by Kimball Lee
God, there really are NO words to describe his ass! It’s perfectly proportioned to his massive body, round and so muscular that it dips in at the sides, which makes my head spin and my brain scream— This body, this man, belongs to me! He is mine, mine, mine! I have to reach out and place both my hands on the satiny skin over diamond-hard muscle, feeling his heat, trying to convince myself this is real and not some photo shopped pic from the cover of an erotic novel. Maybe I’m a pervert because I could run my hands over this ass for hours and not get the least bit bored, and it’s real alright, and so damn tight I’m positive I could bounce a quarter off of it. I’m thanking my lucky stars that I used Zumba and spinning classes to take my mind off my bruised feelings and sexual frustration while we were apart. I need to look better than good to compare to his mouthwatering physique, not to mention the stamina required for his rough and tumble marathon love making.
My fingers ghost over the faint scars on his back, they’re identical to the ones on his chest, five or six inches long, thin, straight lines. Cuts to the skin that must not have been too deep, but surely painful, none the less. Finally as he begins to stir I lean forward and plant a soft kiss on his neck, then force my hands away and go to the bathroom. I slip on one of his gigantic T-shirts, and even though I’m five-foot-ten, it hangs half way down my thighs. Really, it’s sort of amazing, this T-shirt fits him like a glove, the man is definitely super-sized, every inch of him, and I have a delicious, throbbing ache in my nether region to prove it.
I pop a little gourmet coffee pod into a sleek machine in the vintage-meets-industrial kitchen and at the same time try without any luck to text Gigi. It’s hopeless, cell service is nonexistent on this part of planet Earth. I lay my phone on the polished-concrete counter and examine the box in my other hand. It’s the morning after pill, and I feel a sad little flutter in my heart as I read the directions. What in hell is wrong with me I wonder as I pop the pill out of the protective foil packet? I swallow it with a touch of remorse and a sip of coffee, and walk out onto the back deck. Why does being with Holt make me feel so… domestic? I hardly know him, and it’s like that old Bryan Adams song—I can see my unborn children in his eyes. It’s just too crazy to feel so much so soon…. But then, why do I like it so much?
Beyond the deck at the edge of the creek three White-tailed deer lift their heads and fix their huge, soft eyes on me. They don’t spook easily, they’re used to Holt feeding them in the mornings, he tosses dried corn to them as if he were feeding pet chickens. A vegetable garden is planted a few yards away and when I stayed here before I remarked about the rabbits who boldly sat munching the salad greens. He said he actually planted it for the animals enjoyment, not his own. A large part of his ranch is leased to the corporation Traeger’s twin brother runs, and those fields yield acre upon acre of organic produce for Alice-Anne’s Farm Market’s. Holt buys his vegetables from them and allows the local wildlife to feast on his own garden.
“Morning,” Holt says, slipping his arms around me from behind and motioning with a tilt of his chin for me to lift my coffee cup to his lips.
“Hi,” I say sinking back against him. “Nice,” I add, and he shakes his head and chuckles as his erection presses into me. “You’re insatiable, I’m insatiable, what are we gonna do about that?”
“I’ll show you,” he says, taking the coffee cup from me and leading me back into the house. His lips cover mine and the look in his eyes is seriously overheated, which can only mean one thing—he’s going to teach me the pleasure of being bound with his silken rope.
“Beauty,” he whispers, his hands tangle in my hair and he crushes my mouth to his, and then the fucking phone rings.
“Fuck,” he shouts and reluctantly reaches for the land line and answers gruffly, “What?!!”
He listens, nods, his forehead furrows, he leans back against the kitchen counter and rubs his hand across the morning stubble on his jaw. “Yeah, it slipped my mind, be there in twenty. Hey, have Lonnie Jim put a saddle on Sugar, would you? And cinch it up good and tight, I’m bringing the most beautiful woman in the world with me and there’ll be hell to pay if she falls off that horse and gets even one tiny bruise.”
I roll my eyes and lift the hem of the T-shirt I’m wearing so he can see the multitude of unintentional bruises his hands have left on my body. He takes one look at his handprints on my skin and the look on his face is breathtaking—raw, hungry, possessive… and just a bit bewildered. For the very first time, Holt Corrigan, former football star, hard-ass (literally) cowboy, and Texas alpha-male extraordinaire—blushes. I can’t help but laugh even as a wave of hot desire shoots through me as shame and confusion cloud his emerald eyes, seriously, doesn’t he realize he’s big and rough?
