Buckled

by Pam Godwin

  He sits back with a grunt. “You’re thinking with your dick.”

  “No, I—”

  “So you don’t want to fuck her?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “I know what I’m doing. I just need you to—”

  “I’m not participating in this madness.”

  “Shut up, Jake.” Conor’s drowsy voice drifts from across the room. “Stop being such an asshole and let him talk.”

  A smile tugs at my lips. “I’m sorry I woke you, Conor.”

  “It’s okay.” Her shadow stirs in the bed, rising to a sitting position. “Your brother’s snoring was keeping me up anyway.”

  “She’s full of shit,” Jake mumbles.

  She turns, reaching for something, and the moonlight glances off her nude back.

  I avert my gaze. “Until I know more about this woman, I have to keep tabs on her. What better way than to have her working with me all day and spending time with me at night.”

  “In your bed.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “No, it doesn’t.” Conor approaches, dressed in a t-shirt three-times too big for her. “Keep your enemies close. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Jake holds out an arm to her.

  She slides into his embrace and onto his lap. “Is she crafty enough to hide cameras around?”

  “I don’t know.” I rub a hand through my hair. “She’s smart. We’ll have to monitor our conversations, but we should be doing that anyway. This will keep us from becoming complacent.”

  Jake releases a slow breath, exposing a crack in his resistance. “You need to talk to Lorne.”

  “I’ll email him tonight.”

  Even though he’s in prison, we run every decision by him as if he were still here.

  “Don’t be a jerk to her.” Conor leans forward, green eyes shining in the dark. “She’s on her own, doing her job, and if what she said is true, she has no family. She doesn’t have what we have. Don’t punish her for a crime she hasn’t committed yet.”

  Jake’s silence tells me he agrees with her.

  “I won’t.” I’ll play with her, but I won’t treat her unfairly.

  “Good.” She relaxes. “Now how is she going to help on the ranch?”

  “I have some ideas.” I smile inwardly. “I’ll keep her away from the ravine, while the concrete pad is poured tomorrow. But there’s a small issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She needs work clothes.”

  A bright light and sudden loss of warmth wakes me from the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months. I reach for the blanket, but it’s on the move, racing down my bare legs and off the bed.

  “What the—?”

  “Get dressed.” Jarret stands over me with the bedding clutched in his hand. “You’re going on an adventure.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. Not with his eyes glimmering and his powerful body all decked out for a hard day’s work.

  Faded brown cowboy hat, tight blue t-shirt, low-slung jeans, wide leather belt, and I stop there. It’s too damn early to be checking out his bulge.

  What time is it anyway?

  The overhead lights are what woke me. I roll over, and darkness greets me beyond the window.

  “Get a move on.” His footsteps retreat. “We’re burning daylight.”

  With a groan, I sit up and shove the frizzy rat’s nest out of my face. “The sun isn’t even up.”

  “Exactly.” He ambles toward the door. “I brought you some of Conor’s clothes. You’re taller, so the jeans won’t cover your ankles. But the boots will take care of that. Breakfast is served in five.”

  “Five…?”

  “Minutes. Oh, and…” He turns in the doorway, and his eyes drop to my chest. “Wear a bra.”

  I cover myself with my hands, realizing too late he can probably see through my thin tank top. At least I had the right mind to sleep in cotton shorts.

  “I’m not trying to embarrass you.” He hooks a thumb under his belt buckle. “Since you’ll be in a saddle today, Conor asked me to pass along the advice.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He shuts the door, and I slump on the bed. I’ve never been on a horse. There’s a lot of bouncing involved with that, I guess. So chest support makes sense, even for B cups.

  I don’t know the first thing about riding or ranching, but I agreed to stay here and earn my keep. With regard to his other offer, however, I’m still leaning heavily in the direction of No fucking way.

  But I can’t leave, either. If what John Holsten told me is true, his sons know exactly where I’ll find what I’m looking for.

