The Cowboy’s Close Quarters Claim (Slow River Valley Ranches #1)

Chapter 1

1

CLEMENTINE

L ess than a week in and I'm liking this place. The Delta O is the finest ranch I've found myself on yet-- better than the one I grew up on, if I'm being honest-- and that's not just because it's the first place where the owners don't have their heads stuck up their sexist, eighteen-hundreds, women-belong-in-the-kitchen asses.

Unlike my own father, who'd rather let my brothers run his legacy into the dirt than admit a woman is qualified to keep our family ranch turning a profit into the next generation.

Pop left all eight thousand acres to the boys when he passed away. I got his watch, and fifty thousand dollars to use as a "dowry."

Tom and Jed sold the ranch off one section at a time, and I put my fucking "dowry" into the degree I needed so that my resume says I'm as qualified to run a cattle operation in theory as my experience proves I am in practice.

Still, finding someplace that doesn't think "woman" and "foreman" are mutually exclusive terms hasn't been easy. It's been five long years of moving around the country, chasing whatever work I can find as a seasonal hand.

Sure, there was that place down in New Mexico that offered me a management position-- in the office. The money was good, the people were great, but I've been working the land since I was big enough to reach the clutch pedal of a tractor.

I'm not cut out for air conditioning in "business casual."

The highest heels I own are on a pair of Ariats I picked up for a rodeo dance.

When the official offer came in from Ranger O'Leary himself for the herdsman job here on the Delta O-- well, let's just say I wasn't about to argue with the senior partner of the biggest cattle operation in Slow River.

Not that the biggest cattle operation in Slow River competes with the big ranches farther east, but Slow River has history, and the Delta O is a name that opens doors in this industry.

Pulling the brim of my hat low over my eyes to block the morning sun as it crests the high peaks of the mountain range that borders Slow River Valley on the east, I squint at the rider heading my way.

My horse shifts a foot on the soft surface of the worn trail and I adjust myself in the saddle.

Most places I've worked make these kinds of runs in trucks or OHVs, I can't remember the last time I got to do any real cow-girling from the back of a horse.

As soon as I heard they needed someone to ride up to the high camp to repair some fence line and retrieve a few strays that have wandered over the property line, I volunteered for the job.

Normally I'd send a hand or two for this work, but the ranch has plenty enough man power to handle things down here so I can do the fun stuff.

Lance and Archer-Dean, the two youngest of the O'Leary brothers and the only two of my bosses that I've met in person so far, are real hands-on types that'll have things covered down here in the valley, while Gunner-- the second oldest of the brothers, acting ranch manager since his father passed away just a few weeks ago, and the last of my bosses I've yet to meet-- will be riding up to the high camp with me.

Seven a.m. sunlight spills over the last of the mountains, flooding the valley with warmth that casts my approaching companion into silhouette as his horse happily tromps through the shallow waters of one of Slow River's lower distributary channels that give the ranch its name.

I can make out the man's sturdy build; muscled thighs that strain against the denim of his jeans as they flex with practiced movements to guide a horse he's obviously used to riding, the heavy weave of a corduroy barn jacket to ward off the chill of the late May morning, the tilt of the classic Stetson with a pinch crease crown that looks like it's been stomped by a set of hooves more than once.

I've been working alongside men my entire life. Sure, I've seen my share of attractive men, but even in my chaotic teen years with hormones running in full stampede, I've never been distracted by the way a co-worker's Wranglers fit.

At least, not till long after the work was done and we'd gotten a couple beers in at the local watering hole.

So I'm not sure what it is that has me squirming in my saddle as this man draws up close into view.

"You Gunner?" I ask, squinting into the sunlight to take in his rugged good looks.

Now that he's close enough to make out the details, I find myself looking into the wary eyes of a man in his mid to late thirties. Lines bracket the corners of his mouth beside the dusty brown stubble of a mustache and matching beard that looks more like he has hasn't bothered to shave in two days than like he wears it this way on purpose.

He should definitely wear it that way on purpose. It's working for him.

Or rather-- it's working for me.

With a hand to the crown of the worn hat, he dips his head in greeting, his eyes staying pinned on me the entire time.

"Afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ma'am. Who might you be?"

So much for thoughts of putting that mustache to good use; I've seen that look before. That's the look of a man who knows exactly who I am-- and doesn't like it.

"Your herdsman. Name's Clementine." I don't bother reaching to shake the boss's hand, and he doesn't reach for mine.

"Better get moving." I set my jaw to match the irritation I see in his. "We're off to a late enough start already."

With a quick tug on the reins in my hand, I turn my horse and head up the hill trail without waiting on him.