“Sorry if I caused those, I’ll be more careful… I’ll go easier on you from now on,” he says stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his faded jeans as if to stop himself from touching me.
Holy moly! Just the sight of him standing there looking truly apologetic for fucking me so well that I’m ruined for any other man is enough to undo me. Combined with those low-slung jeans and the soft, dark trail of hair that leads from his naval down to that ever-present bulge….
“Don’t you dare,” I say, and my voice is barely more than a raspy whisper. “I’m… extremely fond of every one of these little bruises, and all the other parts you’ve left marked and achy. They make me think of you, of us doing what we do…..”
“Okay, Scarlet, stop right there or we’ll never get out of this house. We need to get dressed and get going, do you have boots you can wear today, just until we buy you a serviceable pair? Can you ride a horse? Do you want to?” He asks, springing into action, he scoops my hand into his and leads me to the bedroom where he deliberately turns his back on the rumpled bed and begins to get dressed.
“I have boots… but I don’t think they’re snake-proof. I’ve never ridden a horse, but how hard can it be?” I say, as I run a brush through my hair and twist the wild waves into two long braids, and then pull on jeans, tank top, socks and boots. He tucks a plaid western shirt into his jeans, buckles his belt, grabs a pair of worn, scarred boots from the closet.
“What’s going on, Holt? Who was on the phone?”
“That was Campbell, don’t know if you’ve met him, he’s Jon-Wylder’s older brother? Anyway, it’s amateur roundup time. Kids from the Lone Star Boys Ranch come to the Corazon Perdido on Sundays and we teach them to ride and rope, feed and groom the horses, shit like that. They’re kids who are battered, abused, abandoned, the State places them at the Boys Ranch for therapy before they transition to foster homes. It’s a good cause and the kids love it, working with animals seems to help them reconnect with… I don’t know, an innate need for kindness toward other living creatures. So, let’s go Annie Oakley,” He laughs, tugging on the two long braids that hang over my shoulders.
He snags a cowboy hat from a hall-tree before we leave, not the nice black hat he wore when I first met him, this one is greyish-tan, sweat stained and infinitely sexy as he settles it on his head and tugs it into place. The color rushes to my cheeks as I watch him perform this small ritual and he laughs and plucks a feminine version from the rack and settles it on my head.
“Whose hat is this?” I ask, reaching up to adjust it and surprised that it’s a good fit. It seems brand new but my gut twists as I imagine other women, the red haired veterinarian or some other filthy, sex-hungry slut, keeping a hat at Holt’s house.
“It’s yours, I was hoping you’d come back with me so I bought it, just in case,” He grins like a big/little boy, plants a sweet kiss on my lips, opens the front door and sweeps an arm toward his truck as if my gilded carriage awaits. “Now let’s go, we need to get a horse and saddle under that pretty ass of yours.”
*
The tall iron gates that mark the entrance to the largest ranch in Texas are spectacular— hand-wrought and forged in fire. Worked into the center of the filigree design is the famous brand
that marks every animal owned by the McCauley family—a heart within a diamond. We pass through the gates and under an equally impressive iron arch with big, scrawling letters proclaiming that we have indeed arrived at El Rancho del Corazon Perdido.
“Big gates, big sign,” I say, stretching my arm across the empty space between us to rest my hand on Holt’s thigh.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas you could say,” he says, covering my hand with his. “Nearly a million acres, and it could get bigger if Campbell caves in and marries Cassandra De La Garza, as per his father’s wishes. The De La Garza’s are about the only landowners who’ve refused to sell out and be swallowed up by the Corazon Perdido. This place makes my twelve-hundred acres look piss-poor, doesn’t it?”
“I love your place, this is way over the top,” I say as we pass herds of Longhorn and Hereford cattle grazing in green fields as that stretch as far as the eye can see. The land is prettier here, with thick-trunked oaks, their branches so long and heavy that many of them are supported by steel cables or wooden posts that are propped underneath. Barns and stables dot the landscape, long and steep-roofed, some are old and built from the same limestone as Holt’s grist mill. Others look new and are crafted from russet-stained wood set on dry-stacked stone with sloping copper roofs.