  What am I willing to give up in exchange for answers?

  I turn toward the pile of clothes and boots on the chair.

  Pride. That’s what I’m sacrificing. The instant I put on borrowed clothes and step outside, I’m on their turf, in their world, completely out of my league.

  I’m going to make a fool out of myself.

  “Let’s get on with it then.”

  I clean my face and teeth and plait my hair into Laura Ingalls Wilder braids. Then I change into Conor’s jeans.

  They fit a little too loose through the hips and fall just above the ankles, but they’ll work. I slip on a bra and opt to wear the pink tank top I slept in.

  The boots don’t look like the kind Conor wears. These have a shorter, wider heel, and the etched design has a masculine feel. They’re definitely used, given the deep scratches and stains.

  I slide a foot in and wiggle my toes. A little roomy but surprisingly comfortable.

  When my five minutes are up, I take a deep breath and make my way to the kitchen.

  The aroma of pork grease and coffee saturates the air. I don’t mind the scent of cooked meat as long as I don’t think about it too much.

  Jake stands at the stove, frying eggs while Conor carries a sizzling pan of bacon around the small breakfast table near the window. Outside, a whisper of light touches the pasture, beckoning the sunrise.

  “Mornin’, Maybe.” Conor waves a tattooed arm and pauses beside Jarret to drop some meat on his plate.

  “Morning.” I linger on the perimeter, feeling awkward and out of place.

  “Sit.” Jarret pulls out the chair beside him and fills the glasses with ice water from a pitcher.

  His hat rests on the table, his dark brown hair all tousled and lustrous around his ears. He watches me with eyes the color of wheat fields, his face strong and smooth, as if chiseled from granite. His perfect lips are his softest feature. Not that I’ve felt them, but my God, they look ripe for kissing.

  He lifts a strong hand, the skin calloused from rugged work, and summons me with the crook of a finger.

  Despite the blush tingling my cheeks, I don’t care that he caught me staring at him again. As ridiculously handsome as he is, he must be used to the attention.

  Conor finishes loading up the place settings with bacon. I sit at the table and glance down at the rotting pieces of flesh on the plate in front of me.

  Jarret leans in, and his mouth brushes my ear. “You look good enough to eat.”

  A swallow lodges in my throat.

  Conor lowers into the chair across from me. “Looks like my jeans are too big for you.”

  “No, they’re fine.” I rub a palm along the worn denim. “Thank you for loaning them to me.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She smiles a lot. Considering everything she’s been through, I didn’t expect that. She’s obviously here willingly. Maybe Jarret and Jake aren’t the bad guys. Or maybe Conor is involved in the corruption.

  “How do the boots fit?” Jarret angles his neck to see my feet under the table.

  “Really well. Whose are they?”

  “Jarret’s.” Conor smiles at him. “You wore those when you were what? Twelve? Thirteen?”

  Jake steps to the table with a skillet of eggs. “He wore them during his Britney Sp
ears phase. She’s the reason he started playing with his dick. A habit that would later be known as Oops!… I Did It Again.”

  I can’t stop the amusement from twisting my lips.

  “You know, Jake, this is why everyone talks about you as soon as you leave the room.” Jarret reaches over and snatches the bacon from my plate.

  “Don’t steal her food.” Conor launches across the table to smack his hand.

  He dodges her, holding the crispy strips out of her reach. “She’s a carrot muncher.”

  “Oh.” Conor drops back on the chair and stares at me like I have a terminal disease. “I’m sorry.”

  My eyebrows lift. “You’re sorry I’m a vegetarian?”

  “Well… Yeah.”

  Jake hovers the skillet in front of me. “No eggs, then?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll take her baby chickens.” Jarret shoves the bacon into his mouth and holds up his plate. “Survival of the fittest and all that. My stomach is a graveyard for the weak and helpless.”

  If he’s trying to gross me out, he’ll have to do better than that.

  Jake divides the eggs between the three of them and sets the skillet aside. “What does she eat?”

