Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Zoe
O ne of the guys, the youngest, Isaac, I believed, came around a corner and spotted me.
His brows shot up. “Miss Zara,” he said while looping a lasso around his elbow, and as I was about to reply, a mountain of a dog came bounding around. Its stark white coat and lolling pink tongue had me rooted in place.
Just eyeballing the dog made me apprehensive; it probably came to my shoulder.
“Goose,” Isaac warned. “Don’t do it.”
Who the hell names a dog that big Goose?
By this point, Goose had started hurling itself at me, bounding out in a rush of vicious glee, but skidded to a stop. Tentatively, I crouched and held out the back of my hand for it to sniff, then squatted down to pet the hundred-pound puppy.
“Why is its name Goose ?” I asked.
“She used to be a herd dog in Canada,” Isaac replied. “And it was on her name tag. We didn’t question it.”
“Um,” I looked at the dog and then to Isaac. “Is she going to flatten me?”
Coming forward to drop a hand on the dog’s shaggy head, Isaac shook him. “Nah. She’s well trained.”
I heard the gravel behind me crunch under Warrick’s boots but didn’t turn to look at him when he said, “Bad news, guys, the fair has been postponed, so that goes without saying that you guys do not get to goof off for a few days.”
“I figured,” Isaac replied, tipping his hat back and scratching his forehead. “That storm had to have done some major damage.”
“Not as much as you’d think, but some,” Warrick replied just as another man, Santos, stepped into the clearing. “Today has been a long day, and I just want to get a shower and get a cold beer. Miss Ha—Zara, I mean, do you want to get to your room or see the ranch?”
Surprised by his offer, I replied, “I’d like to see more around, sure. Thank you.”
“Isaac and Santos, would you mind showing Zara around?” he said. “I’ve got some paperwork to do.”
The two of them shared a downright conspiratorial look before Santos said, “Aw shucks, no can do. Bossman, we’re tied up on the east pasture with herding, and the two of us are replacing the fencing from the usual suspects.”
“Usual…suspects?” I echoed.
“A massive bull and his also titanic brother we call Hellhound One and Hellhound Two,” Warrick grunted. “You mean everyone is out there?”
“Even Connie,” Santos said. “That should tell you how bad it is.”
“Goddamn,” Warrick sounded defeated. “I guess I’ll do it myself. You can ride.”
“A horse or an ATV?” I asked.
“If you’re going to work on a ranch, you will need to learn how to ride,” Warrick said, “But I cannot start our lesson in these clothes, and neither can you. I’ll take you to your room, and we can regroup in ten minutes or maybe fifteen.”
“Have fun, you two,” Santos grinned.
As they walked away, Warrick turned to me, “Those two are planning something.”
“I thought the same thing,” I laughed. “Are they going to rig a pipe to soak us or fling cow poop into our faces?”
We entered the house, and Warrick rolled his eyes while stomping his boots. “If they tried that, I’d make them muck out the stable with their toothbrush.”
I laughed as we headed into the house, and I noticed the classic lines of the house. I wondered if I’d ask Warrick if he had a library; if he would show me a room with an 18th-century set-up with an honest to God marble fireplace and bear pelt rugs—or was bearskin too far in history.
He led me to a room that I remembered sleeping in the night before. The gleaming walnut wood stared back at me, the polished brass handle luxuriously gleaming in the low light of the hallway.
Late June sunshine warmed the hardwood floors and glittered off dust motes floating in the air, and the aroma of lemon polish tickled my nose. The only other furniture in the room was a maple dresser opposite the bed, two matching bedside tables, and a hassock. This room was painted in a neutral beige, but the bedding was a luxurious white puffy duvet topped with brown, beige, and white accent pillows.
“I hope you have some good boots to use,” he said, ruffling his hair. “And if not, we’ll find some for you. I’ll meet you downstairs in fifteen.”
I rested my bag on the bed and looked around, realizing I had not really admired the room the first time I’d been there. I trailed my fingers over the four-poster, feeling the intricate carving before I flopped on the bed like a starfish.
