Roping the Cowboy

by Tori Kayson

  Today marked his first Sunday afternoon since his dad’s death that he hadn’t drowned himself with work. He took a deep breath and rested his forearms on the wood rail.

  The strong aroma of coffee mingled with the normal ranch smells of hay and cattle and the roses dotting the front of the house. The lowing of cattle in the distance and the swishing of horse’s tails in the pasture closest to the driveway, even the muted voices over the TV, soothed his spirit and calmed the anxiety rolling around in his gut.

  Things just aren’t the same around here, Dad. How will I ever find a “normal” rhythm with this new gig and people around all the time? And what if we can’t make this work? I’m not worried about Maverick. He has a job, and he’s not really home that much, nor does he care to be. But the others depend on me. Mom, Kierra, Slade, Jayce. What if I fail them and we lose the ranch? Our homes, our livelihoods, all depend on making a go of this ranch. Why did you have to die so soon, so young? I need you!

  His eyes burned. Shuttering his eyelids didn’t get rid of the gritty sandpaper feeling. He scrubbed a hand across his face, the heavy whiskers lining his jaw scraping his fingers.

  He was in bad shape if he thought talking to his dead father would help.

  He sighed and took a long sip of the coffee, the hot liquid burning all the way down his throat, pressure weighting his shoulders and settling in his gut.

  They had to make this work.

  He shouldn’t give Kierra such a hard time about her grand scheme to make the ranch a premiere destination for special events. She tried her best to bring in valuable income. He’d give her that, even though he could barely tolerate the ranch being overrun with city dudes who didn’t know a lick about ranching and females who thought it perfectly acceptable to prance around the property in four-inch heels.

  People who didn’t belong here anymore than he belonged in the big city.

  He shook his head. Nope. He could never live in the city. He needed land and space to spread his arms.

  Just like what Darby had said.

  A chuckle escaped his throat.

  Where was she? His gaze scoured the property, but came up with nothing. Had the corporate bigwigs all crawled back under the sheets to sleep off their drunken binge? Their rowdy laughter and the clinking of wine glasses had filtered through his open bedroom windows well into the morning hours. Maybe they holed up in the meeting room on the pretense of working.

  Perfect! Nothing and nobody to interrupt.

  He scooped up his notebook and the mug, settled on the swing, and opened to his last entry.

  §

  Darby slowed to a walk, forcing her breathing to even puffs, her calf muscles screaming at the punishment she’d inflicted by running over the rough terrain. Her shirt and shorts were soaked, the humidity wringing her out worse than a soggy dishrag. She lifted strands of damp hair off her neck, and sweat rolled all the way down the hollow in her back. Her face had to be tomato red. Why couldn’t she be like Kate, who never broke a sweat when she ran, whose hair always stayed perfectly dry?

  Every step up the snaking driveway made her legs heavy, as if slogging through quicksand. Why had she run so far?

  She knew why. To erase the image of the handsome cowboy, a leftover from last night’s hayride and then…the dream. When her eyelids had fluttered open at an ungodly hour, she’d growled and pulled the covers back over her head, hoping to slide back into that dream. A dream that included romantic words whispered against her ear, a sweet kiss that started off gentle and teasing, and then singed the hair on her arms when it transitioned into something powerful and…forever.

  It hadn’t worked. She’d only tossed and turned until she finally hauled herself out of bed, into the bathroom, and stood under a shower blasting daggers of frigid water upon her head.

  Even a hearty breakfast hadn’t obliterated the cowboy from her head. Morning dissolved into an endless afternoon, restlessness and dissatisfaction slinking into her belly, until finally she’d escaped the confines of the house and the questioning stares of her friend.

  A horse whinnied from nearby.

  She halted, her head snapping toward the pasture near the driveway.

  The beauty, splashed with equal amounts of inky black and snowy white, stood sideways along the border, draping its long graceful neck over the fence, giving her a view only of his profile. Sunlight gleamed from the horse’s rump and hindquarters, but a massive oak, its sturdy branches standing sentinel, cast shadows over the front half of the horse. Even so, she couldn’t miss the striking single blue eye staring at her with intense precision or the stomping of his front hoof, beckoning her closer.

