The Cowgirl & the Stallion

by Natasha Deen

“Why don’t you go to bed? It will look better in the morning.”

  And she loved him for understanding her vulnerability and not taking advantage of her emotional state.

  She gave him a trembling smile. “You’re right.” She stepped away from him, from temptation, and another potential mistake. “Thank you.”

  Mason stood, surrounded by beauty he couldn’t have and watched the one he wanted most, walk away.

  ****

  Tuesday morning came with skies as gray as Aya’s mood. The wind scudded the clouds, which hung low, dark, and ominous. Despite having every lamp in the room turned on, the study held a cheerless, depressing atmosphere.

  She rocked in the worn office chair. Its hinges squeaked and bemoaned her movements, but she ignored the complaints. The motion calmed, soothed. Between the swiftly-moving reality that she may have to sell her cows, the hot, fetid breath of Mason St. John moistening her neck, and the note clutched between her tight fingers, she needed all the soothing she could get.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and at her bidding, opened to reveal Nate on the other side.

  Aya offered him a small smile. “Are you grounded, too?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  He moved into the room, and though she knew it was only an illusion, he seemed to carry light and warmth in each step. His presence dispelled the darkness, and chased the cold into the far corners of the room. He’d been here such a short time, yet her feelings for him had moved at light speed. It was deeper than physical attraction. It was also shackled by debt, an uncertain future, and obligations; she dared not voice or acknowledge her growing affection.

  “Jim said I should either lend you a hand with the finances or lend you a hand with the finances.”

  She chuckled; his comfort and company shook away despair, and further pushed the darkness from her. “Some option.”

  “He’s got a concise way with words.” His cowboy hat dangled from the tips of his fingers, and the brim slapped a soft rhythm against his leg. “Do you mind if I take a look at your files?”

  Aya rose from her chair. “Not if it helps me avoid turning my cows over to someone else.”

  He flinched; irritation shadowed his face. “I can’t guarantee that—and you’ll have to stay open to the possibility.”

  She shook her head, hating to start their conversation with an argument, but unable to lie for the sake of peace. “I’m not just closed on this issue, I’m welded shut.”

  The exasperated expression on his face said it all. He passed by her—so close, she felt the soft threads of his lightweight knit sweater brush against her fingers. She moved away, giving him the chair.

  Nate took a seat, and his eyes widened as they inspected the office equipment. “My God, if your PC was any older, it would be an abacus.”

  “It crunches numbers and holds files. I don’t need bells and whistles.”

  Nate’s fingers flew over the keyboard. The financial statements—already on the screen—glowed with debt and seemed to trumpet her incompetence. Though she refused to use any word save “attraction” to describe her feelings for Nate, she didn’t deny her desire to impress him or the bitter taste left in her mouth because she failed.

  “In another month, you’ll need a bell,” he said, “to toll the computer’s death.” He glanced up from the screen. Electric light from the monitor flickered blue hues across his face. “And if these numbers persist, you’ll need another bell to ring the death of this farm.”

  She swallowed, humiliated not only at her failure, but his awareness of it. “Nice to see you maintain a sense of humor in times of trouble.”

  He smiled, sad and tired. “I’m not the one in dire straits, you are. I can be as blasé as I want to be.”

  The room fell quiet, save for the rhythm of his typing. His fingers danced along the keyboard, made a quick, ticking melody that bounced off the walls. She watched him, comfortable, easy in the chair and in front of the computer...

  Aya crossed her arms in front of her chest, cocked her head. “Nate, exactly what did you do for Denis?”

  “Why?” The staccato beat of his typing didn’t slow.

  “Your familiarity with the computer, your ease with typing—do you have office or accounting experience?”

  “Ranch hands can’t be comfortable with computers?” Click, click. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

  Irritation flashed through her. “Of course they can—it’s just a question.”

  His gaze flicked to hers, then returned to the screen. “I have some experience.”

