Chapter 3
Buck wokeup eight hours after they had returned to San Diego, the pain in his side bringing him out of a deep sleep. For a moment, he thought he had dreamed Maritza, but as he came fully awake, he realized it had all happened. And he got a little angry at all the circumstances that had landed him in her life, for however brief the moment, and he was unable to follow through on anything, including being the strong man he prided himself in being. He directed his anger at Nacho—what a ridiculous name—the drug lord they were trying to neutralize.
When it came to following through, he hated waiting, negotiating, or being limited in any way. It was why he had no problem taking charge when the need arose. He was happy to relinquish the mantle, but if he felt a power vacuum that needed to be filled, he didnt hesitate to step forward— getting them out of the jungle or shouldering Joker on his back.
He wouldn’t be thinking about all this so hard if he hadn’t felt so weak and ineffectual in the jungle. It did occur to him that no man wanted to look weak in the eyes of a woman, not that Maritza thought of him as weak, he couldn’t know her mind, but he discovered the need to always appear strong and protect himself, his team, and innocents. In this case, she’d been the one to protect him. It didn’t sit right at all.
It made him think of his rodeo days, clashing with his dad, and his rebellion and determination to show how tough he was. The thought of controlling thousands of pounds of horseflesh, bulls, and cows drove him to succeed and burn out quickly from rodeoing. That hollow space that was left over sent him to the SEALs, and his second rebellion against his dad. They’d always had a push/pull relationship, but unlike rodeo, Buck never regretted his service, not for one moment.
Needing to relieve himself, he pushed the covers off him, determined to stand on his own two feet and pee like a man, even in this sad excuse for a garment. He swore hospital gowns were built for nothing but discomfort and compromised dignity. The moment he put weight on his legs to stand, he wobbled, clutching at the bed for balance.
“Why am I not surprised that you are trying to walk on your own after what you’ve been through? SEALs…” a female voice said behind him. He turned to find a nurse who was approaching from the door.
“Let me get you back in bed and I’ll get the bedpan.”
“I don’t need a goddamn bedpan,” he growled. Most of the time he got people to back off by being aggressive, jumping ahead in a knee-jerk reaction instead of choosing his words or approach more diplomatically.
But Navy nurses weren’t timid, or diplomatic either, and this one was no different.
“I don’t give a crap what you want. If you insist on stressing your body, then I will be escorting you to and from the bathroom like a toddler. Got that, sailor boy?”
The corner of his mouth kicked up. Damn if he didn’t like sparring with people who could hold their own against him. “You can enjoy my ass exposure on the way.”
She looked behind him and raised her brows. “No one likes a smartass…” She chuckled “Ah, but you have nothing to be ashamed of on that front…or back as it were. Now, let’s move. You need to eat and rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, needing to relieve himself in a dignified manner more than he needed to argue.
True to her word, she took his arm and walked with him to the toilet. When she stood there, he glared at her and she sighed and retreated, closing the door.
He did his business, forcing himself to stand and handle his junk like a man. He washed his hands, and she was right there at the door to help him back to bed. He gritted his teeth against the weakness and his own anger. It wasn’t her fault for fuck’s sake.
He wheedled information out of her by giving her a charming smile instead of a demanding scowl. It was new to him. But it was fruitful. He found out that Joker was out of the woods, his treatment by Maritza’s sister had indeed saved his life. He’d undergone surgery and was now recovering not only from the shrapnel wound but a severe concussion. Professor had a mild concussion and several cracked ribs, Gator the same. Blitz’s broken arm was a clean break in his humerus almost exactly centered between his elbow and shoulder. Luckily, he suffered a non-displaced fracture, meaning Buck’s careful wrapping of Blitz’s arm helped the bones to remain aligned. He would need to be in a cast for six to eight weeks. D-Day and Zorro had mild concussions, Bear wrenched his shoulder, and according to the vet, Flint sustained a concussion, bruising and contusions, but he would be fine.
