“So you arranged this?” she asked Dewar as they slung saddles off their horses at the same time.
“Not exactly. In the real Chisholm Trail run there were families who lived on the trail and sometimes the cook bought food from them. When I talked to the fellow that owns the property we’re crossing he told me about this old barn, said there was hay leftover from last year, and he’d put some oats in here for the horses just in case we wanted a place to hole up for a day or two,” Dewar explained.
Her heart jumped around like a hyperactive child who’d just gotten out of the classroom and turned loose on the playground. “So we’re staying more than just tonight?”
Dewar shook his head. “We’ve been traveling slow enough and there’s been enough pasture grass that the cows aren’t losing weight, so we’ll go on tomorrow morning.”
Her heart fell into her boots. She slid the wet blanket off Apache’s back and slung it over a stall, led him into it, and brushed him down before shutting the door. Now it was her turn and she was almost too tired to even take off her wet clothing.
Dewar leaned against the stall where his big black horse, Stallone, was happily eating from a feed trough. “Loft is yours. We’ll spread out over the bottom here and Coosie already claimed one of those last stalls as his.”
She picked up her saddlebags. “Good night.”
“Supper in an hour. Coosie has dug out a fire pit over there.” He nodded toward the far end of the barn, “and opened that door enough for the smoke to escape that way. He’s got a pot of stew going and says he’s frying doughnuts tonight because after today we need something to pep us up.”
She looked at the ladder leading up to the loft, slung her saddlebags over her shoulder, and grabbed the first rung.
“I’ll bring up your bedroll,” Dewar said.
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
The area wasn’t half as big as her bedroom in Dallas. Loose hay was scattered on the rough wooden floor, half a dozen hay bales were stacked against the south wall, and a lantern hung on the north wall.
“Does that work?” she asked.
“If it’s got kerosene in it, it probably does, but you’d have to be careful. As dry as this hay and wood is, if you knocked it over the place could burn to the ground in a hurry,” Dewar said.
He untied her bedroll and unfurled the whole thing with the expertise of a true cowboy. “There you go. I’ll yell when Coosie has the food ready.”
“Thanks again.” She opened one of her saddlebags and removed a notebook and pen, sat down on a bale of hay, and started writing ideas.
If it rains, keep going. Bring whatever equipment you’ll need because it’s a real test to stay on the horse without even stopping for lunch. She scratched out the word lunch and wrote dinner. They wouldn’t call it lunch and dinner; it’s dinner and supper on the trail. Check with the owner of the barn north of El Reno to see if the television show could use it to sleep in one night. Would make a wonderful filming area with the horse stalls and the hayloft. Throw in a barn rat to test the bravery of the ladies. And if it’s raining or lightning it’ll make for more drama.
She looked up at the rafters above her and scanned the whole loft for rats. She’d only thought that a downtown Dallas office was drama prone. Riding the trail with six men brought about the real, honest-to-God stuff, not just the watercooler kind of shit where someone was whining because they didn’t get flowers or a call after that one-night stand.
Put them out here in a Survivor world with a hundred head of cattle, a rangy old bull who thought he was the boss, and a donkey that was fast becoming her personal sidekick. Take away their laptops, mirrors, makeup, Prada shoes, power suits, and their cell phones and after a month, ask them how much that watercooler gossip was worth.
Haley carefully put her notes back into the saddlebag and removed a whole new set of clothing. She tugged her wet boots off and set them to one side, hopefully to dry before morning, hung her wet socks over a hay bale, and peeled out of her jeans, shirt, and underwear, spreading them out flat so they’d dry. Then she removed her washcloth from the baggy and opened the window in the big doors and held it out to soak up enough rainwater to wash.
Goose bumps popped up on her body from the tips of her toes to her scalp, but she could endure the cold long enough to cleanse her body before she put on clean clothing. It took a while to wash, rinse, clean the washcloth, and re-dress, but the warm feeling afterwards was well worth the time. If it hadn’t been so damned cold and there hadn’t been six men in the barn, she would have taken a rain shower. She threw back the saddlebag flap and took out her notes.
