by Kate Kinsley
The entire drive to Montana’s ranch, all I can think about is her.
The woman who opened the door could have graced any billboard or magazine cover, but she’s better than those two-dimensional photoshopped models. She has an understated beauty. Perhaps it’s because she’s so disarmingly unaware of how beautiful she truly is. There is a shyness to her—a hesitation in her body movements and a softness in her voice.
I have a desire to protect her from anything and everything.
A need to rescue her from her fears.
I want to be there for her when she falls, so I can catch her.
I’ve never felt this way about a woman before—and I can’t wait to see her again.
Before I know it, I’m pulling onto the long driveway leading to the ranch. As I approach the front of the house, Montana and Avery appear. I park the car and exit, watching her walk down the porch steps toward her Jeep. “C’mon, slowpoke. We have things to do.”
Confused, I ask, “Things?”
“Yes. Like get you an appropriate wardrobe for the fickle weather changes of Montana.” She opens the back-passenger door and buckles Avery into her child seat.
“My clothes are fine,” I protest.
She laughs. “That poor excuse for a coat you had on yesterday tells me otherwise.”
She slides in to the driver’s side, and I get in the front passenger seat. “I’m fine, really. It’s bound to warm up sooner or later, right?”
She starts the Jeep and throws the car in drive. “The weather in Montana is as fickle as my obstinate child,” she says, pulling down the driveway. “One minute, it’s overflowing with sunshine and warmth, the next, it’s dark, brooding, and threatening to bring down a storm with crackling booms of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning. Then, it can be indecisive—flirting with ideas of cold and warmth, freezing fog and sleet, or just a touch of light mist. You never know what you’re going to get, especially in the early spring and late fall.”
“Montana, really—”
“No arguing. You need a coat, especially once we start herding the cattle. The fields can get bitter cold with the winds whipping off the mountains.” Turning right, she drives toward town.
“Fine,” I huff. “I’m just not used to anyone taking care of me.”
“Then consider it me protecting my father’s investment. I don’t want you dropping dead of hypothermia.” Her sarcasm isn’t lost on me. I decide to let her play caretaker and keep my mouth shut.
I turn my head to glance at Avery who’s sitting behind Montana. She has a picture book in her hands, and she’s pretending to read it.
“So, where are you taking me?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
“One of the local sports equipment stores. They stock everything you need for the capricious climate here,” she answers, taking a left turn. “So, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself, since all I know is you’re an ex-Navy SEAL.”
It’s true—I have her at a disadvantage. I know everything about her, and she knows nothing about me. “I was born and raised in New Jersey—”
“I knew you had an accent! It sounded just like those kids from that TV show that used to be on. What was it called?”
“Jersey Shore?” I ask on a sigh.
“That’s it!”
I clench my jaw, biting the urge to snap. I sound nothing like those morons. Sure, I have a Jersey accent, but I can’t stand when I get compared to those imbeciles.
“Anyway, I joined the Navy right after high school. I always wanted to be a SEAL, and after basic, I went into SEAL training.”
“That’s really cool,” she says as she pulls onto the highway.
“After going through SEAL training, I was recruited to sniper school.”
A Navy SEAL sniper is a mature, intelligent shooter who leverages technology to his deadly advantage. He has spent thousands of hours honing his skills. He is a master of concealment in all environments, from the mountains of Afghanistan to the crowded streets of Iraq. He is trained in science and left alone to create the unique art of the kill. To the sniper, the battlefield is like a painter’s blank canvas.
Recruiters seek out a special breed of man, one willing to crawl over the hot desert floor for hours, as slow as a snail, through his own bodily waste to set up on his target. A man who will then wait hours and more for that perfect shot. A man with the will and patience of a sniper.
They said I was a perfect fit.
SEAL training was difficult, but sniper training was one of the hardest things I ever did.
“What do snipers do?” she asks, curiosity laced in her words.