  “How much is ‘some?’” Impatience crackled, adding to her irritation and swelled into a storm of annoyance. His mysterious-helper-act was sexy and intriguing, but for God’s sake, she wasn’t asking for a full confession of his past.

  Nate’s fingers stilled, hovered above the keys, and silence flooded the room. “When I give a woman my personal history, it’s usually over an Italian dinner.” A naughty smile lifted his lips and gave his face a mischievous light. “Or breakfast the next morning. Is this your subtle attempt to ask me out on a date?”

  “What? No!” She jerked away from the desk, from him, and from the desire surging in her.

  His pupils enlarged, tracking every nervous movement. She looked away, unable to maintain eye contact.

  He shifted, his attention going back to the screen, and the clack-clack of typing resumed. “Why then, Miss Aya,” he began, soft, teasing, “are you asking me to bed without dinner or a date?”

  She feigned annoyance to cover her discomfort, to hide the confessional flush seeping into her face. “Just look at the finances.” Aya moved around to the opposite end of the desk, and leaned against a chair.

  He pointed to the paper in her hand. “Has that receipt been entered?”

  She jerked, having forgotten about the note until now. “It’s not a bill. It’s a letter from Spencer’s teacher.”

  His fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Good or bad?”

  In his eyes, genuine concern warmed and comforted her.

  “A little of both, actually.” She stepped around the chair, intending to sit, but nervous, worried energy wouldn’t allow her the peace of resting. “My kid’s smarter than most University freshman. Unfortunately, he’s got the judgment ability of your average nine-year old.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Mouthed off to his teacher, Charles Whitehead—not that I blame him. The guy’s a pompous windbag.” She moved toward him, intending to stand and watch the screen. But as she got closer, her libido intervened. It revved, her mouth went dry, and she lost her nerve. Retreating back to her original spot, she said, “At the last harvest festival, Charles cornered me by a rack of candied apples to lecture me on the benefits of high-end appetizers and moan that no one came to his table. Then he waxed poetic about the dwindling cultured class for what felt like three hours.” Her face pulled into a contemptuous frown. “Who brings caviar to a festival?”

  “Him, obviously.”

  She sighed and scraped her forehead with the back of her hand. “None of it really matters. Well, it kind of matters, since I called him a sturgeon at the last parent-teacher interview—not in front of Spencer,” she hastened to add. “But it’s not like my kid to act up, and this”—she waved the note—“is the third one in as many weeks.”

  “What do you think is causing it?”

  “I don’t know. Nine seems a little young to begin teenage rebellion, but something’s going on with him.”

  Her fears and worry spoken aloud, she collapsed into the chair and rested her feet against the top of the desk. Anxiety, stress, and tension began their too-familiar dance in her body. Aya plucked at the edges of the letter. “He won’t tell me what’s going on, but I’m worried. Terrified. It’s not like him to keep things from me—” Nervous energy pushed her from the seat and propelled her to the window. “I wouldn’t be so worried if he was talking to somebody about it, but that kid can be quieter than th
e grave when he wants to be.”

  “Do you want me to try talking to him?”

  The nearness of his voice made her jump. She spun around, and her shoulder collided with his chest. Instinct forced her into reverse, but the back of her legs collided with the window seat and sent her spiraling backwards.

  Nate caught her by the waist, pulled her to him. Soft curves slammed into hard lines and obliterated all thought, save one: she hoped—desperately—that he’d keep pulling, pressing their bodies together until nothing, not even a molecule, could fit between them. But as soon as he’d steadied her, he let go—and girlish hopes evaporated in the wake of a kind act perpetuated by an even kinder man.

  “He’s an introspective child—I’m not sure that he’ll say anything to you.”

  Nate shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, and I don’t mind talking to him.” He pulled on the edges of the paper in her hand. “What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  “Forcing him to apologize to a man I find odious, feels wrong.” Her nose crinkled. “At the same time, he needs to respect the chain of command. A teacher is a teacher, no matter what...right?”

