Roping the Cowboy

by Tori Kayson

  Not like the warm glow that lit Fargo’s eyes whenever he glanced at his son, even when he scolded the boy.

  She tossed the phone on the bed and unloaded her clothes. If she still occupied the room, Mrs. Kester wouldn’t be able to rent it to someone else, right? Possession was nine tenths of the law or some such rule.

  She fluffed a blouse and hung it in the closet. She shook out a pair of khakis, folded and placed them in a drawer, her fingertips lingering on the smooth cedar of the dresser.

  Had she destroyed her chances for VP? The position she’d worked for since she’d been old enough to realize that might be the only way to snag her father’s attention?

  Voices and laughter drifted upstairs from outside her bedroom window. An engine roared up the long driveway.

  She stepped over to the window and pushed the fabric aside.

  The ride back to Dallas arrived. But she wouldn’t be on it.

  A smile curved her lips and lifted her heart.

  She was staying at Kester Ranch.

  §

  She was leaving.

  Disappointment reared up and slammed Fargo in the gut.

  Why did he care?

  His hair still a bit damp from a shower, he nudged the slats of the blinds apart to stare at the van that roared up the driveway and parked in front of the big house. Men and women huddled around it, jamming suitcases into the driver’s hands as fast as the poor guy could load them into the back.

  Jayce and Slade sat on the swing, keeping themselves out of the hive of activity. His sister moved through the crowd, shaking hands, her smile wide. Her head bobbed up and down.

  Time to make a cursory appearance and send these high-level execs back to Dallas.

  That’s what he told himself, anyway. It didn’t have anything to do with catching one last glimpse of a certain cinnamon haired beauty.

  Where was she anyway?

  He released the blinds and shoved his hat on, then pushed the front door open. His gaze scanned the crowd around the van as he stalked the few yards over to the big house.

  No sign of Darby.

  There she was. Just now stepping outside the house. Where was her suitcase? Had she brought it down earlier? She stopped beside his mother. Her posture relaxed, her smile wide. As if she had all the time in the world.

  Or scored a huge contract.

  Anger smoldered. So, she’d sweet talked his mother—

  His mother nodded and tugged Darby into a hug.

  A thank you hug or goodbye?

  He skirted the crowd, flicking his hat at a few of the men, giving Elsa a wide berth. He took the steps two at a time, his boots clomping against the wood porch. When he reached the swing where Jayce and Slade waited, he propped his rump against the house and folded arms over his chest.

  His gaze slid back over to where Darby huddled next to his mother. They still chatted, Darby in no hurry to pop into the van like the rest of her co-workers. “What’s going on?”

  “Everybody’s leaving,” his younger brother supplied.

  Fargo rolled his eyes and responded, echoing Slade’s dry tone. “Ya think?”

  Slade shrugged. “You asked.”

  “Smart aleck.”

  Darby moved away from his mother to hug her pregnant friend then opened the front passenger door. The pregnant one slid in. Darby closed the door and stepped away with a nod to the driver.

  The driver inspected the back of the van. Satisfied, he saluted and disappeared inside the vehicle. Within seconds, the engine cranked. The van pointed its way down the snaking driveway, leaving Darby behind, sandwiched between his mother and Kierra, their arms twined across backs.

  What just happened there? Was she staying on at the ranch?

  He blinked, trying to control the sudden thrill that zapped life into his stagnant heart.

  The van disappeared from sight. The ladies twisted around and walked toward the porch, Darby’s expression content, satisfied. As if she felt right at home.

  The city gal was actually staying? Had she deliberately chosen to stay on at their ranch over returning to work? Or was there more to it?

  He swallowed a lump, a combination of excitement and fear. Uncertainty unleashed, grounding his boots in place.

  His mother held the screen door open for Kierra, who slid past and disappeared inside the house.

  “Let’s get our chores done, Jayce. Then, we can play my new video,” Slade said.

  “All right. See ya, Darby,” Jayce said, brushing by. Boots thundered down the stairs.