  How could she resist that invitation? But the horse pranced awfully close to Fargo’s house. Would he mind if she trespassed again?

  Her gaze skipped across the lawn. She didn’t see any sign of him. What would it hurt just to say hello to his beautiful horse?

  Careful not to step on a twig or a crunchy leaf and alarm the creature, Darby edged closer, wishing she’d chosen a more muted color for her running shoes, and inched her hand out. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? You sound as frustrated as I am right now.”

  “Don’t let him fool you. He’s a charmer, that one. But he’s just trying to get your attention,” a deep voice drawled.

  Fargo!

  She startled, her hand bumping the horse’s soft muzzle, its whiskers poking her skin.

  The horse snorted and jerked his head up. Mashed his hoof against the ground then twisted his body and cantered away with another snort of displeasure.

  Her gaze whipped around, scanning the shaded porch to find the cowboy. Ah. There he was. Tucked into a corner on the swing, his huge cowboy hat blending in with the shutter and shielding his face.

  How could she have missed him? Like missing a ripe, plump watermelon sitting on the ground, all ready to be plucked and savored.

  “Mind if I join you?” she asked, stepping farther into his yard. Might as well trespass all the way onto the porch.

  Surprise arched his eyebrows, but he nodded.

  “Sure,” he agreed, stretching those long denim clad legs off the swing and moving over to the stairs, clutching a mug in one hand, something else in the other.

  She made it to the bottom of the stairs and glanced up. Whoa!

  The red tank barely covered his upper half. Muscles bulged from his arms and rippled across a firm chest. She soaked in the sight of him, loitering at the brass oval on his belt. The image of the state of Texas and a star flanked a cow with long horns, Texas to the Bone emblazoned on top.

  She gulped and snapped her gaze away, focusing on the steps as she maneuvered her way up, refusing to allow her hormones any more reign. She’d never be able to sleep now.

  “Would you like some coffee? Iced tea?” he asked, his gaze darting around the porch as if he had something to hide. Did he?

  Or was it just her guilty conscience? That she’d been planted here on the pretense of a corporate retreat. That the whole objective for her presence was to sweet talk the Kester family into allowing Brewster Oil to use their property.

  He lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of those jade eyes, soft and warm, gold specks shimmering in the afternoon heat. The slight jut of his full lips, the chin that lifted with the challenge that she didn’t belong here.

  Well, maybe she didn’t. But where did she belong?

  Maybe she just wanted a chance to show him that she was a real person, that her career didn’t define her, that she was more than Brewster Oil. Maybe she just wanted a chance to get to know him.

  She met his solid gaze. Stuck her chin up and jutted her bottom lip out. If only she had a Stetson to shield her eyes. “Yeah. Coffee sounds great.”

  §

  He’d seen the way she’d tried to imitate him. He might not like her last name, but he liked sassy. His lips curved in response.

  Great. Pouring coffee would give him a chance to hide the notebook. And to douse his pleasure at her
unexpected company.

  His head flicked toward the swing. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” He shoved the notebook under his arm, opened the screen door, and glanced back.

  She’d already assumed his spot on the swing, those cute hot pink sneakers stretched all the way out on the other side, just like he’d been.

  He took a deep breath.

  She might not belong here, but at the moment, she looked right at home.

  ~ CHAPTER 6 ~

  Fargo nudged the screen door open with his boot, wincing as it slapped shut behind him, knowing what he’d find on the porch. Or rather, whom.

  Jayce had wiggled in beside Darby. His man-sized boots rocked back and forth along the wood, keeping the swing swaying in a gentle motion. At least Hope and Charity weren’t crowding the porch. They wandered the property.

  Shoot the deuce! Where was he supposed to sit?