  “Oysters.” Jarret grins.

  I die a little inside.

  “What does she have against oysters?” Conor stabs her eggs with a fork.

  “Maybe she was wronged by one in a previous life.” Jake sits and digs into his food. “Can’t blame her for that. I like to double fist my enemies before I eat them. Especially if they’re Kentucky fried.”

  “Kentucky fried death.” Conor laughs.

  I reach for my glass and guzzle the water to drown out a string of ungracious retorts.

  “A person can’t live on oysters and rabbit food.” Jake shovels in another forkful. “No wonder she’s so skinny.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. People in Chicago don’t blink an eye at vegetarians or vegans. I’m not even an extremist or health-food fanatic. I just choose to not eat animals that have been twisted and crushed with cruelty.

  The microwave dings, and Jarret leaves the table. I silently beg him to hurry back and save me from this bigotry.

  Conor waves around a strip of bacon and bites into it. “Doesn’t she realize pigs would eat her if they could?”

  My face heats. “You know, I’m sitting right here.”

  “Wasn’t Hitler a vegetarian?” Jake asks.

  Was he?

  “Yep.” Jarret returns to the table. “And lesbians. They don’t eat meat.”

  “Straight men don’t eat meat, either,” I mumble. “Your logic is flawed.”

  He sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of me, and it almost makes me want to forgive him for letting this conversation continue.

  “She could never be an Eskimo.” Conor carries her plate to the sink. “I mean, how would she grow her food?”

  “Here’s what I want to know.” Jake swallows his last bite and looks at Jarret. “If you start eating her out on the regular, does that mean you’re on a vegetarian diet?”

  My jaw clenches. Teasing is one thing. This is crossing the line.

  “Enough.” I place my hands on the table and temper my voice. “I know I’m a guest in your home, but this discussion is about as stimulating as a big bag of tiny dicks.”

  Silence blankets the room.

  I twist in the chair, meeting each pair of eyes. “You think eating meat makes you tough? Good for you. You want to put mechanically-separated animal parts in your bodies? After it’s been ground up and squished through a sieve—bones, beaks, eyes, guts, and all—and comes out looking like your Kentucky fried nuggets? Be my guest. I won’t stop you. But when you harass me for my dietary decisions and ethical views on killing, I will stand up for myself. I’m skinny because of my genetics. But I’m healthy, not that it’s any of your concern. As for your decision to eat meat, it should be within your own logical interest to save the fluffy chickens of the world. Not only is it a moral responsibility, the mass consumerism of animals is destroying the environment with its deforestation, pollution, water depletion, and species extinction. By supporting that, you’re basically confessing the worthlessness of your own feeble mortality.”

  I have so much more to say about this, but I won’t. Raising cattle is their livelihood, and preaching is not mine.

  I turn back to my plate and wait for the backfire.

  Conor steps beside me, drawing my gaze to hers.

  “Welcome to Julep Ranch.” A grin spreads across her face. “You’ll do just fine here.”

  She strolls out of the kitchen, leaving me stunned and staring after her.

  As Jake follows her out, he claps a hand on Jarret’s shoulder. “I like her.”

  When he vanishes around the corner, I dare a peek at Jarret. “What just happened?”

  “No one here cares what you eat.” He folds his arms on the table. “They were just feeling you out. Seeing what you’re made of.”

  “That’s fucked up.” My eyebrows pull in as my mind spins with curiosity. “What do you think I’m made of?”

  “Backbone.” He reaches out and yanks on one of my braids. “And now they know it, too.”

  “Why does that matter?” I straighten my spine.

  “They were concerned I might take advantage of you.”

  “Is that a habit of yours?”

  “Only with meddlesome reporters.” He pushes the oatmeal closer. “Eat.”

  “Thank you for breakfast.” I grab a spoon and start eating. “You don’t need to cook special meals for me. I have food in my car.”