  “See you later, guys.” City Gal’s sandals paused on the landing, her espresso gaze sliding to him. She flicked an unruly wave behind an ear. Her chin dipped ever so slightly. Long lashes fluttered over creamy cheeks.

  Sudden heat ignited and rocketed up his limbs. Heaven help him, with every beat of his heart, he yearned to yank this woman against his chest. To see if her curves conformed to his frame in perfect unison. To taste the sweetness of her lips. Would her kiss burn with a matching intensity? Would touching her smooth skin light a fire inside his gut that nothing would ever satisfy except total surrender?

  His mother’s salt and peppered brows arched in question, her gaze slinging between them. Her mouth rounded into a silent “oh.” She slipped inside the house without another word, but twisted around to stare until the door slapped her in the rump.

  City Gal parked herself right in front of him. Her shiny pink toenails peeked out from strappy, loose fitting sandals. The same color that sparkled from her full lips.

  Inviting. Delighting. Igniting.

  He gulped. Blinked the words firing around in his head into submission, but not a word escaped his dry-as-a-desert mouth. He locked hands under his armpits to keep from reaching out to her.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I decided to stay for a few more days.” Her tone might’ve been soft as a dove’s sweet call, but her chin lifted in defiance. As if it really didn’t matter whether he minded or not.

  His pulse somersaulted. Mind?

  Not at all. Lord have mercy. He hated to admit it, but he kinda liked the idea.

  Inviting. Delighting. Igniting. And stubborn.

  ~ CHAPTER 9 ~

  “What’s the matter, Fargo? You’ve been acting like you have a burr stuck in your boot all afternoon.”

  Grinding his molars together, Fargo gripped the reins tight and urged his mount to put some distance between him and Uncle Chips. They were headed back to the barn after checking on the cattle.

  Uncle Chips made a clicking noise and caught right up to him.

  So much for that idea. His uncle slash ranch foreman wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily.

  “And here I thought you’d be a sight easier to be around today since that group of yahoos left the ranch.”

  Fargo tipped the brim of his hat and stared up at the cloudless sky. The sun’s rays heated his skin through his cotton shirt. Majesty trudged along the uneven ground without much direction from him, his uncle’s horse occasionally bumping into her boyfriend.

  He lowered his head and caught Hope hunched over Charity, who growled and nipped at Hope’s head, unhappy with the notion that Hope even remotely considered him a breeding partner. With the absence of any female companions, sometimes his dogs worked out their aggressions and overactive hormones on each other.

  “Hope, stop that. Get over here. Now!” he commanded, shaking his head so hard his hat tumbled to the ground.

  Ever obedient, except in Darby’s case, both dogs raced back to flank his horse. The pictures of innocence.

  He tugged the reins hard and Majesty stopped. He swung his leg over the saddle and hopped to the ground. Scooped up the hat and smacked it against his thigh, coughing at the dust that scattered. He hauled himself back on the saddle, his hat firmly attached to his head.

  Romance practically blew in with the warmer air of spring. How much longer could he resist before he succumbed to the pressure and gave in to the emotion swelling in his hea
rt? He had no more business even considering it than Hope.

  A sigh worked its way up, finally ripping from his chest.

  “Well, now. That was mighty telling.”

  “How so?” He supposed Majesty could outrun Uncle Chips’s mount, but what good would that do? His uncle would only hunt him down. If not in the barn, then the house later. He finally surrendered to his uncle’s meddling.

  “That girl get under your skin?”

  “Which girl?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me.” Uncle Chips shot him a glare from under the shade of the wide brimmed Stetson. Wiry brows dipped to almost cover the old man’s eyes. A wad of tobacco puffed out the skin under his bottom lip. He jerked his head in the opposite direction and let some of that juice rip. Leather creaked as he twisted back to face Fargo. “The one that stuck behind. The one that’s got your boxers all tied up in knots.”

  He scoffed. “I don’t—”

  “Too much information, son. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Another spit off to the side.

  The dogs scampered ahead of the horses, their snouts pressed against the ground.

  Fargo rubbed the back of his neck and stared off into the distance, quite sure he didn’t want to have this conversation with his uncle.