His own injury was considered a microfracture where he sustained significant damage to the tissue in his rib cage and torso, causing blood to pool, swelling to form around his bones, cartilage, ligaments, and tendons, also known as bruised bone. Worrying about the edema and inflammation on his left side got him a second day of incarcer—ah—observation. Like his teammates, he was also looking at a couple months of recovery.
The pilots’ and DEA agent’s bodies had been recovered from the crash site, which eased Buck’s mental tension over leaving them behind. Fucking Nacho was going to pay.
It was midmorning the next day after he’d had breakfast and was dozing that he felt a light touch on his arm and his name being called.
“Sam?”
He opened his eyes and found his mom standing there. “Mom? What are you doing here?”
“My son is injured and you’re asking me why I’m here,” she said with exasperation. “I’m here to see you, and I think it’s time you came home for a visit and to convalesce.”
Something in her expression made the argument he was going to fire at her melt away. For the first time in his military service, he noticed what it was doing to his mom. He realized that when he’d enlisted, he hadn’t really thought about anyone but himself and his need to fill that hole. But this whole mission had kicked him out of his own head. He’d been so certain about his decision, just assuming his truth was the only truth that mattered. His focus on making his own way in life blinded him to his refusal to listen to others or understand his impact. But she loved him. That was evident in the way she smoothed out the sheets and got him a sip of water. She was his soft spot, and dang it, but he loved her with a fierceness that made him temper his response, and for once in his life, give in to her needs.
“Okay, Mom. I’ll come home,” he growled affectionately, discomfited by his inability to be all right with someone taking care of him. This was going to be a study in patience while he healed.
She smiled, blinking back tears.
Before he left, in a wheelchair he argued against, he was adamant about seeing Joker. So, after he was discharged, his mom wheeled him to Joker’s room. He was awake and talking to Pippa. When he saw Buck, he smiled and said, “I heard you were reading the nurses the riot act about your backside exposure.”
Buck chuckled. Nothing got by his LT. He got close to the bed and clasped Joker’s hand. “You have to admit those hospital gowns leave nothing to the imagination.”
Joker laughed, then winced in pain. “I heard you received mostly tens, and one enthusiastic eleven.”
Buck chuckled. “Well, there you go. That’s at least something.”
Pippa piped up. “I believe she said, ‘That was one fine looking bare butt.’”
“My claim to fame.”
“I heard it was America’s ass,” D-Day said as he came into the room. “Superhero material.” He also clasped Joker’s hand, all of them chuckling. “Sorry about the language, Mrs. Buckard.”
She shook her head. “I know you guys say it how it is,” she responded. “How are you?”
“Good. Pretty sore, but good. Are you taking Buck home?”
“Yes, but only after I wore him down.”
“I’m envious. Wyoming is beautiful and I loved being a greenhorn.”
“Why don’t come home with us, unless you’ve got family?—”
“No, no family, and I would love to.”
After heading over to D-Day’s apartment so he could get some clothes, Buck found himself at the airport.
“We’re not going to the terminal?” D-Day asked as they pulled through the gate and the car service his mom ordered stopped on the tarmac. The driver got out and opened the door for him, and he gritted his teeth as he used his good side to get out, shrugging off D-Day’s help. His mom frowned at him.
“This is the ranch’s jet,” his mom said. Most of Buck’s life he had lived well with his parents. The ranch had first been successful under his grandfather, who had made very smart investments, and then his father who continued the legacy. He really didn’t know how much his family home was worth, and material things didn’t really faze him that much. But as he shuffled toward the plane, he did feel a stab of pride at the Bucking Horse name across the side along with their logo of a man on a bucking bronc.
He settled into one of the cushy seats and closed his eyes. He was exhausted, and his side hurt like hell. A hand touched his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to his mom. She had a glass of water and some painkillers. He gladly took them, smiled at her, and rested back.
The next thing he knew, they were landing at the Cheyenne Regional Airport. His mom had brought his winter clothes, and she helped him put them on. A car from the ranch was waiting for them once they cleared baggage claim. Buck didn’t need much, since he kept a working wardrobe and the necessities in his old room and adjacent bathroom.
Moving through the city, he was aware that it was seen in the eyes of tourists as the Old West—cowboys, rodeos, railroads, and the majestic high plains.