On the seemingly endless road that winds across the Corazon Perdido a cloud of dust appears on the horizon. When it draws closer Holt stops the truck and a black Range Rover pulls up next to us with a stern-looking but oh-so-very-handsome man behind the wheel. He gets out of his SUV and is suddenly standing at my window motioning for me to roll it down. This is unmistakably the head honcho, the ultimate alpha dog, leader of the pack, owner of the world’s most infamous ranch—Campbell McCauley.
He’s pure Texas male, hot and alluring in his rich-rancher off-white cowboy hat, starched jeans, button-down shirt, expensive cowboy boots, and even more expensive—make that INSANELY expensive—watch. He pushes his hat back a bit, lifts his sunglasses and I suddenly understand the few short texts Gigi sent to me and Penn over the last few weeks— (OMG, OMG! OH. MY. GOD. BROTHERS!!!!! Fucking SWOON!!! Details too hot to text, pray for my wicked soul!!! Later, Sister girls, XOXOXO, Gigi.) He’s a heartbreaker, that’s for sure, and I wonder if Gigi knows or cares that he’s engaged.
His eyes flash an unreal shade of blue-green as he lifts his smooth-shaven chin in a silent greeting to Holt. “Gotta run into town and drag the old man outta jail. I’ll give you one guess who he’s with, brain-dead bastards, neither one of them can hold their liquor or keep their dicks—sorry Miss—out of barely legal puss… girls. You’re dad sliced up a couple of our good vaqueros, he didn’t kill them, but Rafe has to hold him for a few days to see if they press charges.”
“Need me to go, too? No? I hope Rafe keeps Tom locked up for a good long while, my crazy old man should be in rehab. Do they have rehab for mean sumbitches who think they’re God with a switchblade?” Holt asks and he looks tired, just worn down by a lifetime of what he has briefly explained about his father’s deep-seated hatred of mankind in general and Holt in particular.
“I’ll handle it and catch up with you in the roping pen, shouldn’t take long. I believe I’ll confine my dad to his side of the house and threaten his fuc… his life, if he doesn’t reel in his ‘second go at puberty’ a couple of notches.” He shoots Holt a half smile and then notices that I’m not paying any attention to him, I’m staring at his watch. “My grandfather had good taste, right? It was his, the eccentric old bastard loved watches, he collected dozens of them and left them to my mother. Ridiculous to wear it out here on the ranch, but if not now, when?” He says, laughing a genuine laugh as he toys with it. He rubs a thumb across the thin gold face of the watch, and over its elegant leather band, then pulls the cuff of his sleeve down to cover it as if the fact that he’s wearing a vintage Patek Phillipe worth probably two or three million dollars might be a little weird. “It keeps perfect time, made in 1929 and still ticking, a good investment my old granddaddy Campbell always said. He never wore them, kept them locked away, but what’s the use of owning something beautiful if you can’t enjoy it?” He looks up at Holt, raises an eyebrow and shakes his head, and then he turns a panty-melting smile in my direction. “Don’t believe we’ve met, Holt is as uncouth and uncivilized as I am, we’re both the product of good women who made bad marital choices. I’m Campbell McCauley.”
“I’m Scarlet… Scarlet O’Neal. I’m doing the interiors of your fishing lodge… with Holt… he and I are….” I say, and he’s trapped my eyes with his, and I’m stuttering and stupid and thinking— Holy shit, Gigi is in major trouble if she has to choose between Jon-Wylder and Campbell, they are both scorching hot!
“So you’re the girlfriend, good choice, Holt. I have to hand it to you, she’s a stunning beauty, no wonder you were moping around and about as happy as a scalded cat the last couple of months.” He says, and places his hands on the edge of the truck, taps it a couple of times as if he’s pondering the situation before he looks in my eyes and says sincerely. “Holt is a good man, the best man I’ve ever known. And unlike his best friend—my little brother—he isn’t impulsive. If he brought you here and you’re staying with him, that’s a serious first, maybe the beginning of something truly special. I’m a little envious.”