If it rains, have the women on the trail take showers in the rain. It’ll make wonderful footage but remember to be discreet. This will be a family show.
“Still writing?” Dewar’s head popped up through the hole in the floor.
“Writing again. Supper ready?”
“It is. And you changed,” he said.
“Yes, I did, and I’m not putting those wet boots back on tonight,” she told him.
“We’ve got the chores done and we’re in our dry sock feet also. Coosie is dipping up stew, and the boys are askin’ for your portion if you don’t want to eat.”
Her stomach growled loud enough that he heard it. “Guess that means you aren’t giving away your supper?”
“It does. Back down off my ladder and I’ll come claim my food. You did say we were havin’ doughnuts?”
He grinned.
She wished for the thousandth time that he wasn’t a real cowboy. If only he was a Texan who liked boots and Stetsons, but went to work in an office every day, then she’d gladly go on and fall for him. But like he’d said, he’d never be content in the city.
The fire pit threw off heat that felt as good to her skin as the stew did to her insides. Six weeks before she would have bought a straitjacket for the person who said she’d be enjoying hot, thick beef stew ladled up over cold biscuits in a metal plate. But that night, as the rain continued to pour, the wind howled, and the cattle lowed in the corral on the other side of the thin wall, it was right next door to heaven.
She remembered an old Travis Tritt song, “It’s a Great Day to Be Alive.” He said that it was a goofy thing, but he had to say he was doing all right. He thought he’d make him some homemade soup, and even though there were hard times in the neighborhood, it was a great day to be alive.
Nothing could be goofier than sitting in an old horse barn eating plain stew and enjoying the experience. She glanced around as she ate and wondered if they appreciated a nice, warm barn as much as she did. Finn, the quiet O’Donnell with the haunted eyes, she had no doubt he’d have her back if she got into trouble. Heaven help a coyote or a bobcat that tried to harm her. Finn would shoot it without a second thought. Then there was Sawyer, the noisy boy of the lot. Always a smile and always had something to say, and that boy could sing like a Nashville star. Rhett was the rebel with his tattoo and blond ponytail. Buddy and Coosie were two overprotective uncles. That left Dewar sitting to her right. She slid a sidling glance toward him.
After only a week she already knew the six men better than she did the office staff she’d known for eight years. There was just something about the honest openness of the whole bunch that touched her heart and put a tear behind her eyelashes as she ate the stew and listened to them.
“That’s a hell of a bull you picked out,” Sawyer said.
“He showed leadership skills in the pasture, so I figured he’d do all right on the trail,” Dewar said.
“Too bad he’ll probably be ground up into hamburger,” Finn said.
The little tear dried up instantly. “What are you saying?” Haley asked.
“What do you think happens to the cattle that go to Dodge City to the feedlots?” Dewar asked.
“I never thought about it,” she answered.
“They fatten them up and sell them to slaughterhouses. The hamburger you buy in the grocery store was once a critter
on four legs.”
“And you’ll let them take your lead bull with those gorgeous big horns and make steaks out of him? He’s breed quality, Dewar. You can’t let them kill him.”
“If he was breeding quality, I wouldn’t have made him walk over four hundred miles to a feedlot,” Dewar argued.
“And my donkey?” she asked. “Is he going to be hamburger?”
“No, probably cat food,” Sawyer teased.
She spun around to glare at him. “Eeyore is not for sale.”
“How do you suppose you’re going to get him back to your apartment in Dallas?” Dewar asked.
“How are you getting these horses back to Ringgold? Are we riding all the way back?” she asked.
“Hell, I hope not,” Rhett said.
Coosie held up a hand. “There will be a semitruck to take the chuck wagon home and a horse trailer to take the horses back. If you want to keep Eeyore, then he can ride home with the horses.”