But he’d grown up here, and he’d worked the ranch and participated in that cowboy culture because that was their legacy as much as the Bucking Horse Ranch. Wyoming wasn’t named the Cowboy State for nothing.
It was clear D-Day loved it here. His eyes lit up when they landed, and Buck had to wonder why he clearly didn’t relish going back home to see his family. He knew D-Day loved his mom and dad, his brother as well, although he was enmeshed in his pilot training. Buck was aware that D-Day was reserved, and in fact, painfully shy in social situations. Not on missions and certainly not in combat. He excelled everywhere it mattered in his chosen profession.
After the confines of city life and being part of a busy Naval base, the sense of space was almost overwhelming, but familiar. The state was surely full of wide-open spaces, giving anyone who came here a feeling of solitary awe. The miles and miles of forest were punctuated with craggy outcrops and beautiful lakes. There was a raw, wild beauty about it, but there was also a haunting aura of isolation, especially with the cover of snow.
His Oakley sunglasses did little to filter out the brightness of sunlight refracted from the crystals that looked like a blanket of diamonds. The silence of the uninhabited wilderness was peaceful, downright freeing in its intensity. He loved riding on crisp, cold early mornings where he could see his breath and that of his mount’s misting the air. He took a deep breath and felt something in his gut let go.
At the turnoff, the driver went left, due east toward the ranch. The highway narrowed down to a single-span truss bridge that crossed over the Cheyenne River.
“That is always one spectacular view,” D-Day murmured.
Buck had to agree it was beautiful with the vista spread out. The ridge of bleak hills formed the natural rim of a valley. Off in the distance, the snowcapped Rocky Mountains loomed up dramatically, thrusting jaggedly into the clear blue sky, colored in hues of purple and gray. The feelings of expectation grew as the vehicle covered the final miles. The feelings became even stronger when they crested a small rise off to the right.
As the car slowed to turn into the long drive toward the ranch, there was a typical gate, bumping over the cattle guard, a pole arch with the Bucking Horse brand carved into the crossbar, finished out with ironwork.
There was an impressive row of gigantic spruce that lined the far side of the drive as a natural windbreak. Their roots went deep into Buckard land.
The lane curved down into a sheltered hollow, and Buck felt a rush of warmth as the house and buildings came into view. Several acres of land adjacent to the road had been left untouched, and thick stands of poplar and pine were scattered across the rolling terrain.
Beyond the spruce and the curving drive, ranch buildings came into view, and sunlight glinted off a huge, corrugated steel arena.
He absently wondered what Maritza would think about this spread, so different from her lush jungle home. He hadn’t been able to get the woman’s face out of his mind, or the soft sound of her voice.
The huge old-fashioned house, which faced the gravel drive, looked like it had been recently painted, its white trim sparkling against the deep, brick red. All the ranch buildings were painted the same color, with the barns having crisscrossed white wood across the doors.
A veranda stretched across the front of the house. The hedge of lilacs, which would soon show the first touch of spring, bordered the east side of the yard. There was another windbreak of trees behind the house, across an expanse of lawn.
Surrounding the house were outbuildings and barns, storage for the large machinery in between blocked paddocks and pastureland.
Nothing much had changed, except the trees were bigger and some of the corral fencing was new. Thinking about how some things stay the same, he got out of the vehicle.
The front door opened, and two black and white border collies rushed out. He winced as he reached down and scratched their necks.
Seeing his siblings, Cole, Wyatt, and their youngest sister, Daisy, was always a treat. Buck was right in the middle between two older brothers, and two younger sisters. Helen, who was a registered nurse, was in Haiti with Doctors Without Borders saving lives after their devastating earthquake, so he regretted he wouldn’t get a chance to see her this trip. But he was happy to be home.
* * *
Coffee.The journey started with the green bean and ended up as the perfect beverage entirely made to preference. Whether cold, dripped, filtered, espresso, and with all the modern bells and whistles, there was one common denominator—the green bean, or as her family created and branded it—the Golden Grain. In the roasting shed, surrounded by wood and stone, stirring the beans to make sure they got an even roast, she breathed in the sharp aromas and truly satisfying process of taking raw beans and transforming them into flavored deliciousness.
