Chapter 2
2
CLEMENTINE
I f I had better company, I'd be in heaven right about now.
Not that Gunner O'Leary is doing anything to spoil the scenery. The man is easy enough to look at.
A few years older than me-- not quite a full ten, I'm guessing-- he's built well, with a sturdy frame and muscles that the bulky jacket can't hide. Underneath that Stetson, his features would be almost boyishly handsome if it weren't for the lines that tell a tale of a life outdoors more than mere age, and the hard set of his stubbled jaw as he stares ahead instead of glancing my way whenever he deigns to speak to me.
When he pulls up alongside of me where the trail widens on the curves as we round another hill, I do my best not to openly stare at his hands. Strong, weathered hands that look like they're capable of doing more than roping a calf, hold his reins loosely, the cuffs of his jacket pushed up to reveal a glimpse of thick forearms that are enough to have me swooning a little bit.
Not that I'm about to let Gunner catch me subtly eye-fucking any part of him. Or let on that I can't help but wonder what his calloused palms would feel like running over my skin. Or what kind of things he'd say while he fucked me.
Nope. Not going there.
"Suppose my brother must've interviewed you before he handed over a couple million dollars’ worth of cattle to your care."
Casting a glance in the man's direction and seeing the disapproval in the stern, brown eyes leveled at me, I ignore the shiver that tickles my spine and give him a grunt.
I've been dealing with this from men since I was breaking my back to prove myself to my own father. Not that that worked out any better with my own family than it has with a dozen other men that I've worked for since.
Men like Gunner, who think they're modern for hiring a woman as a seasonal hand, only to make sure she never does any real work; and would certainly never offer her a position that comes with any real responsibility.
The younger O'Leary brothers have been great co-workers, and the oldest one that hired me looked at my resume and saw someone who's qualified for the job.
"Your brother was more concerned with my qualifications than he was with my boobs," I assure him.
I don't miss the way Gunner's eyes drop to the boobs in question any more than I miss the way he bristles at the mention of Ranger's name.
"Too bad he's not the one I'm stuck with for the next few nights."
The look on Gunner's face is everything, as I kick my heels lightly and my horse pulls ahead of his.
Truth is, none of the other O'Leary brothers have caught my interest the way this one has. Something about Gunner has my mind going to all sorts of inappropriate places. The way his features cloud with irritation and the not-entirely-quiet cursing following me up the trail, bring me a twisted kind of satisfaction that I'm not about to let on to.
"... dead body ..."
A few more rough words for his brother make their way to me as Gunner catches up to where the trail ends in a large, circular clearing that contains a small pen for livestock, a wide, stone fire ring, and one incredibly small cabin.
"I'll be pitching my tent out here, you go ahead and take the shack," Gunner grumps as he dismounts and leads his horse to the fenced area.
If he hears me laugh at his choice of words, he doesn't mention it.
Of course, my brain immediately goes to thoughts of the gruff, older cowboy bedding down by the fire ring for the night, and exactly what sort of tent I'd like to see him pitching.
While Gunner takes care of the horses, I carry my pack into the eight by ten-foot shack that's been constructed at one end of the area. There's no lock on the door and, once I'm sure the interior is free of snakes, opossums, and other unwelcome roommates, I drop my bag on the floor and get my bearings.
Not that there's much to the place.
It's a simple, wooden structure with unfinished walls that show off the two by four framing and the fact that there's not an ounce of insulation in them. A small, wood-burning stove sits in the corner beside the door and a simple window is cut into the back wall.
There's a loft overhead that would fit one person-- two if they were friendly-- but the loft is being used for storage, with several large bins shoved onto the platform.
That leaves the floor for me to call home for the next couple of nights, or however long it takes us to bring the Delta O cattle off the neighbor's land and get the fence between the ranches repaired.
Word is that the Flying R, the ranch that borders us to the south, is owned by a family with a dirty history in these parts.
Getting the fence repaired is a top priority. Apparently, no one wants to tangle with the Ralstons.
Gunner
Dammit. Why'd she have to go bring up her boobs?
It's hard enough to keep myself from leering at her like a hungry coyote. How's a man supposed to keep himself in check when she's gotta go bringing attention to those curves of hers.