“Thank you.” She had no idea what on earth she’d do with a donkey in a fifth-floor apartment complex in Dallas, but she’d cross that bridge later. Could she leave him in her parent’s backyard?
Hell, no! That’s an exclusive gated community that doesn’t even allow clotheslines or the garage doors left open in the daytime. There’s no way they’d let a donkey through the gates, even if he is better trained than some of the people who live there.
“Well, now that the fate of the donkey is taken care of and you two have stopped bickering, it is time to fry doughnuts,” Coosie said.
Haley polished off the last of her stew and then mopped up the juice with another biscuit. She watched Coosie flop a mound of bread dough out on the makeshift worktable and roll it out. Using a sharp knife, he cut the dough into rectangles and laid them on a big flat pan. He carried it to the fire, dropped the pieces into the boiling grease a few at a time, flipped them when they floated, and took them out as soon as both sides were brown. Then he took them back to the table where he spooned a brown sugar glaze on the tops and motioned for Buddy to come get that trayful while he worked on the next one.
Haley groaned when she bit into the first maple long john. “God, this is wonderful. Why aren’t you running a bakery?”
“Because you and Dewar would kill each other if I wasn’t here to keep you apart.” Coosie was already frying a second round. “Eat ’em up because they get tough when they’re old.”
“I’d eat bugs with this icing on them.” Haley reached for her third one. “How come you haven’t made these every night?”
“Same reason we don’t have singin’ and dancin’ every night,” Coosie said. “Put it down in your notes that after a week on the trail, the cookie should make doughnuts to keep up their morale.”
“Cookie?” she asked.
“That’s what the Chisholm Trail cook was called. Either that or Coosie, like me. I liked Coosie better than Cookie. It sounds tougher, don’t you think? And he was almost as important as the trail boss. He was the dentist, the doctor, and the cook. So when you choose that person for your reality show, make sure he can do the job.”
“I’ll tell the directors to make sure of that,” she said.
She and Dewar both reached for the last pastry on the tray at the same time. When their fingers touched, they jerked back and Buddy grabbed the long john.
“That’ll teach the whole bunch of you not to fight.” He laughed.
“You are mean!” Haley said.
“But I got the d-d-doughnut,” he stuttered.
She slapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, you did, but you’d better eat it in a hurry or I’ll bite your fingers tryin’ to get at it.”
Dewar got the first one of the second tray and it was so hot that he had to jiggle it between two hands while he ate. “I’d live like this forever if you’d make these once a week, Coosie.”
“I imagine after a month of this life, you’ll be ready for a soft bed and your old lifestyle and wouldn’t be no doughnuts in the world that would put you back in the saddle during a cold rainstorm,” Coosie told him. “How about you, Haley?”
“These are delicious, Coosie, but darlin’, I wouldn’t trade my soft bed and lifestyle for a hundred of them,” she answered.
Chapter 10
It was already dark when she told the guys good night and climbed the ladder to the loft. Since the very first day, she’d been without privacy unless she awoke early and snuck off to the creek for a quick washup or back behind the trees to take care of personal matters. And now that she had it, she hated to leave the guys behind.
She picked hay from her socks and slipped into her sleeping bag, all dry and warm even though it was still pouring rain outside. A loud clap of thunder startled her and she sat straight up. A rat the size of a possum ran across the end of her sleeping bag, through a hole down into the floor, and she could not stop shivering no matter how hard she tried.
“Scared you, did it?” Dewar asked.
“Where did you come from?” she gasped.
“That hole in the floor that the ladder comes up through.” He pointed.
“I didn’t hear you.”
He chuckled and sat down on the edge of her tarp. “You was busy watchin’ that rat run from you. Not too fond of them, are you?”
She slowly shook her head. He’d kissed her, danced with her, whispered sweet songs in her ear, and then avoided her like she had eaten garlic, wallowed in cow crap, and had the plague all rolled into one. Now he was sitting beside her talking like they were old buddies.