Do I tell her you spend days crawling, climbing, and slinking while getting bit by every bug and scratched by every thicket? That bathroom use is done while you lay on your side, looking through night vision or scopes for endless hours—not to mention, your rest comes from sleeping in fifteen-minute bursts. Or we need to possess a skill that is sought out, honed, and refined—something we call "bubble compartmentalization," or the ability to block everything else out for long periods of time, except specific visual and observation skills?
“Basically, we sit still, observe, and calculate our target without losing our minds.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound too bad,” she murmurs as she exits the highway.
Yeah. If she only knew.
After a few turns, she pulls into a large parking lot. She parks and exits the Jeep, then unbuckles Avery. As she closes the door behind the tot, I come around the back of the vehicle to help her unload the stroller. Once Avery’s secure, I follow them toward the entrance.
The store is huge, with rows and rows of sports items and winter wear. She leads me toward the coats. Looking through the rack, she pulls out a Carhartt Sherpa lined sandstone hooded multi pocket jacket in a large. Thrusting the coat toward me, she demands, “Try this on.”
I comply, and I shrug on the bulky coat. It’s a little tight around my arms. “Is there an extra-large in—?”
She has it in her hand before I can finish my sentence. “That one looks a little tight around your shoulders,” she insists as she holds the larger size. I switch them out, and the extra-large fits perfect. It feels light, but the interior lining is nice and warm. Much better than the windbreaker I was calling a jacket. “It looks great on you,” she says as she puts the large jacket back on a hanger.
“It feels good,” I admit as I take it off.
“One item down. Now, let’s go look at boots.” She takes the coat from me and drapes it over the stroller, then pushes Avery down the aisle toward the shoes. I shrug, knowing I’m not going to be able to argue my way out of this.
We go through the store, Montana adding more and more items to the back of the stroller and giving something to Avery to hold every once in a while so she feels like she’s helping. When she decides I have enough, we go up to the register. The cashier totals up all of the items, and I reach into my wallet to pay. “Oh, no you don’t,” she argues, then hands the clerk a credit card.
“Don’t take that card,” I shout at the poor woman working the register. “Montana, there’s no way I’m letting you pay for this.”
“There’s no way you can stop me,” she counters. “The reason you need all of this is to help me on my ranch. It’s the least I can do.” Before I can reach over and grab Montana’s card, the cashier swipes it.
“Goddammit,” I growl through clenched teeth.
“Quit your whining,” she huffs as she signs the credit card slip.
“Fine. But I’m taking you to dinner tonight. No excuses.”
Turning her head back to me, she smiles. “I’ll see if I can get a sitter.”
Abigail
The ride home is quiet. I’m almost positive I wounded his pride, but I’ll let him make it up to me. It’s been a while since I’ve been out to dinner. It was a rarity when I was with Danny, so I decide not to argue and just enjoy myself.
I must admit, though,
the jacket was made for him.
His rugged physique made it a perfect match, like he was meant to be a rancher.
I don’t care that he’s from New Jersey, I’ll show him what it’s like to be an outdoors man.
Ryan now has all the proper tools to do the job. His prominent cheekbones and well-defined chin and nose were complemented by the brimmed hat I had him purchase. I was able to get a glimpse of taught muscles that rippled across his chest when he was trying on the flannel shirts, but it wasn’t until he was trying on those skin-tight denim jeans that my face flushed. He has an amazing ass, and they fit him perfectly.
I pull into the driveway and park near the front door. “Why don’t you go grab your things from your truck and I’ll show you to your room,” I say just before exiting the car.
“Good idea,” he answers, walking toward his truck.
I pluck Avery from her car seat and trudge up the steps toward the front door. Once it’s open, I carry her through the house, plop her down in front of the TV, and turn on one of her favorite Disney shows.
By the time I’m finished and back at the front door, Ryan is approaching with a single duffel bag. “That’s all you have?” I ask in surprise as he walks in.