That crack about preferring my brother's company to mine has me seeing red. It's like the mere thought of this feisty little filly aiming that sharp tongue at any man but me has me ready to haul her over my shoulder and carry her off somewhere I can keep her all to myself till she knows she's mine.
Just as well that we've been using the shelter for storage for the last few seasons; gives me a fine excuse to bed down out here under the stars by the fire.
Being cooped up in such close quarters with that woman for any length of time would likely be the death of me.
It doesn't take long for me to get my bags unpacked and my gear set up. The warm summer weather means I left the tent at home, so it's just a matter of laying out the simple bed roll near the fire ring with my spare clothes and other essentials in the bag next to my pillow.
Clem hasn't come back out of the shed by the time I'm done, so I don't bother calling on her to come out and join me while I hunt up some firewood and have a look at the fence repairs we'll be faced with first thing in the morning.
Heaven knows, I can use the time to myself. Give me a chance to put some space between me and that woman before I lose my damn mind and do something stupid.
Checking on the fence that separates our land from the Flying R, I find two entire sections down, but nothing so bad that it'll take more parts than we brought with us.
Our cattle, on the other hand, looks to be another matter.
Even with the late sunsets this time of year, it's too late in the afternoon to go after the ruddy brown spots dotting the low land where one of Slow River's many distributary forks winds out of the hills through the neighboring ranch.
I do my best to take a head count, not happy at all about seeing our cattle on Ralston land and even less happy about having to leave them there another night.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, I turn away from the busted fence and find a downed tree that looks good enough to give us a few fires.
By the time I get back to camp with an armful of firewood, Clem's already got a fire going. A stack of wood a few feet from the rock ring and a grill set across a couple of rocks that'll be just the right height from the coals for cooking as soon as the fire has a chance to burn down a bit.
"Wondered where you went," she grumbles at me when I drop my contribution to the fire wood on top of the neat stack she's made.
The falling wood makes a loud clatter, scattering the pile of logs as it lands.
"Thought I'd gather up some wood for the fire," I grumble back at her, not missing the smirk she's fighting to keep off that smart mouth of hers. "Thought you were takin' a nap or something in there."
Gesturing at the shack with a jerk of my thumb, I do my best not to give her the satisfaction of being able to read my face right now. The last thing I need is for this woman to know just how much she gets to me-- or how.
Truth is, I'm damn impressed with her so far-- and not just the way she has my mind all scrambled and my body reacting like a school boy.
So far, she's proven to be competent enough, from being ready early to getting the fire going-- and gathering up that wood, where ever she found it.
"Awww, what's wrong, O'Leary? Did I threaten your manhood by knowing how to start a fire?"
Keeping my back to her so she can't see the grin on my face, I crouch down and pull my dinner from my bag.
Threaten is about the last of the words I'd use to describe what this woman does to my manhood. In fact, even now, I have to figure out how to discretely adjust my cock to keep the semi I can't seem to lose around her from getting any more uncomfortable than it already is.
Damned if I'm going to let her know just how her ribbing gets me riled up. As far as she needs to know, she's just another man on my staff. And that means giving her the same shit I'd give any of my guys.
She's proven she can dish it, let's see how she takes it.
"You okay, there?"
Clem's voice let's on that she's not at all concerned for my well-being when she hears me groan as I lower myself onto on one of the old logs we use for seats around the fire ring.
She adds a comment about my age, suggesting it might be my joints-- truth is, hearing the words "how she takes it" run through my internal monologue conjure up some not safe for work images that remind me that Clementine isn't the kind of woman I can allow myself to think of like that.
The kind of woman that gets my blood heated and has me more aware of the differences between us that a professional relationship allows for.
"No thanks, darlin'," I answer as I stir the coals and adjust the grill, "you keep that ibuprofen for yourself. We've got a lot of fence to mend tomorrow and more than twenty head to round up. You'll be needing it for yourself by the time I'm done with ya."
She's quiet on the other side of the fire for long enough that it has me reflecting on what I've just said. Which did not come out sounding like I meant it to at all, dammit.
I'm about to backtrack, an apology at the ready to cover up the Freudian slip, but when I brave a look up at her face, the way she's looking at me makes me think better of it.
Something tells me it's not just the reflection of the campfire that's putting that heat in her glare.