“What is this, Dewar?”
He held out an ink pen. “You had this tucked behind your ear and dropped it when you left.”
She reached out and took it, not surprised in the least by the effect his touch had on her skin. Anger and indifference did not stop physical attraction any more than it could make it happen if it wasn’t there.
“Thank you. It’s my favorite, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You haven’t said two words to me in three days. We had a kiss that lit up the sky like the Fourth of July and those dances that were fantastic, and then you avoided me like I was a skunk. And now out of the clear blue sky you bring my pen up here and want to talk?”
He reached over and pushed a strand of hair away from her cheek. “I’m lonely. The guys all were snoring by the time they zipped up their sleeping bags.”
“So I’m going to be your pal when you are lonely and other than that I’m going to be treated like a leper?”
“Okay.” He inhaled deeply. “I’m attracted to you. I’ve always had a thing for redheads and you are sexy as hell. But we both know this won’t work, Haley. Like you said down there while we were eating, you wouldn’t trade your way of life for anything, not even a hundred of those doughnuts. Me, I’d go back in time to a more primitive era if I could. I love ranching, cows, horses—all of it. I’d never be happy in the city. So starting something would be downright crazy.”
She sat up and unzipped her sleeping bag. “I agree, Dewar. We aren’t relationship material.”
“Do I hear a but?”
She shook her head. “You don’t hear a but or an and or even a however.”
“Friends for the duration of the trip, then?”
She sat up and took two steps on her knees, stopping when she was close enough to feel the heat between them in the darkness. She would have liked to see the expression in his eyes when she reached out and unsnapped his shirt in one long popping motion. She did hear him gasp when she put both palms on his chest and tweaked his nipples with her thumbs.
“My turn. What is this, Haley?” he drawled.
She slung a leg over and sat in his lap. “This is what it is. What do you want it to be?”
***
He groaned and wrapped his arms around her. “I want it to be more than it can ever be.”
“I bet you say that to all the sexy redheads that grab your attention,” she whispered.
“I said I was attracted to redheads. Not that ma
ny have gotten my attention,” he told her.
He buried his face in her neck, drinking in the softness and the smell of perfumed soap. That much had him fully aroused and ready, but it had been a long time since he’d held a woman and he wanted the whole package, not just a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am bout of sex.
He traced her jawline with his fingertips and bent to kiss her. Her lips were moist, her tongue ready to do a sizzling mating dance with his. Her kisses tasted like brown sugar and hot black coffee, the combination as heady and sensual as her full lips on his.
Haley tangled her hands in his dark hair and kept his mouth on hers for more and more. He could almost hear her body purring as he slipped his hand under her shirt and slowly ran it up her backbone.
He pulled her so close that her breasts were smashed against his chest, but the material of her shirt kept her from feeling the soft hair, so he leaned back, pulled it over her head, and tossed it toward her boots. He fumbled with the hooks on her black lacy bra and finally had it dangling to her sides as he massaged her back from the waist up.
“God, that feels so good.” Her voice was throaty.
“Yes, it does,” he whispered softly.
Chill bumps popped up under his hands.
“Cold?”
“Hot as hell,” she said.
“Good, because I am too.”
She reached between them and unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans, and ran her hand inside to grasp his erection.
He gasped. “Your hands are cold and that feels so good.”
“So do your hands,” she whispered.
He slipped a hand up under the wires of her bra and cupped a breast, brushing the nipple with his thumb until it hardened in anticipation.
“You are so damn sexy,” he whispered.
“And you are so damn big.” She squeezed.
“Think so?”
“Oh, yeah!”
The bra came off and dangled on her wrist because she wouldn’t pull her hand out of his jeans.
“Dewar, this is getting uncomfortable. Take it all off and we’ll use the sleeping bag for a cover.”
Carolyn Brown - [Spikes & Spurs 07] Page 10