Space Series Box Set

10. Orbital Trim Maneuver

TEN

ORBITAL TRIM MANEUVER

Jules

Work out. Check.

Breakfast shake. Check.

Morning cuddle with Cookie. Check.

Check emails. Check.

Follow up on wedding vendors. Check.

It’s nine in the morning and I’ve competed my whole checklist.

Finally giving in to the urge, I log on to my laptop again and replay last night’s newscast.

“No word yet from NASA on why Julie Starr suddenly canceled the scheduled training session in NASA’s T-38 today,” a stuffy white dude behind a news desk reports.

“But here with us is field reporter Susan Jenkins who was at the airfield at the time of the incident.” Stuffy white dude swivels in his seat, directing the viewers’ attention to the blonde next to him with a Barbie bouffant hairdo.

“Tell us, Susan,” the dude continues. “From someone who was on-site when it happened, what is your take on the situation?”

“Julie Starr made no comment on why she aborted the flight,” Susan says, crossing her legs, which causes her suit skirt to ride up. I roll my eyes. This woman is a menace to journalists everywhere.

And women.

Susan gestures to the screen behind her, where a video of me storming past the reporters with a scowl on my face plays in slow-mo.

Awesome. All my practiced PR smiles, and they get the one of me pissed off. And in slow-mo, no less. Ugh. No one looks good in slow-mo.

Except Baywatch.

“In fact,” reporter Barbie continues, “I have fielded some concerned reports from insiders at NASA that wonder about Julie Starr’s mental health.”

I stop the video, my finger jamming my mouse pad a bit too vigorously.

Damaging government property, that’s all I’d need now.

Though I have to say NASA hasn’t given me any shit about it. Apparently getting sick right before a flight isn’t that uncommon. It’s happened before. Just not when there were a bunch of news reporters on site.

Just my luck.

The girls and Bodie texted a few times, checking in, but haven’t hassled me about it.

After I aborted the flight, I made sure to drop a line to NAMIS, NASA’s Aircraft Management Information System to complete a full check on the T-38.

NAMIS confirmed this morning that the jet was safe to fly.

I’m annoyed I fell for the stalker’s bluff, but when the safety of my team is in question, better safe than sorry. I’d rather have bad press than put Bodie in danger.

I write shower and dress on my list and immediately cross it off. But the usual thrill I get from completing tasks just isn’t there.

From my room I can hear truck engines starting up and ranch hands calling out to each other. It’s a regular old day on the ranch. Everyone’s got a job to do.

Except me.

Falling back on the bed, I stare up at the ceiling. I wish it were metal. With toggle switches and blinking lights. I basically want to run away to space.

I could always masturbate.

But recently, all my go-to fantasies have been replaced by a pair of whiskey colored eyes and callused hands demanding I ride him hard.

I’ve already given the man a striptease. I don’t need to add him to the list of people I finger paint my lady box to as well.

I haven’t even heard or seen much of Holt since the great Pearl debacle from two days ago. Which is fine. It’s what I wanted. Full control and whatnot. Doesn’t have anything to do with why I sit up, stride out of my room and beeline for my boots by the front door.

It’s just that I’ve never been to the horse barn. Might be fun to check it out. That’s all.

So I am not too sure why after striding out into the Texas sun, I’m so disappointed when I find the barn empty.

“Ma’am?”

My shitkickers leave the dirt floor as I spin around to see Tucker in the doorway, hat in hand.

“Fuck, Tucker.” I put my hand on my heaving chest. “Scare a girl to death, why don’t you?”

Tucker’s eyes get wide. “Sorry, ma’am. I was just wondering if you needed any help.”

I sigh, releasing the tension from my shoulders.

Tucker fiddles with his hat, turning it in circles by the brim.

He’s sweaty and dirty, which only seems to highlight the fact that he’s a cute guy.

Young, of course. Too young. Doesn’t mean I can’t take a moment and indulge in my inner cowboy fantasy.

Not that my vagina needs any more cowboys to think about.

My usual varieties of men—suits, geeks, military—seem to be dwindling.

This sudden cowboy thing must be from Jackie and all her romance novels.

Staying on a ranch, seeing men such as Tucker ride horses and herd cattle probably contributed as well.

The scenery is simply affecting the direction of my libido.

A certain high-minded West brother with a clean mouth and a chivalry complex doesn’t factor in at all.