  Nate’s smile reached into her heart and warmth blossomed through her.

  “I’m the wrong person to ask. I don’t believe in blind allegiance to authority. Respect is earned, not demanded.”

  The temperature in her went from warm to steaming hot. Damn him for always having the sexy, drool-worthy, enlightened answer, and damn her for melting every time he spoke.

  Wrenching her thoughts from fantasy back to reality, she said, “We should look at the finances, before Pops comes in here and takes our dinner away.”

  He grinned, and if any solid part of her anatomy remained, it liquefied into a heated puddle on the floor. Nate went back to the files, and she sat in the chair opposite his.

  An hour later, he looked up from the computer screen and said, “Aya, you are the worst businesswoman I’ve ever seen.”

  “How many have you seen?” she demanded.

  “Enough.” He gestured to the financial pages. “Do you want my opinion?”

  “I already got that, what I want is your solutions.” She sat straighter, pulled herself into a fully upright position, as if perfect posture could rebuff his judgment.

  “Sell.”

  His curt answer took the starch out of her rigid back, and she slumped into the chair. “Did you come in here to tow the party line or help me?”

  He pressed his fingers against his eyes, rubbing them in slow, tired circles. “Fine. Call in your loans, stop feeding the ranch-hands their meals—you’re paying them a wage. They can provide their own food.”

  “We’ve always fed our helpers—it’s just courtesy.”

  “Your courtesy is costing you thousands of dollars a month. Those funds are better spent paying down the loans to the bank. Speaking of which—” He turned the clunky monitor around so she could see the screen. “What are all these loans to ‘Hans’ about?”

  “He’s a ranch-hand who was injured by one of the cows. I’m just helping him until he can get back on his feet.”

  His eyes narrowed into slits. “You’ve been paying him for over a year. How long does he take to heal?”

  “He was injured on my property. I owe him some loyalty.” The defensive need to justify her actions made her words come out clipped and hostile.

  Nate made a choking sound, somewhere between laughter and disbelief. “You’re something else. If you don’t get this farm turning a decent profit, you’re not going to have any workers.”

  “I’m not going to lose the farm.” She meant to sound quietly confident. Instead, she sounded smug.

  His eyes narrowed again, until all she saw were the dark pinpricks of his pupils. “What are you talking about?”

  She raised her gaze heavenward. What the hell was she talking about? She wracked her brain, but—sadly—it was all wracked out. And the wretched truth was that the only thing standing between her and financial oblivion was one temporary farmhand. Nate had been sent to persuade her to sell, but there was more to this man than a simple errand-boy. His quiet confidence, Pops and Denis’ belief in him, and the money from his previous investments...intuition said that having Nate on her side was the key to saving the farm.

  Keeping her gaze skyward, so her inner thoughts wouldn’t betray her through a look or twitching eye, she said, “Call it a secret weapon, my ace in the hole.”

  She caught his movement in her periphery. With smooth grace, he came to her, taking a position by where her feet rested on the desk and folding his arms in front of him. Masculine power, quiet strength radiated from him, making her heart crash against her ribs and her breath catch in her throat.

  He captured her gaze and held it with ease. “Are you going to tell me what it is?”

  “Are you going to tell me what your office experience is?”

  “We’re talking about you.”

  “Nice try. If you don’t show me yours, I’m not showing you mine.”

  A sudden, sensual light flared in his eyes, heated the air and singed her skin. But as fast as it ignited, it extinguished itself.

  “My experience doesn’t involve selling kidneys on the black market.”

  “I’m not planning on saving the farm by selling my kidneys.”

  “Why? Do lungs fetch more?”

  She stood, intending to move away from the seductive nature of his body and mind, which coupled together, undid all her planning for her “last resort.” But he caught her wrist in the gentle vice of his fingers and held her immobile.

  “I’m not selling my lungs,” she said. “No body parts on the black market, I promise.”

  “Good. Though I’m sure lovely pink lungs such as yours would fetch a hefty price.”