  “Oysters?” He grins and nods at the bowl. “It’s microwaved oatmeal. Nothing fancy. Since our moms died when we were young, none of us learned how to cook.”

  “As much as you work, I’m surprised you don’t have a personal chef.”

  “We’re running the ranch on a bare bones crew to trim costs. We’ll hire more cowhands before we invest in a personal staff.” He stands, slides on his hat, and starts clearing the table.

  He’s already done?

  I eat faster, scraping the bottom of the bowl. “How did you guys scarf down everything so quickly? Did you even taste your food?”

  “We were raised to eat efficiently. It’s a way of life here. Meals are fuel and nothing more. After a couple of days, you’ll get used to it.”

  When I finish the oatmeal, I help him with the dishes and try not to dwell on how domesticated all this feels. Moving around him in the tight space by the sink, bumping arms, brushing hands, sharing air—it’s more intimate than the live-in relationships I’ve had.

  Jarret starts the dishwasher and grabs a hat from the back counter.

  “This is a Stetson.” He sets it on my head and adjusts the roll of the brim. “The felt is made from the fur of various critters, and before you get all self-righteous—”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Good, because we use a lot of leather and hide around here. It’s durable and lasts a long time. I wore this hat through most of my teens.” He lifts my chin with a finger, inspecting my face. “Do you burn easily?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Conor!” His booming voice makes me jump. “Where’s your sunblock?”

  “Mudroom,” she shouts from somewhere in the house.

  The finger beneath my chin becomes a hard grip, and something flashes in his golden eyes. “Let’s get started on that adventure.

  Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I follow him to the mudroom.

  “You want me to put my hand where?” I curl my fingers in the long-sleeved glove that Jarret lubricated to my shoulder.

  “The rectum.” He pats the rear flank of the cow in front of us, and she returns a cheeky snort.

  After I lathered up with sunblock, he led me to this cowshed on foot. During the five-minute walk, he could’ve prepared me. He could’ve said, “Hey, so that adventure I mentioned? It’s a trip down a dark tunnel of shit. Literally.�
��

  But, no. He walked ahead of me, as fast as those long legs could carry him, without saying a word.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply, but not too deeply because the air reeks of manure.

  When I open my eyes, I find the rich amber of his waiting inches away.

  “I’m not qualified to do this.” I frown at the cow’s twitching tail. “What if I hurt her?”

  “I won’t let you.”

  “You still haven’t told me what A.I.-ing the cattle means.”

  “Artificial Insemination. Explaining why we do this is more complicated than explaining how to do it.”

  I make a grudging sound in my throat and release a breath. “Okay, just tell me what to do.”

  “That’s par for the course.” The insinuation in his deep voice vibrates through me. “What’s your experience with anal?”

  “Jarret, I swear to God, if you make this sexual, I’ll believe everything I’ve heard about rednecks and their farm animals.”

  “Let’s set one thing straight.” He puts his face in mine. “If I ever spit without opening my mouth, mow my lawn and find a household appliance, get a farmer’s tan while watching NASCAR, name a son after a Southern Civil War general, or take a seventeen-year-old bride in my fifties, then you can call me a redneck.”

  He’s so serious and intense it’s hard to keep from laughing.

  I narrow my eyes. “What if your porch collapses and kills five dogs?”

  “Since I don’t have dogs, I didn’t include that one.”

  “Fine, but if I find a stuffed opossum in your bedroom, you’re gonna wear that label with pride.”

  “Shut up and put that lubed hand to work.”

  “Ugh.” I shift toward the cow’s rear and fortify my resolve. I’ll do this because he gave me oatmeal and a place to sleep, but that’s not why I’m here. “Tell me about those men I named last night.”

  “Levi Tibbs attacked us six years ago. You already know what he did to Conor.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “You’ll have to ask his parole officer.” He steps behind me and guides my gloved arm. “When you go in, you’ll feel the reproductive tract through the rectal lining. You’re looking for the cervix. It feels like a turkey neck.”