“I doubt that,” Holt says and he laughs and Campbell grins. “You love your martyred bachelorhood, don’t lie. How ‘bout you finish up in town and get your ass back to the ranch, let’s see who those kids are most impressed with. You’re hell on a horse, but you can’t rope and tie for shit.”
“Yeah? We’ll see about that. Okay then, back in a few. Miss Scarlet, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, I’d like to discuss the fishing lodge if we have a minute later today. You know, no frilly shit… pardon me… just want to make perfectly clear that it will actually be used for fishing, hunting, poker playing, and consuming mass quantities of good Scotch whiskey. A retreat where my brothers and our friends can indulge in those time-honored redneck male bonding rituals. So no frills, no roses on the pillows, please ma’am,” he says, tipping his hat before he climbs back in the Range Rover and roars off.
“My fucking idiot father,” Holt mutters as we continue down the road toward the main house and I don’t say a word. He made it clear from the start that dysfunctional doesn’t begin to cover his family life, and he doesn’t feel the need to share more than that.
“Wow!” I say when we stop in front of an elegant horse-barn set off to the side of the palatial ranch house. So this is what REAL money can buy. There’s hardly a term other than palace-like to describe the rambling mansion. If Queen Elizabeth had a ranch, this would be her royal residence, albeit in the rugged Lone Star tradition.
“Like I said, bigger is better, that should be the motto for the last four generations of Campbell descendants. That’s their family crest up there on the lowest flag,” he says pointing up to four flags— The American flag is highest, the Lone Star just beneath it, with the Corazon Perdido and Clan Campbell banners a bit lower— They wave a patriotic salute on a cluster of twenty-foot high flagpoles in front of the mansion. “Clan Campbell, sheep farmers from Glen Shira, Scotland, now cattle ranchers and oil barons in South Texas.”
The flags rise and fall, lifted in the hot breeze that rustles through the lush garden encircling the stolidly handsome brick and stucco mansion. A low iron fence separates the lawn from the dirt, caliche, and Bermuda grass that comprises the surrounding pasture land, a sharp study in contrasts. Holt points to a plaque near the garden gate, it declares that this house, erected to serve as the ranch headquarters in 1865, is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
“C’mon beauty, the kids are here,” Holt says and I follow him over to a split-rail fence where a cowboy stands with two saddled horses. “Hey, Lonnie Jim, how’s it going today? This mare gonna behave herself? This is my girl, Scarlet, it’s her first time to ride—ever.”
The cowboy
laughs hard as he looks me over from head to toe, he’s couldn’t be much older than fifty, but he seems ancient, weather-beaten and toothless. “This here mare’s actin’ up somethin’ pitiful, skittish as all git out. Yep, you’d a thought she was in a pit of rattlers this mornin’, she pitched a wall-eyed fit when I threw the saddle over her. I don’t believe you ought to let that purty gal try and tame her, but it looks like she’s done gone and tamed you, Holt!” He says and he and Holt laugh as my eyes widen and I back away from the white mare. “Aww, I’m pullin’ your leg Miss. Ol’ Sugar is sweet as a speckled pup, ain’t a gentler horse in the stables. And she is speckled if you’ll come on over here and give her a good pat and look her over. See how her coat is whit but mottled? This here is a Leopard Appaloosa, a fine, fine horse.”
“Okay,” I say, trembling at the size of these horses, they’re way bigger in person than they are in TV movies, and Sugar is a regal and gorgeous.
Holt reaches out and pulls me close to him, then stands behind me, his big hands guiding mine along the horse’s neck and ears, down to her soft muzzle. He talks low and gentle to me and the horse, “That’s right, girl, Scarlet’s new to this so let’s not spook her. Let her get your scent Scarlet, and don’t be afraid, a horse can smell fear. See there, you’re doing just fine, she trusts you, and she’s in love with my horse so we’ll have a good ride. This is Buck, he’s a good ol’ boy, best cutting horse I’ve ever had the pleasure to know and work with,” he says, clamping an arm under the thick caramel-colored neck of his horse, and whoa, that horse is even bigger than Sugar. But it nuzzles and butts its head against Holt’s shoulder like a humongous puppy, and grumbles out these low sounds so that Holt grins and whispers to him like a lover. “You have to love a horse like you love a human being, they’re smart and loyal, and I believe they have souls, but their souls are pure, with no inclination for malice.”