Nope. The memory of Holt buttoning up his shirt, tucking the ends into fitted, worn jeans, pulling on his cowboy boots, doesn’t factor in the slightest.

Nor does the black Stetson, angled just so over Holt’s sun-kissed forehead.

Before I know it, the image of Holt half-dressed is stored in my pink paddle playlist file. Damn it .

“Ma’am?”

I blink myself back to the moment.

“Were you wanting to go to the birthing barn again and see the calf?” And though I’m sure petting Cookie will make this morning’s stalker texts fade to the back of my mind, it’s Tucker’s youthful, earnest face that reminds me of Holt’s request that I “not do my thing” around his men.

All my supposed “flirting.” I do a little internal snort at that.

No man tells me what not to do. Sexy Stetson or not.

Planting my hands on my waist, I cock out my hip.

“As a matter of fact, there is something I’d like your help with, Tucker.

” A slow smile spreads across my face. A smile that NASA wouldn’t dare let me use in PR photo shoots.

It’s the smile I use when I’m out on the prowl. A smile that hasn’t once let me down.

Tucker swallows hard.

Holt

I toss the wire cutters and the extra bundle of barbed wire into one of the ranch’s work trucks and walk over to Angelo, who’s hobbled a ways down.

I’m not needed here. Even the younger, newer ranch hands, with pristine work gloves and creased Levis, can dig post holes and wrap barbed wire.

I’m just helping out in an effort to keep busy.

I have foremen and ranch hands that make this place run smoother than Tito’s vodka, but I needed something to take my mind off the fact that Miss Julie Starr is a permanent fixture in my life and home for the foreseeable future.

“Later, boss,” one of the hands yells at my back after I mount up and turn Angelo’s head toward home. I lift a hand in response before setting out.

I’m not sure I can say much about my accomplishments, no matter what Jules told that designer, but one thing I do take pride in is my men.

They call me boss, but don’t hold back on busting my chops.

They also show up on time with a smile and work uncomplainingly all day.

Probably because unlike most ranches, I pay mine a decent, livable wage.

My grandfather always said spend the money on your men and the men will make you money. And dang if he hadn’t been right. He was right about most things, really.

Too bad his son hadn’t paid closer attention.

The rhythm of Angelo’s hooves lulls me deeper into the past.

Flynn and Rose don’t remember much, but Grandpa used to say that when my father was younger, he’d stay out in the barn all night, tweaking motors, rebuilding machines. Jonathan Wayne West loved to take things apart and figure out how they worked. Then make them work better.

That’s who Flynn inherited his skills from. Lord knows I didn’t. I have a mechanic on payroll.

But according to Grandpa, my father’s curiosity and need to understand how things work didn’t just stop with engines. The flirtatious wink and quick smile of Celia Luanne Bellerose had drawn my father in like water in a mill.

We still don’t know much about where our mother came from, and honestly, no one’s been too fussed to figure it out. Grandpa said that one day she had simply shown up, an overnight fixture on the ranch.

And though my father had been curious about the world and its inner workings, including what made the sweet Southern beauty tick, he always knew himself to be part of the land. Celia was not.

From the day I was born until the day she died, if there was one thing people did know about Celia West, it was that she may have loved spending the oil money, but she didn’t want to be reminded of where it came from.

The money was why she married my father, though I’m not sure what made her stay. My dad never signed a prenup, and during all the fights I tried to shield Flynn and Rose from, our mother threatened to leave quite often.

Laughter drifts toward me on the small, afternoon breeze, helping me shake off the unwanted memories. I blink into the distant setting sun and see two silhouettes moving along the ranch’s fence line.

Nearing the front gate, two people on horseback trot along. One with crazy, curly hair I’d know anywhere.

A few minutes later, I’m closing the gap between Tucker and Jules and me when I hear, “Oh my God! It’s Julie Starr!”

Following the sound of loud chattering, I slow down to round the bend of trees at the gate. I pull up on the reins, bringing Angelo to a complete stop at the sight that greets me.

“Are you the bride? Are you marrying into Texas royalty?” another person shouts. Cameras flash.

About ten people are pooled together at the front gate, leaning forward over the fence, thrusting out microphones and rolling cameras.

And there is Jules sitting on a horse, a smile on her face, with Tucker’s cowboy hat on her head. My suddenly tense muscles have Angelo shifting his weight.

“What’s going on here?” I ask, my voice harsher than I’d intended, though it gets the job done. Everyone turns to me. Including Jules. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn there was panic in her eyes.

