupid ass to fall back. To get out because a whole different kind of hurt is coming from him. My voice dries up and I can’t get the words out, though. All I can do is crouch in the grass, my finger clenching on the trigger, unaware that the enemy is sneaking up on me for the last time.
And then Rose laughs, delighted, and I snap back to the ranch. Thank fucking Christ. She sounds happy, as if I’d arranged the downpour just for her.
“Look, Angel! Rain!” She fairly dances in anticipation of getting thoroughly soaked. Her face glows, and she’s so much better than the Afghani nightmare that I have to smile too.
“That’s rain, all right.” I sound like a dumbass, my head still thick and slow from the flashback, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s completely riveted by the approaching storm, leaning into it with anticipation. Ordinarily, I’d just sit back and watch her because she’s fucking beautiful and so alive it hurts, but a heavy downpour will turn the dirt road to shit if the rain is anything but brief. Getting the tire fixed quickly is paramount. “We’ve got to get on the road if we don’t want to get mired out here.”
“You’re no fun,” she snorts, dancing away from me. That’s true. Since one of us has to be practical, I drop to my knees by the bad tire, working the jack underneath the truck. Rose has her face turned toward the approaching rain. Cold and wet had nothing to recommend it, not as far as I’m concerned. I work quickly but efficiently, testing the jack to make sure I’ve got it firmly in place. I didn’t survive Afghanistan only to have my truck slip when I’m underneath it. My eyes return over and over to Rose, not ready to lose sight of her. When I look at her, I know where I am. She’s my anchor.
The rain sweeps in hard and fast. Instead of paying attention to the job, I’ve got my hand on the sun-heated metal of the truck, watching Rose. The first wave of wet hits, the drops pinging against the pickup and stinging my skin. Wiping an arm over my forehead, I grab my hat from the side mirror and jam it on. The shirt I toss inside to keep it dry. Rose is gonna need it when she’s done playing.
The rain’s bite doesn’t bother her one bit. Water slicks the flimsy material of her tank top and shorts against her skin, and that’s so much better looking than the damned tire that I give up on fixing the thing for the moment. She dances in the rain to a song only she can hear, her hair plastered against her face. Her clothes aren’t decent anymore. She’s soaked, every curve and shadow on display for me. A fierce urge to possess her, right now, right here, lights me up. Sex is a battle, and she’s won without firing a shot because I’m ready to crawl for her.
Fuck. I don’t do submission.
I work the tire iron with a vengeance, forcing the stubborn lug nuts free, then jacking the truck up with slow, even pumps. The flat tire slides off easily and I set it aside. Focus on breathing in and out. On not looking at Rose. There’s no ignoring the boner shoving against my zipper, though. My body’s voting for the get fucked by Rose plan.
After finally getting the new tire on and secured, I lower the truck and finish tightening the nuts. Rose is still dancing in a slow, sensual weave. I don’t dance, but once again I’m tempted to make an exception for her. Instead, I toss the jack back into the truck bed along with the flat tire. Not too much to salvage there, but hope springs fucking eternal.
I’ve had Rose in my house for three days. She’s done the busy bee thing, taking over a lot of the cooking and cleaning from the happy housekeeper, all the while revisiting Auntie Dee’s to straighten up the place, reviewing her estimates, calling around for better bids, and scrutinizing local websites for god knows what. Rose has always been game, always up for a challenge, and she’s determined to open a tattoo shop in Lonesome. Her stubbornness, the way she holds on and won’t let go, is something special.
She’s special.
The rain soaks into her tank top, painting the thin fabric against her breasts. She’s wearing a bra—barely. The delicate little lace cups are more perch than ledge, the rain outlining every flourish and curlicue in the fabric barely containing her. It’s one hell of a view.
She dances toward me, looking so damned happy and I have no idea why. It’s wet, it’s muddy, and she doesn’t have a future because I took it away from her. The only thing I can give her is myself, and she deserves better than a broken former-SEAL who wants to own her body and soul.