“I’ve learned to travel light,” he answers with a smile.
“Your room is through here.” I lead him down the hallway to the left of the kitchen toward the guest room. It’s modest, but will work for what he needs. The most important thing is he has his own bathroom.
“This is perfect. Thank you.” He tosses his bag on the bed. “I’ll just go get the bags from the Jeep.” I stand to the side so he can pass me, and his hand brushes against mine. A small gasp almost escapes as a slight tingle runs under my skin. It’s a warm sensation that has the hairs on my arm standing on end.
As he goes to retrieve his new clothes, I shake it off and check on Avery. “Do you want juice?” I ask, moving toward the refrigerator, pretending I didn’t feel any of that.
“Juice!” she repeats. I pour some apple juice into a sippy cup and tighten the lid. She managed to unscrew the top yesterday and I had grape juice all over the rug. I’m not making that mistake again.
“Here, Avery.” Without taking her eyes from the screen, she reaches her tiny hand behind her. I place the handle of the cup in her hand, and she yanks it from me. “You’re welcome,” I mutter under my breath.
Coffee. I need coffee. I scurry around the kitchen and brew a pot. By the time it’s finished brewing and I’ve poured myself a cup, Ryan enters the kitchen, dressed in the new jeans, flannel, and work boots. “I’ve brought everything in. What do you need me to do?” He leans on the doorframe, waiting for a response.
I can’t speak.
Hell, I can’t move.
Standing in front of me is the definition of a smoking hot rancher, and I’m stunned silent. What I would do to see that flannel crumpled up on my bedroom floor…
“Montana,” he teases, waving his hand through the air in front of his face. “You with me?”
“Uh, yeah. So—Sorry.” Willing myself to get it together, I shake the naughty thoughts floating around my brain. “I thought I’d take you on a tour of the ranch, get a feel for it.”
“I figured something along those lines.” He smiles, still leaning on the wall. Damn, that looks so sexy. “Let me go change. Give me a minute,” I say as I scurry toward my bedroom.
I quickly throw on my jeans, work boots, and a hoodie since it’s warmed up a bit since yesterday. When I come back out, he’s sitting on the floor next to Avery. She’s explaining her cartoon to him, and he looks genuinely interested.
“Avery, you ready to go see the horseys?” I ask her. She always gets excited to see the horses.
“We watch Mickey, Momma,” she answers, pointing to the TV.
“I’m going to see the horseys, Avery. Don’t you want to come?” Ryan says, trying to reason with an unreasonable toddler.
She thinks about it for a second.
Here we go. It’s tantrum time. I don’t have time to deal with her outburst.
“Otay,” she answers and stands.
“Wait, what?” I mumble under my breath.
Ryan stands and shrugs. “Guess she likes me,” he brags with a wink.
Heat sears through my cheeks. There's something about Ryan, a slight confidence and inflated ego, that has me muddling my words and blushing uncontrollably.
Avery walks over to Ryan and lifts her hands over her head. He complies and picks her up. I’m not sure what’s going on, but it seems Avery has taken a shine to Ryan.
She’s not complaining.
She’s not wiggling in his hold.
I’m floored.
“We’re ready when you are,” he chuckles.
“Fine, follow me.”
Ryan
As I walk behind Montana, I think back to our hands touching as I exited my new bedroom. Just her touch made my dick so hard, I thought I was going to explode right there. I haven’t felt this way about someone since Mikayla. Mikayla was before the Navy—before my three tours of Afghanistan. I thought she was my everything…
I follow her down a stone path toward a large barn. As we enter, I notice there are a few men walking around the inside. “These are my ranch hands,” she explains as though she’s reading my thoughts. “That’s Mike and Tony, and over there is Trey.”
“This is a big barn,” I mutter, looking around. It must be three thousand square feet—bigger than most houses.
“This is where we keep the horses and tack equipment,” she answers.