This was a nice house, and while I didn’t know all the ins and outs of how it ran, I knew that even here, I could not dare make any waves. I still had to keep my head down and stay out of any spotlights.
Levering up, I disrobed and tugged on a pair of thick jeans and a long-sleeved striped blouse. After putting on a pair of thick socks and getting into my shoes, I left my cell to charge before heading down to the backyard, and from the back porch, I looked around.
The land was gorgeous, and with the sun on its western descent in the cloudless sky, it threw the lands into such sharp contrasts. The distant rolling green hills were full of blooming, vibrant wildflowers in an array of colors, surrounded by forests of deep evergreen that led up to gray peaks spearing the blue sky.
“You’re here,” Warrick said. “On time too.”
And then I took in what he was wearing. The man stood out worse than a sore thumb. Unlike his compatriots, who were in jeans, cowboy boots, and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up to their elbows, he was dressed in black sweats that rode indecently low on his lean hips. An Iron-Man gray tank top with the sides cut out displayed his ripped chest muscles and sneakers.
Warrick turned and gestured toward a big, red building with an enormous door that was wide and tall enough for a truck to easily drive through—and when I stepped into the room, that was what I found.
“Is that a tractor?” I gawped.
“Yes,” Warrick replied. “Sometimes when a bull is injured or dies, we don’t have the manpower to haul him off to the rendering plant, so we use the tractor. I know other ranches do it differently. Some bury, some burn, and some even leave the animal to rot and feed wildlife. When we choose to bury, though, we have to mind the water table under the land. We cannot afford to contaminate it.”
The place was massive. The scents of hay, horse sweat, and manure saturated the air, and the stalls were outfitted with seamless wooden walkways and generous horse stalls. The stables stretched much farther back than I originally realized. To the far left, I saw a large enclosure with a shower head, washing bins, and a file cabinet with a red cross slapped on it. I assumed that was a medicine case.
Some of the horses, five out of thirty-five, he told me, were out in the paddock or in the meadow, and the rest stood in their stalls. A few of them poked their heads out over the stall doors as if to say hello as we passed them.
“Eeep!” I leaped a foot in the air when I felt thick, wet lips nibbling on the side of my neck. I yanked my head away; my blood was somewhere in the soles of my feet.
A chestnut horse’s lips were flexing, and somehow, I believed it was laughing at me. I slapped a hand to the side of my neck, shivering. “W-what the heck was that!”
“Honey here likes your hair,” Warrick tried to keep his face stoic, but the constant tick of lips told me he was laughing at me too. He rested a hand on the horse’s head. “Isn’t that right, old girl?”
Swallowing over the jitters in my stomach, I asked, “How old is she?”
“Twelve,” he replied. “Horses are termed old when they’re between fifteen and twenty years old, and while some do live into their thirties, you can consider them to be as old as your great grandpappy out there in the sun, chewing tobacco and rocking in his chair.”
“That’s a…” I paused. “…curious analogy.”
“It’s a fitting one, though,” Warrick said while unlocking the gate and pulling the horse out. “Keep her here.”
“Wait? What?” My head snapped around to follow Warrick into an open room that held two saddles, and based on the tins and straps on the wall, other things for horses. I turned back to the horse inches away, and I eyed those lips. “Stay where you are—” I backed up. “—don’t come any closer.”
Her neck stretched, she searched and sniffed, and her hoof clattered on the floor as Honey approached. I kept backing up until my back rammed into a wall, and there was nowhere to escape. I clenched my eyes and held my hands out, but cringed when I felt the horse’s nose nudge my cheek.
“All right, all right,” Warrick came closer and nudged the death horse away. “C’mon girl, stop scaring the help. If she faints, I’ll be blaming you.”
I felt the mare retreat, and I took a breath, forcing my eyes open to see Warrick lifting a brush. He began to groom the horse with firm, confident strokes. The mare swished her tail and stomped a hoof, but he didn’t flinch.
Pressing a hand to my chest, I stood still as he saddled the horse and then patted Honey on her neck. “There you go, now wait for me.”