  “She sure is nice to look at.”

  Fargo whipped his head around to scowl at his uncle.

  “Guess I got the jugular with that one.” Uncle Chips tipped his head back, guffawing. A longtime alcoholic, beaten down and so broke he’d gotten kicked out of a fleabag hotel, Uncle Chips showed up at the ranch begging for a job when Fargo was ten. Fargo’s dad had given his brother a bed and a job. Chips stayed, became a valuable hand and now their foreman.

  Guess he owed his uncle a little respect in the form of an explanation. “She’s not exactly ranch material.”

  “What do you mean by that, son?” Serious eyes squinted at him.

  “She lives in Dallas, Uncle Chips.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  Wasn’t that bad enough? It wasn’t like they would ever run into each other in the same social circles, but they didn’t even exist in the same galaxy. “She’s married to her job and it appears her only goal in life is climbing the corporate ladder.”

  Uncle Chips shoved his hat higher on his forehead. “Well, now, I don’t guess you’ve heard the story about how your mama and daddy met.”

  Looked like he was about to hear Uncle Chips’s version now. Might as well set his uncle straight on his feelings. “I could never consider marrying a woman who didn’t love the ranch life.” If that seemed narrow minded, so be it.

  A grin curled up one corner of Uncle Chips’s sun-faded lips, and his gnarled eyebrows edged his hat higher on his forehead. “Is that so?”

  “Yep,” he agreed.

  “She must’ve liked what she saw because she’s still here, isn’t she?”

  Was that the reason she stayed behind? Or because she hadn’t convinced his mother to sign on the dotted line?

  “Whether that’s the ranch or you, who knows? Maybe it’s a little of both.” Uncle Chips shrugged.

  Fargo couldn’t deny the tiny ember of hope that sparked.

  “But are you trying to tell me you won’t even consider a date just because she loves what she does for a living?”

  “Yep.” He confirmed with a rigid nod. Then, the words sunk in. Made him less sure, guilty almost.

  How could he judge a person for loving their career? His gaze wandered around the pasture. He couldn’t imagine not working the ranch. Not feeling the sun warm his back. Not hearing the satisfied bellow of cattle. Not sensing the satisfaction of screaming muscles at the end of the day. But, if they didn’t make that payment—

  Tobacco juice streamed from Uncle Chips’s mouth again. “Good thing your daddy didn’t feel the same way.”

  Huh?

  “Because when he first set eyes on your mama, it was all over for him. He knew right away that she was the one for him.”

  “That’s old news.”

  “Maybe you just need to be reminded. Your mama wasn’t from around here, ya know.”

  “Yeah, but she loves the ranch.”

  Uncle Chips nodded. “That she does, but as I recall, your daddy had to ply her away from some big software company. She wasn’t too keen on leaving her job and playing house on a ranch in the middle of nowhere.”

  Fargo narrowed his brows. Was the old man feeding him a line?

  “You didn’t know that?” Uncle Chips looked like he just snagged a humongous striped bass.

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s the God-honest truth, son.” Uncle Chips laid a gloved hand on his thigh and twisted to regard Fargo with a mournful gaze. “I’m sorry your daddy isn’t around anymore to give you advice. Heck, I’m sorry he isn’t around anymore for my own sorry self. But I think he’d tell you not to listen to all the things your head’s throwing at you, and to listen more to what your heart’s whispering.”

  Could he do that? Drown out the voice of reason? The voice that hollered that a woman like Darby would never be satisfied with life on a ranch? That she couldn’t be trusted because she’d up and take off when life got tough?

  Isn’t that basically what Jennie had done? Left him to raise Jayce alone because she’d been so unhappy here. Although Jennie chose a different route. One more…permanent.

  Could he even hear the whisper of his heart anymore? Could he take the time to really get to know Darby, out from under the dark cloud of Brewster Oil? See if this spark that ignited a fire in his limbs every time he thought of her was just a springtime urge or something more…enduring?

  “Your daddy was one lucky fellow.” Uncle Chips’s jaw clenched. His grip tightened on the reins until his knuckles turned white. “Not too many men are so fortunate to find a forever woman. One who’d stick by through thick and thin. In my case more thin.”