  His voice rumbled low, lupine. Electricity rode the words, turning the atmosphere, charged and expectant. A soft tug, almost imperceptible, brought her even closer to him, bumped her leg against his. Her gaze dropped. Then it rose, traveling past his waistband, higher and higher, mapping the terrain of his flat stomach, wide shoulders, strong neck, hard jaw, and locking on his mouth.

  “How would you know? You’ve never seen my lungs,” she breathed, oxygen deprivation making her legs weak, and her will even weaker.

  “I can imagine.”

  The movements of his mouth circled her heart and loins with sensual, silken ribbons, and wrapped them tight with longing and desires.

  His fingers trailed her lips with a butterfly’s touch, “I can imagine everything that is lovely and pink about you.” His breath fanned against her cheek, his lips so close, yet not close enough.

  Blood roared in her ears; the buildup of electricity in the room crackled and charged the ions in her body. Heart pounding, she searched for an emotional shelter from the coming storm, a safe place to hide, where the knowledge that nothing could ever happen between her and Nate couldn’t pour down and drench her heart.

  “Trust me,” he said, “to help you prioritize and make the hard decisions about the farm and your life.”

  The farm. In one breath, and one blink, the fragile, iridescent bubble of sex and longing popped. Though the black humor left her bereft, she laughed and moved away from him and the primal desires he created.

  “Aya?”

  She hastened to retreat. But once more, he caught her hand. And in his touch, she felt compassion, caring, a soft place to fall, and an oasis from the lashing winds and rain of her life. Her choices, though, forced her to stay in the cold wet, to ignore shelter and push on. The obligations of her life depressed her; the loss of light and comfort crushed her.

  “Are you crying?”

  “No, there’s just something in my eye.”

  “Tears.”

  “No, they’re just dry from staring at that computer all day.” She took a deep, mental breath, then forced herself to both look and smile at him. “It’s nothing, really.”

  He reluctantly released his hold on her fingers. H
is hand fell to the side of the desk.

  She rubbed her forehead; the cuff of her shirt chafed her skin. “I’ll do what you say about the loans and the meals. Is there anything else?”

  He watched her, arms crossed in front of him, gaze boring into her as though he knew her thoughts and movements before she did.

  “I have a friend—a lawyer. She can help you with the alimony and child-support payments.”

  “I can’t afford a lawyer.”

  “She owes me a favor.”

  “Why would you do this?”

  “I’m insane, I like Spencer, I hate to see you with tears in your eyes—even if they’re from a day at the computer.” He shrugged. “Take your pick.”

  “How expensive is she?”

  “I told you, she—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  “Very,” he said.

  “So, she owes you a big favor.”

  Another shrug, this one awkward and screaming, Don’t ask me any more questions!

  She stared out the window, at the gray-black sky and let options chase their way across the canopy of her mind. “If I agree, will I owe you a favor in return?”

  “Do you want to?”

  Aya nodded. “Then we’re equal, and I won’t feel like it’s charity.”

  He held out his hand. “Shake on it.”

  She placed her fingers in his grasp, then pulled away. “You won’t ask me to sell any vital organs, will you?”

  Nate caught her hand. One pump. Two. “No. I’ll never ask you to sell your organs.”

  ****

  The smooth stone skipped along the water, leap-frogging with surface tension before capitulating to physics and sinking beneath the murky pond.

  “Five hops, that’s great. You’re a fast learner, Spencer.”

  The child grinned with pleasure, baby teeth and gapped holes mixing with his too-big glasses and wind-ruffled hair. The ache twisting Mason’s insides, which was fast becoming a familiar sensation, wrung his heart. And the sudden urge to grab his father, Spencer, Jim, Destina, and Aya, speed them to an ivory tower where he could protect and care for them, overwhelmed him. The inner-twisting became a corkscrew with sharpened tines that ripped and cut. He couldn’t protect all of them. Reality, logic, compelled him to choose a side.