  He hesitated, his fingers curling around the edges of the cookie sheet, the makeshift tray he’d dug out of the bottom of the cabinet to carry the drinks. The last thing he wanted to do was spill hot coffee down his—

  “Here. Let me help.” A sweet voice sounded under his shoulder, and a clean subtle fragrance, a combination of roses and berries sprinkled with just a hint of springtime and sunshine, drifted up to tantalize him. When she reached for her mug, a silky wave of her hair brushed his bare arm, shooting sparks of awareness to race through every vein in his body.

  Legs, long and luscious and gleaming with perspiration, wandered over to the rail. She lifted the cup to her lips—

  He clenched his jaw against the desire that rushed at him. That’s all it was, and he was a bigger man than to act strictly on passion.

  Lord, have mercy, though, he was still a man. When was this bunch leaving? Not soon enough!

  “Thanks, Dad.” Jayce materialized at his side, and the iced tea disappeared off the tray, leaving only a second cup of coffee.

  He scooped it off the cookie sheet and balanced the tray against the side of the house.

  Jayce plunked down on a step and took a long swig of his iced tea then swiped the back of his arm across his lips.

  Fargo loved his son. But a wish grabbed hold. For Jayce to wander back inside and plop down on the couch to continue watching his favorite show. For a private moment with this interesting woman.

  On the other hand, a chaperone wasn’t such a bad idea.

  He lifted the cup and sipped, keeping an eye glued to Darby’s back, savoring the warm liquid as it slid down his throat.

  Darby twisted, her lips curved up slightly on one corner. “I don’t think I could ever get tired of this view.”

  Neither could he.

  He gulped and wrenched his gaze away from her to stare into the pasture. Duke galloped in the field, his tail fluming in the wind, his powerful legs eating up the ground in a snake-like trail.

  “Really? A big city gal like you? Wouldn’t you miss the malls? The—” What else did women like to do in the city?

  She scoffed and ambled back to the swing.

  He followed. Worse than Hope and Charity, the tips of his boots practically nipped at the back of her magenta colored shoes. Slowing his pace, he waited until she sank down on the wood bench to settle on the opposite end. With a flick of his heel, he set the swing to sway in a gentle motion.

  “What’s your horse’s name?”

  “That’s Duke, but I ride Majesty usually.”

  She nodded, a thoughtful look on her face. More envious, actually. “You are so lucky, you know.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I never had a pet.”

  Jayce angled around, frowning. “Really?” he screeched.

  “Not a one.” She shook her head.

  “Wow.” Disbelief flashed across Jayce’s face quickly chased by empathy. “How sad. Isn’t it, Dad?”

  Fargo scratched the back of his head. “I can’t imagine.” Animals roamed the ranch, inside the house and out, his entire life. “Not even a cat?”

  “Not even a cat.”

  “Goldfish?” Jayce asked.

  Another slow shake, her lips set in a grim line. “My mother was a surgeon and didn’t want any germs in the house.”

  Germs? Her mother considered pets only as germs?

  “Then, when my mother died, my dad said he didn’t have time to care for a pet. As if I would’ve asked him. He was never home.” Darby’s tone wasn’t condemning. More like accepting. As if that’s how familial relationships were supposed to be.

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten when they divorced. Fifteen when she died.”

  His heart broke for the girl. No animals? No germs? No bonding with either parent? Did Darby have anyone in her corner growing up? How did she come to work for her father?

  “What kind of pet would you have picked?” Why bother asking? It wasn’t like he planned to go out and get her a pet. People had to make their own decisions about animals based on their lifestyles, and more often than not, pets chose people. But, for some strange reason, he really wanted to know.

  Silence, other than the creak of the swing and Duke’s snort. Finally, she spoke. “You’ll just laugh.”

  “No, we won’t. Will we, Dad?” Jayce promised, his face puckered with sincerity.

  He shook his head. A pet was family, and—

  “A pig.” Her voice came out hesitant, belying her defiant expression.

  A pig? He coughed and covered his face, trying to keep it together. He glanced over at his son, the one who’d promised not to laugh.

