by Sonja Gunter
Together they headed out the door Max just came through. Rosalind’s irritation rose in spite of the chilly air. The temperature had dropped and heavy snow blinded their route.
I gave him what he wanted. Horse crap, he’s won.
Ignoring him, she set the pace and hurried to the house. She entered first and when Allan followed, the wind caught the door and slammed it shut.
“Wow. Burrr, it’s cold here,” he whined.
“It’s Minnesota,” she declared.
The two words said it all. They took off their winter coats and boots. He rubbed his arms. Rosalind rolled her eyes and headed to the kitchen.
“I’d love to stay for a home cooked Thanksgiving dinner,” he ventured, a step behind her.
“Oh, sure.”
“It doesn’t mean I have to . . . have to kill the turkey, does it?”
She switched on the oven and leered at Allan. Her rage disappeared as fast it had appeared. “Yeah, you will. Have you ever killed one before?”
“I’ve never killed anything before. I might have accidentally, you know . . . a squirrel once or twice. I don’t even own a gun,” he admitted.
“Don’t worry, no shooting involved. How handy are you with a hatchet?”
She enjoyed his priceless expression. He was such a city boy to the bones. She tried not to laugh, but couldn’t help herself.
“I’ll save you the aggravation. You won’t have to hurt, shoot, stab, or hatchet anything. Sam hunted, butchered, plucked, and washed the turkey yesterday.”
“Pluck? You mean pull feathers out of a . . . turkey?”
“Yes, it can’t be cooked with its feathers.”
“Right,” Allan echoed.
“Have you ever cooked a turkey?”
“No, I have Tiffany, my secretary, call the corner butcher for a fresh turkey. They deliver it and I hire a chef for the day.”
“Oh my God, are you for real?”
“Do you want me to hire one to come out here?”
Delightful shivers pulsed through her with each step he took. She leaned against the counter with her hands behind her. Her breath stuck in her throat at his nearness. When he reached for her, she closed her eyes, ready for his lusty kiss. Ashamed, she wanted him too. Instead of the pressure of his lips, his hand touched her hair. She exhaled and opened her eyes to find a piece of straw in her face.
“Oh, thank you.”
He laid it on the counter and grinned, still within arms’ reach.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll wash up before we eat.”
“Sure. Go ahead. Dinner will be ready in about forty-five minutes.”
As soon as he’d gone, Rosalind sat at the table and hung her head. Several pieces of straw fell onto the table as a cruel reminder of what she’d done.
This is all wrong. I’m supposed to hate him, not invite him to stay.
She wanted the divorce. She didn’t want to be tied down to anyone. Was she falling for the man she married?
More questions arose, adding to her confusion. Should she give in to her own sexual needs? He’d asked for seconds.
Pig shit. Now that I’ve tasted the honey, I’m not ready to abandon the sweetness.
His touch ignited a fire in her unlike any of the cowboys she knew. An ache between her legs reminded her what he could do to her.
Friends or enemies? Better to be friends, she decided. New rules. Allan’s suggestion to call the new owners of the land could work to her advantage.
She stood, crossed to the refrigerator, and took out pork chops to fry for dinner. As the pan heated and the meat sizzled, the sputtering of the water heater generated thoughts of Allan’s naked body in the shower.
Allan’s phone rang when he reached the bedroom.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Smith, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you for the last hour.”
“Sorry, Tiffany. The signal is bad here.”
“I have some information on Sam. His name is Samuel Hughs. No relation to your wife’s family.”
“A friend?”
“Could be. He used to participate in rodeos. Hasn’t competed in years. I found out he’s been visiting a cancer clinic in St. Cloud,” Tiffany said.
“How did . . . never mind. Cancer. How bad?”
“I couldn’t get much info. I did, however, find out your wife is worth millions. Not as much as you, but close.”
“Millions?”
“Yes, sir. Her trust is one part and if you calculate in the horses and the value of the ranch—”
“How come I’ve never met her?”
“Excuse me, she’s a cowgirl from Minnesota.”
Tiffany was right. Rosalind wasn’t the normal spa-polished woman that caught his attention. She could be, should be, living in a mansion, not here in the middle of nowhere. Instead, she was using all her finances to rescue horses. A real purpose. Not spending it on tangible items or extravagant things like the women he knew.
The pictures Sam had shown him left him feeling nauseated. The horses were severely abused and the shelters couldn’t afford to care for them any longer. There were some very sick people in the world who needed to be punished for being cruel to animals. The true mystery of why Rosalind wanted her inheritance so bad finally came to light.
Man, I’m a heel.
He’d ruined her dreams to save them. All because he’d been pissed off. How did he tell her he owned the land?
No, we both own the land.
“Mr. Smith, are you there?”
“I’m here. Did you find anything else?”
“No. Paul wants to know when you will be returning. He said to call him.”
“I’m staying the weekend. Tell Paul I’ll contact him on Monday. Thanks and have a great turkey day.”
“Will do. I’ve been checking on a cruise in April, and a stay at a castle in Ireland.”