This is his land, I'm sure he knows where we're headed without me having to wait on him any longer than I already have.

Gunner

From the south gate, I can see another rider waiting on me up at the trailhead aways off yet.

Makes me feel like a straggler, whatwith getting a late start with the sun already rising over the mountains. But Archer didn't bother calling me till I'd already gotten busy with something else this morning, so I had to throw my gear together last minute.

Seeing as how my younger brothers have their hands busy with the late calves and the usual shit that needs done around the ranch, that leaves me to head up to the high camp to round up the strays that have already wandered over the border of the land. Someone has to get up there and bring 'em back before they end up wearing the Ralston brand when we're not looking.

Making my way through the shallow beds of the lower branches of the river delta that crisscross our land, I start to make out the details of my companion.

Instead of finding Josh or Ronny, or any of the other hands I know to be reliable and competent from sharing seasons of working in the elements together, a woman sits in the saddle atop a solid-looking Appaloosa, watching me with a stern eye as I draw up close to her.

Two thick braids hang over her shoulders in a warm, honey color with the paint-brush tips brushing the peaks of a set of heavy breasts constrained under a thick, long sleeve, thermal with a puffy, down vest hiding most of their glory.

The oatmeal-colored, waffle fabric is tucked into the waist band of a pair of heavy, cotton-duck cargo pants in a practical olive green and the boots sitting in the stirrups look like they've been broken-in well.

Eyes I can't make out the color of take me in from under the brim of her hat as I draw up to her, and from the creases I can see at the corners, I'd say she's sizing me up same as I am her.

The woman eyeing me doesn't smile when I lift the crown of my hat in greeting. If anything, the firm set of her jaw hardens and the squint of her eyes narrows.

Not exactly the reaction I'm used to getting from the ladies. Not around town, and not on my own ranch.

"You Gunner?"

Her voice is throaty; sultry, with a hint of a rasp to it that has my adolescent fantasies of Jessica Rabbit boiling up to the surface in the worst of ways.

"Yes ma'am," I confirm. "Afraid you have me at a disadvantage, here. Who might you be?"

"Your herdsman." She deadpans without a hint of a smile on a pair of lips that definitely deserves one; the sleepy, satisfied kind that comes from being properly taken care of by a man who knows what he's doing.

"Name's Clementine."

Well, oh my darling.

That's all she says before she picks the reins up and pulls them gently to one side, urging the horse into a turn and picking up speed with a gentle touch of her heels to its flanks.

She leaves me frozen in my own saddle for a moment, watching her curvy ass bouncing gently as she starts the climb up the worn trail that winds into the hills, with the dogs following alongside her.

Ranger said he'd hired someone new, but it hadn't occurred to me that me that "Clem" would turn out to be a gorgeous blonde with thick curves and an attitude that would have my dick perking up like a dog at dinner time.

I don't like it. I don't like it at all. It's damned inconvenient riding with a hard-on and it's a piss-poor idea to be camped in the hills with an employee you're attracted to.

Cursing my oldest brother, I tap my heels and head on up after her.

Dad died during calving season-- the ornery SOB. Things are hectic enough around here this time of year, Dad's passing has thrown us all into overdrive-- even though we knew it was coming. It's not like I can begrudge the man; he fought the cancer for a good five years before it finally got him. These last months were hard on all of us-- watching someone as tough as Dad waste away before your eyes was hard to watch. By the time we said our final goodbyes, I think we were all relieved to see his suffering end.

Now I've got my asshole big brother micro-managing operations from somewhere out in Houston. That fucker turned his back on the ranch, the family, and Slow River altogether when he left town ten years ago.

I understand that our father wanted us boys to work this land together after he was gone, and I know he made Ranger promise to be involved again but we don't need him back here.

I sure as hell don't need him hiring staff without running it by me first. He needs to get it out of his head that he's going to take over the job I've been doing for the last decade without him just because he's the oldest of us boys-- or because he promised Dad that he'd get his ass back on the ranch.

He can stay in Texas for all I care.

While he's been growing soft in the corporate sector, the rest of us are still rough as ever, working the land our family settled close to two centuries ago now.

My city slicker brother probably doesn't even remember how to saddle a horse these days-- probably sets his alarm for eight a.m. and gripes about getting up early when the kin he left behind has been in the field since four.

Asshole.

I hope he doesn't think he's sticking around these parts when he shows up for the funeral at the end of the summer. He didn't need the Delta O when he walked off ten years ago, and the Delta O don't need him now.

I'm still grouching under my hat while my horse picks its way up the trail after the woman that's got me feeling a lot more flustered than I have patience for.

At least we won't be bunking down together in that miserable little shack when we get to camp.