Her family used the oldest method of roasting, a metal cylinder, containing coffee, was rotated above heat, the hot air propelled by a blower. The tumbling action was key in getting an even roast.
She glanced out the window and couldn’t imagine a better office. Outside, buried in the rich, volcanic earth, were row upon row of thick green Arabica plants, cultivated by her brother Diego. She could just catch a glimpse of one of three greenhouses to the right of the roasting shed in the distance. Right now, he was nurturing new plants to augment the six-hundred and forty aces of their plantation, building a new generation of growth. They were in the middle of their harvesting season, all of the plants heavy with coffee berries, the ripe, red ones slated for picking.
Her family was also very dedicated to reducing their carbon footprint, and with that in mind, they had employed solar panels, optimizing resources, reducing water and electricity consumption, and paying attention to recycling opportunities. It gave them all satisfaction that they were supporting the planet instead of just consuming its bounty. That included the use of eco-friendly methods, such as composting and natural pest control.
Her thoughts went back to the conversation she’d had with her sisters this morning. The one where they seemed to think she was a workaholic. She didn’t think it was wrong to want people to see her as competent and successful. She felt good about her public persona because she did whatever it took to work hard and deliver. She bit her lip. She had been going strong for a while, learning the business. Obtaining more knowledge was time-consuming, so maybe it was difficult for her to slow down or stop.
But slowing down with someone like Buck might be very worthwhile. She couldn’t get that out of her mind. She gleaned that he’d been tall, had a leanness that corded his body with layer upon layer of hard muscle, enough to rope his shoulders with a dozen of those layers, enough to six-pack his abs and burn the memory of him into every single cell she had. She remembered his deep, forest-green eyes with those thick, dark lashes, and his mouth?—
That was a study in frustration, especially on a man who had been put on a chopper and probably not given her another thought.
But with Buck, there was that heroic effort of running from the crash site of the chopper, in pain, in the heat, through a dense mixture of cedar, manú, botarrama, and laurel trees, and heavy vegetation, staying ahead of murderous cartel members bent on their deaths. Yeah, that took amazing courage and a tough-mindedness that not many men possessed. The little she did know about him made her thirst for more information, more understanding, and…more contact.
The phone rang and she jumped, tumbling out of her thoughts about Buck. She turned and reached across her desk and picked up the receiver. “Your father would like you to come to the house as soon as possible.”
She frowned. Her dad didn’t normally interrupt her when she was roasting. It must be important. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she responded. Her father was the authority on the plantation and when he summoned, everyone came running. It wasn’t just respect. It was a call to family duty. Her father didn’t participate in frivolous conversations, and family was everything.
She wrapped up her roasting session and stepped out of the air-conditioned shed, taking the beautiful winding steppingstones back to the main house, the coffee brown terracotta tiles on the roof, and the muted rust adobe architecture coming into view before she took river rock inserts on the stair risers, and bracketed by the same river rock walls. She entered through the thick stylized wooden doors, already knowing her father would be in his office located on the far side of the big mansion. There were several warm wooden glass double doors leading to a central courtyard, a disk-like fountain in the middle with whimsical frogs around it. It was one of her most favorite places to hang out.
She brushed back her hair as she walked down the hallway, the gentle breeze from open windows bringing in the smell of loam and vegetation, the sweet perfume of wild orchids and bougainvillea, vibrant scents of life. Their closest neighbors were monkeys, birds, and iguanas.
At the carved double wooden doors, she knocked and waited for her father’s deep voice telling her to enter before she turned the knob to step inside the beautiful room decorated in weathered wood, a big desk, leather sofa, and understated hand-painted tile lining the fireplace situated between two floor-to-ceiling built-ins with objects from three generations of the Golden Grain’s patrón.
“Ah, my light,” he said, calling her his pet name. Mi luz in Spanish.
Her father was the ultimate outdoorsman, looking like a gentleman farmer in his white T-shirt beneath a khaki vest, and navy-blue cargo pants. He was tall, elegant, assured, and their leader with twinkling dark eyes, and salt and pepper close-cropped beard and hair.