“Anything you want. Absolutely. But don’t confirm any dates until I return.”
Allan smiled at her laughter. Leave it to Tiffany to find the most extravagant vacation as retribution payment.
When they disconnected, he wondered what happened to his original plan. He’d succeeded in his main goal to have sex with Rosalind, and gained property to add to his portfolio. All in only two days. He should be ecstatic, on his way home, and interviewing for a new live-in girlfriend.
However, an image of Rosalind on top of him wouldn’t leave his mind.
He cast off his shirt and a blade of straw fell on the floor. Allan saw his socks were covered with them too. As he shed his remaining clothes, more fell. It was worse than sand.
Tucking a towel around his waist, Allan left his room, and crossed the hall to the bathroom. He turned on the water and waited until steam filled the air before dropping the towel. He stepped into the shower, closed his eyes, and let the hot spray hit him as thoughts of Rosalind returned.
He hadn’t expected her to be so skillful in bed—of straw, no less. She knew how to please a man. She’d been so uninhibited. Women he’d dated would never have stripped naked in the middle of a barn, or for that matter in the cold. They’d been high maintenance, but not Rosalind. She wouldn’t be.
He lathered the soap and washed his hair. More straw fell to the drain. The swirling of it reminded him of the tattoo on her lower back. When she’d thrown down the blanket and he’d seen it, he lost his senses. The design was exceptional; angel wings surrounding a symbol. He’d have to ask her what that one meant. He could vividly recall the other two.
The stem of a rose began under her left breast and ran upward, curving along the inside swell and up the valley between. The flower in full bloom exploded on a section of her breast.
Magnificent.
No one would be a
ble to see it unless she was topless. It was hidden very well. Without provocation he hardened with desire.
And the last one, a heart cut in half. Personal? Was it for an ex-lover? The mystery of it had him experiencing jealously. Something he vowed never to feel since leaving the foster care system.
He stepped from the shower, foregoing a much-needed shave as a wonderful smell filled the room. His stomach rumbled and interrupted his fantasies.
“Sam. Allan. Dinner is ready.”
He opened the door. “Be there in a minute.”
Walking to his room, he toweled dried his hair. He heard Rosalind call to Sam again. He didn’t hear a reply, except the stairs creaked, then the sound of footsteps above his head. He tilted his head and reached for his pants.
Suddenly an ear-piercing scream vibrated throughout the rooms. Allan raced from the bedroom, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Another scream pierced through the house. He rounded the corner and charged through an open door. Rosalind sat on the bed next to Sam, holding him.
Allan rushed to her side as she stood, her eyes glazed. He checked Sam’s wrist.
“He has a pulse.”
“But Sam’s eyes won’t open,” she moaned.
“Rosalind, call nine-one-one.”
She didn’t move, just stood at the end of the bed.
“Nine-one-one. Call nine-one-one!”
She snapped out of her trance-like state, patted her pockets, and darted from the bedroom. He heard a muffled conversation as he sank to the mattress next to Sam.
“Come on, old man, open your eyes.”
Allan sensed Rosalind in the doorway and turned. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Don’t let him die. I can’t lose him, too,” she wailed.
“How long will it take for the ambulance?”
“About thirty to forty minutes.” She choked on a sob. Her hands gripped the doorframe.
“Would it be faster to drive ourselves?”
“I’m not sure. It’s snowing pretty hard. What’s wrong with him? He was fine earlier.”
“Maybe a stroke. I don’t know.” Allan pulled the blanket to Sam’s chin.
Did Rosalind know Sam had cancer? Should he say something?
“A stroke? My grandfather died of a heart attack,” she related in a thick tone.
Her face had lost its color. She used the doorframe to steady herself. He wondered if he’d have two patients.
“I’m not sure,” Allan answered in the most calming tone he could muster. “He’s still breathing which is a good sign. Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for the ambulance. I’ll stay here with Sam.”
“All right. I need to turn off the stove and oven. I’ll get everything ready so we can leave when they arrive,” she mumbled.
He saw her anguish before she disappeared. Allan took out his phone and slid his finger over the screen. Thank God, he had four bars.
Time to call in favors.
Chapter 18
A pulsating, whirly noise compelled Rosalind to rush to the front window. She stared out in awe at the scene. A Flight-for-Life helicopter landed in her driveway and three paramedics stepped out and hurried toward the house.
Go for blazes.
She sensed Allan behind her. “How did they know to come? It looks like something from a movie. Where’s the ambulance?”
“It’s not coming,” he announced. “You said it would take more than a half hour for the ambulance to arrive, so I called them.”
“Thank you so much. Is Sam okay?”
“I’m no doctor, but he’s still breathing.”
Allan flung open the front door, allowing three paramedics in.
“Where’s the patient?” One of the paramedics asked, holding a case.
“Upstairs. The first room to your right,” Allan replied.
The three men dashed up the stairs. Rosalind followed them. She sobbed at the sight. Sam lay on the bed unresponsive while the men worked on him. An IV was inserted into Sam’s arm.