“Holt! Holt West, over here!” The question drags my eyes back to the media vultures.

“What do you think of your brother’s choice in bride?”

“What would your parents think of her?”

The questions all wash over me, except that last one. For some reason that sticks, and I have to work hard not to show it.

Jules raises both her hands, drawing their attention. “Listen, guys, I don’t know what you’ve heard?—”

“We have it on good authority that the ranch is undergoing extensive renovations in time for an October wedding,” a blonde with rather large hair, even for Texas, says.

“Good authority, huh?” Jules is still smiling but it looks almost feral. “Is this the same unnamed source from NASA you tried using the other day?” It’s obvious from her tone what she thinks of this reporter and her source.

“Seeing as you aborted your flight due to ‘illness’ and yet here you are on a horse, my source doesn’t look so sketchy after all, does it?” The woman crosses her arms, a pleased look on her face. Fuchsia lips kick up on one side.

Jules’ eyes flash.

Illness? Jules was sick?

I didn’t even think to knock on her door when she came back from the airfield. She was alone in her room all night sick? And then I let her jump in and save me from Pearl’s plaid the morning after?

Grandpa would be so disappointed in me.

“So is it true?” another reporter asks.

“Listen, guys.” Jules raises her hands, the reins loose in one. “Dr. Lee is on vacation. She is not here, nor will she be in the near future.” She glares at the blonde. “Check your sources.”

The blonde narrows her eyes right back.

“And when she does return, Jackie’s going to be diving deep into her astronaut training.”

More questions. Jules handles each one. Besides a few death glares in the blonde’s direction, Jules is holding her own. I admit, she’s very good at this. She smiles, nods, calls reporters by name when she can. But it still pisses me off that this is yet another thing she has to deal with.

As the reporters haven’t technically crossed over onto West property yet, I can’t call the cops.

But this needs to end. We haven’t been swarmed with reporters since Flynn broke up with Beth and she’d gone singing to every rag mag in town.

And before that, my parents’ deaths. As Rose would say, these asshats need to go.

“So what is your relationship with Mr. West, Miss Starr?”

“Which Mr. West?” she asks, looking both bored and pleasant at the same time.

The reporters glance at each other. “Um, either?”

Tucker laughs, and I feel myself fighting a smile at how Jules has turned the tone of the surprise inquisition. She has them questioning their questions and losing their direction and she hasn’t given them a single piece of real information.

Unfortunately, that means they change tactics.

“Mr. West.” All heads swivel to me, sitting a few feet behind Jules and Tucker. “Are you next to find love?” The blonde eyes Jules again. “Maybe with NASA’s Starr?”

I bark out a laugh before I can think better of it. Jules flinches.

Crap.

There’s an uncomfortable moment before Jules once again rallies.

“As you can see, the question is quite laughable,” Jules says. But there’s an edge to her voice that wasn’t there before.

“Wait a minute,” I start.

But, with a wave of her hand, Jules ignores me. As do the reporters. “I’m sorry you dragged yourselves all the way out here, but you’ve only got a partial truth from your so-called source.”

“And which part is that?” a different woman asks, stepping up on the bottom rung of the fence to lean further in Jules’ direction.

“That the ranch house is going through renovations,” Jules says simply.

Her horse, Bess, an old rescue animal, shifts beneath her.

Bess is a great horse to learn how to ride on, but no horse wants to be around a bunch of shouting adults, looking into camera flashes.

Tucker and I know to hold the reins firmly in our hands, controlling our mounts.

I’m thinking with the lazy way Jules is holding hers and the fact that Tucker put her on Bess to begin with, Jules doesn’t have much riding experience.

“Then what are you doing here, Jules?” a man asks, also jumping on the fence.

“Why, learning to ride a horse, obviously.” She winks at my ranch hand. “Isn’t that right, Tucker?”

Flushing a deep red, Tucker stutters a bit before nodding his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Another camera flash and Bess shakes her head, jostling Jules in the saddle. Jules’ smile never wavers, but her eyes go wide as Bess attempts to settle.

“That’s enough.” Everyone’s eyes are on me again. “You’re on private property,” I say, motioning to the reporters on the fence. “If you don’t vacate the area, I’ll call the police.”

“Holt,” Jules mumbles in my direction. “Just let me hand?—”

A loud crack booms as the fence rail splits.

Three things happen at once.

The reporters all collapse on the ground. Bess rears up. And Jules drops the reins.