  Jayce angled away from them, his face invisible, but his shoulders shook.

  How could he keep it together while his son lost it? He stole a sideways glance at Darby.

  She stared at him, her dark brows arched, those round coffee colored eyes just waiting for him to say something.

  Willing his muscles to relax, he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Nodded. Cleared his throat.

  “A pig, eh?” He pressed his lips together and clamped his jaw. Whatever it took to keep from spoiling her childhood dream.

  “Yes. A potbellied pig. One of the miniatures.”

  “Well, if you want a regular old pig, our neighbor up the street sells ’em. But around here we eat pigs.” Jayce blurted out the information. He scratched his head, confusion narrowing his brows.

  That did it. Fargo’s fragile hold on his self-control disintegrated. He howled.

  It wasn’t long and both Jayce and Darby laughed along with him.

  Her laughter faded, and although a smile lightened her words, her serious tone carried the weight of years of longing. “See. I knew it.”

  “I’m sorry, Darby. It’s just hard to picture you with a pet pig. Tiny or the regular sized version.” Even as the words left his mouth, he realized the opposite.

  One of her sneakers caressed Hope with the swing’s gentle sway. The other, Charity. Three decades of bottled-up love spilled out.

  “It’s a moot point anyway.” Her head dipped to her chin. “I travel too much for a pet.”

  Just as he suspected. “Maybe one day. When you get married and settle down.”

  “Your idea of getting married involves settling down?” She angled her head sideways to study him, her lips clamped tight.

  Uh oh. “Well yeah. Doesn’t yours?”

  “Not necessarily. Why can’t I do both?”

  “Well, I guess you could.” Hog slop.

  She nodded, as if she’d won a major battle.

  “But how can you expect a relationship to survive if you’re constantly on the go?” His marriage died along with his wife, so he didn’t have the answers. But, logically—

  Her lips quivered, and her face withered. The mug shook as she lifted it to her lips with trembling fingers.

  “Someone hurt you.” Deeply.

  She nodded. Took another sip. “Ex fiancé.”

  Being right didn’t give him pleasure. His fingers curled into a fist. A prim
al urge, to protect this woman, to restore her dignity by landing a solid right hook in the jerk’s face, surged. Instead, he gripped his mug.

  “Why can’t a relationship survive the distance if it’s built on trust and love and mutual respect?” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, to agree.

  But he couldn’t. What was the value in a relationship if you spent all your time apart? “That’s a good question. And maybe under certain circumstances, it would.” But not engaged to a jerk like her ex fiancé. “When I finally remarry, I aim to enjoy my wife’s company. Cherish our time together. Life’s too short to spend it apart.” His mother’s grief taught him that lesson.

  Her face softened, and the tremors stopped. But now her eyes glistened.

  Time to change the subject and move to something lighter. “So how is it that you’re out wandering this afternoon?”

  Steam swirled from her coffee as she sipped then swallowed. “Sessions are over for today.”

  “Early day, huh?”

  “Yeah. I’m glad. It was too pretty a day to work.”

  Translation. Everybody was falling asleep. “When is the retreat over?”

  “Late Tuesday afternoon.”

  So she’d only be around a couple more days, max. Why did he just feel as if Majesty landed a solid kick in the gut and squeezed all the air out of his lungs? Hadn’t he warned himself not to get attached? When are you going to start listening to your own advice, Kester?

  “What’s after that?”

  “I’ll head back to the office for a few days.” She scrunched her face, as if not excited by that prospect.

  Her bare leg stretched with the swing, her caress of his dogs mesmerizing.

  Her leaving didn’t excite him, either.

  Attraction flared, lightning quick. His hand glided across the wood, closing the distance between them—

  “Fargo.”

  “Hmm?” His hand stilled. Had she seen it?

  “Your father’s death must’ve come as a shock to all of you, especially your mom. Your resources might be stretched thin right now, and I just wanted to offer some relief.”

  “You know some ranch hands who need work?” His fingers itched to thread through her hair. To trail one of those molasses colored coils.