“Miss, is he allergic to anything?”
“No—I’m not sure. Is he going to die?”
“We have him stabilized for transport.”
Rosalind leaned against the wall. Allan’s arm slid around her, drawing her against him.
“Is there anything we can do?”
Allan’s words brought her to a point of realization she hadn’t been paying attention to Sam’s needs for a while. How could she have missed that he was this sick? She raised her hand to cover her moan.
“It’ll be okay,” Allan murmured in her ear, tightening his arms.
She turned and laid her head on his chest. Closing her eyes to hide the scene in front of her didn’t work. She still envisioned it.
“We’re ready to take him down,” an EMT stated.
“I’ll get my coat.”
Allan held her. “We won’t be able to fly with them. Sam will get there quicker.”
Moments later the EMTs wheeled Sam from the house, across the snow covered yard, and loaded him into the helicopter. It took off in a rush of air, followed by a machine created blizzard.
Max, Walt, and Joe joined Allan in the yard while she ran to her truck.
“Rosalind no! I’ll drive,” Allan yelled.
“We have to leave now. You can’t tell me what to do.”
She slid into the drivers’ seat, but an arm reached over her and grabbed the keys out of her hand.
“What the hell? Give them back to me!” she screamed.
“Rosalind, calm down. He’s in good hands. He wouldn’t want you to do anything rash. Do you have your purse? You don’t even have your coat on. Let’s go back inside and prepare to leave the right way.”
The tears froze on her face as he led her back to the house. She wandered from room to room, unable to concentrate. As she waited impatiently at the door she saw a sheriff’s car come into view.
“They’ll be our escort to the hospital.” Allan zipped up his coat. “Are you ready?”
“Does a chicken lay eggs? Yes, I shut off the stove. I have my purse and I have on my coat.”
“That’s the Rosalind I’ve come to know. I’ll drive,” Allan said.
“Oh no, not in your rental. My truck will do better in the snow.”
“All right, but you’re not driving.”
“Fine.” She handed him the keys.
They hurried out of the house. Bright blue and red lights flashed through the dark night. Rosalind’s fear knotted inside her as they flickered. The truck lurched and she braced herself when Allan pressed the pedal to the floor to haul ass, keeping pace with the police car.
Why’s my whole life been tear squeezers?
“He’ll be fine.”
She didn’t want to answer him and lowered her head from the distracting lights.
“Rosalind, be strong. I’m here for you,” Allan assured her.
His voice soothed her. He reached over and took her hand. She felt his strength. This act of kindness was all it took for her to focus on him with tearful eyes.
“The night my parents died, I rode in my grandfather’s truck and we followed an ambulance. The lights remind me of that night.” She wiped at her tears with one hand, and left her other hand in his, thankful for the support. Allan’s fingers tightened on hers.
“My father’s name was Marty. I loved him so much. He always had time for me and was funny. As a family, we went on many exciting adventures, both at home and at the rodeos. He’d been the top bronco rider. Everyone came to see him ride and to try to beat his best time. To this day, he still holds a handful of records. Susan, my mother, was my dad’s and the circuits’ rodeo queen and barrel rider . . . like me. She taught me. It’s sad, I was too
young to perceive what it was all for.”
“I’m not an expert, but you’re very good.”
Allan merged onto the highway.
“Thanks. Granddaddy completed my training. He’d taught my mother too. The day of the accident we’d all been returning from a competition. I’d fallen asleep in the backseat of the truck, but my mom’s screams woke me. I heard tires squealing, horns honking, and glass breaking.”
“You don’t have to talk about it, Rosalind. I lost my parents too when I was ten. And several friends on 9/11.”
“I want to talk about it.” She blew out a breath. “To this day, I remember my dad calling my name. I’d never heard him yell like that before in my life. I told him I was fine, but something was blocking my way from sitting up. He told me to lie very still, and said the situation was like hair in the butter.”
“Hair in the butter?”
She broke into a reminiscing smile for just a moment. “It’s a saying my dad loved to use whenever he couldn’t figure out something. He called my mom’s name repeatedly. She didn’t answer. There’d only been silence. My dad swore. You see, he never used those kind of words in front me before. My dad told me to be a big girl and someone should be coming very soon to help.” Rosalind choked back tears and wiped at her eyes. “I didn’t want to be a big girl. Damn it, I was only eight years old.”
“I’m so sorry. There’s nothing I can say. My parents also died in a car crash, but I wasn’t with them. The police came to the house.”
“How awful. I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I know personally that words don’t help. Are you sure you want to hear the rest?”
“I do.”
Rosalind eyed the flashing lights and took a deep breath.
“My dad continued to talk to me until we heard voices. My Grandpa Rodney was the first person to reach the truck and us. I cried out how scared I was, but no one answered. It was like they’d forgotten about me. I was alone, but I heard my grandfather’s, my dad’s and several other voices all talking at once. I couldn’t see anything. I couldn’t move. I don’t know how long I waited before someone told me to unbuckle my seatbelt. After I did, the voice told me to crawl toward the front of the truck.