I’m not gonna be smart about this. I manage to avoid crawling, but that’s my hand reaching out to her in invitation. She doesn’t hesitate, just tucks her fingers into mine as if she’s more than willing to two-step or waltz with me. I tug her closer and catch her, depositing her on my thigh. Her fingers curl into my shoulders. She’s as off-balance as I am. I’m not helpless here. I’m in charge.
“What’s up?” She glows at me, her eyes twinkling from mere inches away. She’s not close enough, not yet.
“You wanted to help,” I point out because who am I kidding? I’m totally doing this. “You parked on my lap works for me.”
“This isn’t a bar, cowboy. I’m not handing out lap dances.” She laughs a little, but there’s a note of uncertainty in her voice. She wants to pull her weight, but she doesn’t know what I want from her and some things are off the table.
I’ll show her what I want.
And then I’m gonna make her want it, too.
I wrap a hand around the back of her neck and ease her face closer to mine.
“How is… this… helping?” She whispers the question. The breathless is cute, or maybe that’s all the dancing she’s done. The heat of her pussy all but burns my thigh, though, so I’m thinking it’s for me. Or Rose just really, really likes the rain, and I can work with that. Out here it’s just me and her, and my brothers aren’t gonna interrupt us.
“Trust me.” My mouth forms words against hers, and I just have to lick her. Her lips taste like strawberries, some kind of lip gloss or maybe that’s just how Rose is. Sweet and soft and slick. I rub my thumb over her mouth, wanting more. “I’ll show you.”
She leans in to my touch. Does she know what she’s doing? She drives me crazy, the way she likes to get closer. Putting both arms around her, I cup her neck and her cheek, carefully pulling her mouth down onto mine. She can leave. It won’t take much effort. Those fingers curling into my shoulders can push, and I’ll let go.
When our lips meet, I take control even as the rain coming down around us slows. I should get her inside the truck and out of the rain, but my plan devolves into kissing and kissing her, devouring her, my lips parting hers. She opens, and I get my tongue inside her mouth. Stroking and tasting, I learn every inch of her. My Rose is fucking sweet. Her scent wraps around me, surrounding me every bit as much as her sexy little whimpers.
I’m too rough. I should slow down, go gentle. Instead, I hitch her up, her thighs splitting around my waist, my hands
cupping her butt. I line my dick up against her denim-covered pussy and she feels even better than I remembered. My pulse is banging in my ears, almost as hard as my dick, and I fight the urge to take her down to the ground and fuck her hard.
But I’m sliding up and down, pushing my dick into her hot little pussy as much as her shorts will let me in. I grip her hips with my hands, and I fuck myself with her. Or maybe she’s using me, because she’s making sounds, sexy, needy, whimpering sounds that sound like heaven and a symphony orchestra. Or maybe it’s just the soundtrack to our own personal sex tape, because I shove my fingers underneath her shorts and she’s hot and wet and I’m completely undone.
I inch my fingers higher, trace the edge of her panties. Jesus. My imagination’s running riot. I want to rip her shorts off, see for myself what she’s hiding from me. Feels like lace and something silky. She catches my lower lip with her teeth, nipping, and I growl. Pleasure follows the brief sting.
I get my fingers underneath her panties.
She freezes, pulling back and sucking in air as if to clear her head and get free of me. Not happening. She’s let me in. She doesn’t lose me now, because I need her to hang onto me like she does everything else in her life.
“Don’t,” I growl. “Don’t stop, Rose. We’re not friends.”
I see the small shock of surprise in her eyes as she struggles to process my words. “Angel—”
“You’re gonna come for me now,” I tell her and stroke her sweet, hot pussy from top to bottom. She’s soaking wet and my dick jerks.
“Not friends?” she echoes.
“Not friends.” I touch her again, and she’s so close. She’s so close. I can feel the tiny tremors rippling through her pussy. “Lovers.”
I wouldn’t mind being her friend, but it has to be a too thing. I slide my fingers deeper, working her pussy. Finding her clit and rubbing it. I want her so bad, and it seems she feels the same way. I’m working her, petting her, learning what makes her moan and push against my hand. My fingers dance over her wet folds fucking worshipping her.