Again, I watched as he saddled another horse, a big black beast of a horse that had thighs thicker than tree trunks.
“Come on,” he gestured to me. “Let’s get you into that saddle.”
Swallowing nervously, I nodded and stood on the left side of the horse. He took my hand and placed it on the horn. “Grasp that and put the foot of your dominant leg in the stirrup.”
I wrapped my hand around the horn, stuck my toe into the stirrup, tried to heave myself up, and tipped backward. My hand lost its grip, and I slipped, ready to fall on my rump—but Warrick grabbed me.
“You need to stop second-guessing yourself,” he said, his words hot and rumbly in my ear. “You need to do it quickly, and horses will shift without notice to compensate for that. Try again.”
“Okay.”
“Ready?” Warrick asked. “I’m behind you.”
Biting my lip, I grabbed the saddle horn again and stuck my boot in again, one more heave and—fell again. I huffed out a breath, fluttering a rogue strand from my eyes.
“I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Warrick muttered, and before I could wrap my head around it, he added, “Don’t think anything of this.”
He plucked me up like I weighed a pebble and sat me onto the saddle, but in those five split seconds, I felt, smelled, and goddamn nearly spontaneously combusted.
The first thing that hit me was how his scent stroked my senses: a masculine mixture of leather, spicy citrus, sweet grass, and pure red-blooded man. His arms surrounding me flooded my senses, sending heat fanning under my skin in all directions.
With his palm on the small of my back, I swallowed over the seismic waves rippling through my bones.
I grabbed the saddle horn, still grappling with the idea that either the temperature in the room had shot up a hundred and twelve degrees or I’d entered a menopause hot flash thirty years early. His hand was still lingering at the small of my back, and my nipples drew up tight and hard.
This was bad, very, very bad.
Pull it together, girl.
Daring, I looked down. My stomach swooped with a sickening lunge, and my vision swam when I saw how far I was from the barn floor. I gripped the pommel tightly to save my life. “I am going to faint.”
“It’s better if you don’t look down.”
His wide palm rested on top of my thigh, and warmth spread from that touch all the way through my body. I focused on his bright blue eyes to get my mind off this dizzying height. “How do you not collapse when you’re so high?”
“I came out of my mother’s womb in a Stetson and boots,” Warrick said matter-of-factly. “I knew how to ride before I could walk.”
I knew he was jerking my leg, but imagining a baby in diapers and boots made me giggle.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Humored now that I am imagining you as a baby with long legs,” I chuckled. “I’m a little shaky, but I am starting to get used to being this high up.”
“See those cords there wrapped around the horn? Those are your reins. Grasp them lightly,” he ordered. “I’ll lead you around the barn with this. This is the lead string. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I replied.
He made a weird clicking sound with his tongue, and my heart lodged into my throat as Honey stepped forward, and the gait nearly made me tip to the left—and then right—and the left again. I forced myself not to strangle the reins as it was a very long way to the hard floor.
“The gait will feel strange at first, but don’t fight it.” He advised, looking up to check if I was about to keel over. “It will get easier with time.”
I don’t know about that. I don’t know how much time I have here.
“You’re doing great.”
We circled the front part of the barn a few times, turning a few times, and I started to get used to the rolling walk. “Okay, girl, you can stop here.” The horse immediately jerked to a stop, and he petted Honey’s neck.
“Can you stay there without giving me an emergency hospital bill?” he asked, and when I nodded, he added, “We’ll make a horsewoman of you yet.”
I watched as Warrick went to his patiently waiting horse, effortlessly swung into the saddle, and rode to my side. The clip-clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the floor was loud.
He tipped his hat up, and the wide, worn Stetson covered his head so I could only see the curl of his hair on the collar. I did notice the breadth of his shoulders under the blue T-shirt, and the way his Wrangler jeans hugged his butt and legs had to be a crime.
He looked over his shoulder, and I hoped he didn’t notice my face, which had to be red from being caught staring at his backside.
This was going to be a long day.