Avery squirms, so I put her down. She grabs my index finger and leads me to one of the stalls. “Horsey,” she squeals, pointing to a black and white speckled horse.
“That’s Whinny.” The horse walks toward the front of the stall and pokes her head over the door. Montana moves toward Avery and hands her an apple. “Careful, Avery,” she cautions as the child lifts the fruit up toward the horse’s mouth. “Avery named her that, because of the noise she makes.” As if on cue, the horse whinnies. Avery giggles as she feeds her.
“Trey, can you watch Avery for a few minutes? I want to show Ryan around the ranch.”
“Sure thing, Ms. Montana,” he answers with a wave, then walks toward Avery.
“C’mon. There’s a lot more to see.”
I follow Montana out of the barn, but there’s a question that’s been bugging me. “Is Montana your maiden name or married name?”
She stops in her tracks. Turning to answer, she says, “Maiden. My married name was Miller. I want no part of my ex’s last name, and I’m considering having Avery’s legally changed.” Her body is rigid, and her tone is bitter.
There must be more to this than I read in the dossier.
Without another word, she turns back toward the exit to the barn and continues walking. I’m not one to pry. If she wants to talk, it will be on her terms.
The back of the barn opens up to a huge piece of land that goes back for as far as the eye can see. Off in the distance, I can make out the shape of a split rail fence that appears to section off part of the property.
“A ranch hand is quite busy in the spring because spring is calf season.” She walks over to a decorative wooden fence separating us from the cows, then leans on it with her forearms.
“Calf season?”
She laughs. “Yes. In Montana, most ranches are termed cow/calf operations. The herd of cows is maintained year-round to produce a new crop of calves every year.”
I watch the large furry animals wander around the fenced in area, but I don’t notice any with horns. “Bulls have horns, right?”
She laughs again. “Yes. Why?”
“I don’t see any.”
“They don’t stay here year-round. The bulls are put in with the cows at a deliberate time in the summer so the calves will arrive during a pre-determined two-month period in the spring.” She swings her leg around so she’s straddling the fence with her feet on the bottom
rail. “We brought in bulls at the beginning of July, so they started popping out calves around the middle of April.”
I move so I’m leaning on the fence next to her, my hands crossed in front of my chest. “So, they’re almost done?” I wonder aloud, since we’re now in May.
“There are still a few left to drop, but yes, calf season is just about finished.” Her leg brushes against my elbow and a jolt runs through me, like electrical sparks on the way to the ground, gathering in my toes. I suppress the urge to reach out and touch her face and distract myself with the miniature cows galloping circles around the larger ones, jumping and kicking their feet. “Seems like a lot of work.”
“Cows are reasonably self-sufficient. For half the year, they wander around eating the grass that grows underfoot. They keep track of their calves, which nurse whenever they like. In the fall, the calves are sold to generate the year's income. In the winter, the cows eat hay that’s spread on the ground daily. In the spring, they lay down and push out a new calf, usually without help. Outside of an occasional sick or lame animal, cows don't require much individual handling throughout most of the year.”
Swinging her leg back around, she hops off the fence. “So, what do the ranch hands do?” I follow her as she walks to what looks like a large wall.
“They help with the daily feeding and caretaking. They feed and dry calves soon after birth, as well as tag and vaccinate them when it becomes appropriate. They wean calves from their mothers and move them from pasture to pasture. Cattle need feeding every day until the pasture grass is green enough for grazing. General farming chores start in the spring too—leveling the ground and seeding. By late spring, ranch hands can brand new cattle as well.”
“You mean, like a hot piece of metal on the ass of the cow?” I can picture it in my head—pulling the large metal skewer from the flames with some initial on the end, like in the movies.
“Yep,” she answers, shaking her head. “Damn, you are so green.”
I shrug. “I told you. I grew up in New Jersey. Closest I came to a cow was a ribeye on the barbeque.” As we approach a large fence on wheels, I ask, “What exactly is this for?”