“Hi, Papa. Is everything all right?”
“Right as rain. You will be going to San Diego on a trip that will determine a large portion of our future profits.”
“Oh?” Then she smiled. “Does this mean you’re approving my aggressive expansion into the US coffee shop market?”
He nodded. “This is what it means.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, but she felt as if he was silently assessing his words before he spoke. “I have complete faith in you, for you always know that family and the business always come first.” His words were slow and measured, his voice the firm definition of authority. “I will expect nothing less than success.”
Another silence ensued, another discomfiting, tension-filled silence, and Maritza, even though she’d been looking forward to her father’s approval, knew his reminder was telling her that if she didn’t deliver, she would not only let him down, but all of them. She could tell it was going to be a tough few weeks away from home, ensconced in a bustling city of 1.3 million people while she negotiated contracts, found the right real estate, purchased properties, and planned for the opening of the Golden Grain coffee shops all up and down the West Coast. She accepted all that, including the burden he’d just set on her shoulders, but what she couldn’t accept and would never handle well was failure.
* * *
D-Day was stillin awe of this whole spread that Buck was lucky enough to be a part of. While he was resting, Buck’s dad, Bram, roped him into going out with Buck’s two brothers, Cole and Wyatt.
“One of the biggest tasks in winter is feeding because most of the grass and other plants that our cattle normally graze on are dormant, so we have to feed them daily,” he explained as D-Day bounced along in the big feed truck. “No small feat with four hundred cows, four hundred calves, and two hundred and fifty yearling heifers and bulls spread out over forty-five hundred acres.”
“How are we going to find them?”
Wyatt chuckled. “Ah, shoot, we won’t have to. Once they hear this ole truck, it’s like kids and ice cream.”
“We draw them to different areas as it spreads out the natural fertilizing of manure, which in turn maintains the health of the grass year-round,” Cole said, sounding so much like Buck with his drawl.
And Wyatt had been right on the money. The moment the truck reached one of the fields, hundreds of cattle plodded onward through the snow and started to congregate, and D-Day and Cole got into the bed to start throwing out bales. D-Day suspected it was a scene that was as much a part of the rolling country as were the great trees standing tall in the distance. They worked steadily in the just-below-freezing temperatures, his shoulders burning by the end of the chore.
Back at the house, he headed for the room he’d been assigned. It was apparently Helen’s old room, but she wasn’t expected back for the duration of their stay in Wyoming. He wanted to clean up before he sat down for dinner. After his shower, he didn’t bother to shave, leaving the stubble on his face. He was going to rough it for a bit. He exited the bathroom with just a towel, the window and the wide-open spaces calling him. The one thing about this place, it drove home how lonely it could be. Knowing his mood was heading into a dark, empty place, D-Day set his jaw as his old history piled on top of him.
An uneasy feeling turned into something sharper, and instantly his heart felt too big for his chest.
Suddenly the door opened, and a wry female voice sounded behind him. “Well, this is an added bonus. I didn’t expect to find a stud in my room.”
He whirled around and found a shapely and stunning package eyeing everything he had. He felt the heat of her gaze through his towel.
“Who are you?” he stammered. He clenched his jaw as his mouth went dry. He didn’t actually do well with women. He braced himself, but that didn’t stop the emotions piling up in his chest.
Fuck but she was gorgeous. Haphazard, chin-length honey-blonde curls, a set of sultry hazel eyes, and a ball-busting body generated a feverish heat and undeniable hunger he didn’t know how to deal with.
“Helen Buckard. This is my bedroom, and you?”
Dammit. Buck’s younger sister. He couldn’t lust after her, no way, no how. Some women were just off limits and teammate’s sisters were at the top of the list. He didn’t want to acknowledge the uneasy feeling churning in his belly or the fear that was fighting to surface. A long time ago, he had learned not to cross bridges, especially those that werent his to cross. There was a lot of stuff that had gone under that bridge, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever put it all behind him. The secret he harbored had its roots a long time ago.