  Uncle Chips spoke from experience. Two divorces. Neither woman tolerated the ever-present bottle in one hand and the stack of cards in the other.

  His uncle had finally relinquished the bottle and the cards, but not the search for the right woman. Every Friday night Uncle Chips ventured into town, hope putting a swagger in his steps.

  The old man was determined, that’s for sure. But was he right?

  §

  “Perfect. Keep rolling it out just like that until we have two circles about this big.” Mrs. Kester said, gesturing with her hands. She flicked the oven on to preheat and set a pan on the stove. “I’ll get the base started.” She plopped some butter into the pan and whisked.

  Darby mashed the rolling pin against the floury dough, flattening it against the counter. A sense of accomplishment boosted her spirit. “This is the first time I’ve ever made a pie. Well, part of a pie.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Kester closed the refrigerator door, a bag of apples dangling from one hand, another stick of butter in the other. The woman set the items near the sink, smiling. “Well, then, I’m thrilled that you wanted to join me today.” She reached into a lower cabinet and tugged out some weird piece of equipment.

  “What’s that?”

  “A combination apple peeler and corer. Wish I’d known about this when Craig and I first got married. I would have saved a lot of time. Craig loved apple pies.” Mrs. Kester paused, the contraption dangling from her hands mid-air. A lump crawled down the sweet woman’s throat. Her trembling fingers fumbled with suctioning the tool onto the counter. Finally, she lifted the faucet lever and rinsed the apples. Sadness lingered around her forced smile. “Fargo loves them just as much as his dad did.”

  Darby let go of the roller and curled an arm around Mrs. Kester’s too thin shoulder. “I’m so sorry about your husband, Mrs. Kester.”

  The older woman’s cheek pressed against hers, lavender blending with the tart apple fragrance. Mrs. Kester sniffled and released her, reaching over to snatch a tissue from a box on the counter. Probably kept there for just this reason.


  Darby busied herself by cleaning flour off her hands.

  Mrs. Kester tossed the tissue in the trash receptacle and washed her hands. Her dark eyes, so much like Kierra’s and so different from Fargo’s green pools, shimmered with sorrow. “Thank you, honey. He was an amazing man, so fit and healthy. His death took us all by surprise. It’s been tough, but we’ll get past it.”

  Darby nodded, sympathy moistening her eyes and bruising her heart.

  No wonder Fargo was so touchy about the oil rig. Their pain was still too raw.

  “Oh, and, please, call me Rebekah. We’re not very formal around here, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed.”

  “All right,” she agreed, refocusing on rolling the dough. “How did you meet your husband?”

  “Funny that you ask. Actually, I lived in Dallas when I met Craig.”

  Darby’s head popped up, the roller stilling in her hands. “You did?”

  Mrs. Kester’s face took on a dreamy quality. Her lips softened at the edges. She rinsed the apples and then passed them over to the towel without looking, as if on automatic pilot. “I was a few years out of college, and working in my first job as a software engineer.”

  “Software engineer?” Shock rippled through Darby’s voice.

  “Surprised?”

  “A little.” No sense denying what her face surely confirmed.

  Rebekah smiled. “That handsome cowboy literally swept me off my feet from the first day I gazed into those lion like eyes of his.” Rebekah pinned her with a gaze, one eyebrow arched. “Have you noticed Fargo’s?”

  Fargo’s eyes? What about the cowboy’s full lips and strong, square jaw? Or his linebacker-worthy shoulders, the hard-as-granite chest, and muscular legs…

  Mercy! She blinked and gulped.

  “Guess you have noticed.” Amusement laced Rebekah’s voice.

  “That oven sure ramps up the heat in the kitchen.” Darby fanned her flaming cheeks with a dish towel.

  Rebekah chuckled, ignoring her discomfort. “Just like his dad’s. Don’t ask me how Maverick ended up with gray eyes.” She stabbed an apple onto the skewer thingy and twirled the lever. Skin curled off the apple.