The Cowboy’s Temporary Solution (Slow River Valley Ranches #2)
Chapter 1
1
SERENITY
M y connecting flight terminal is in a separate building so far from the main airport that it requires a shuttle ride. Not that that seems unusual, but the shuttle in question is barely more than a glorified golf cart and the building it drops me off in front of looks more like a temporary office on a construction site than an airport terminal.
I've already walked farther through the SeaTac International Airport than I'd expected to in the four-inch heels that I realized were a bad choice by the time I'd trekked through the Cincinnati airport to make my first connecting flight. By the time I made my second connection in Denver, I was looking for one of those vending machines that sells those little ballet flats-- no luck.
When I looked up the air time from Baltimore to Seattle it seemed doable. It's a longer flight than I'm used to, but still less than my typical day in the office.
I should have known Estelle would book the cheapest possible flight she could find. With three connections, and a three-hour layover in Missoula, before arriving in Seattle where I'd expected to be spending a night in a decent hotel before moving on to Slow River after a good night's sleep.
But, of course not.
My boss obviously hates me.
I trudge across the blacktop from where the shuttle dropped me, to the door of the tiny building in my heels and the pencil skirt that I thought would give me a classy, businesswoman air. The emerald green blouse I paired with the skirt has long since lost its crispness and I unbuttoned the top two buttons somewhere over Michigan trying to relieve some of the stuffiness of the crowded plane's recycled air.
There's a run in my nylons and all I want to do is get to my hotel, order dinner, kick off these shoes, and sink into a hot bath.
Inside the building, two rows of standard, molded plastic airport seats run down the center of the room. A couple of vending machines light up a dim corner, promising Coca Cola, and bottled water. The Coke machine is out of everything that contains caffeine.
I've been in the air or running through airports since five-fifteen this morning. I was looking forward to an overpriced latte and a stale croissant like you can't even imagine.
Giving up all hopes of finding a caffeine boost to keep me from keeling over before I reach my final destination, I plop into one of the uncomfortable seats and go over the notes I have so far.
Just what I could find online from the comfort of my office back in Maryland. Which isn't much.
History Vault is the brain child of Estelle and her brother, who, after spending decades to research their own family history, saw the potential in creating a database of small-town history gleaned from places where libraries and museums still aren't online and aren't likely to be anytime soon.
With the growing popularity of genealogy research and curiosity about home town history, the company was visionary. Estelle and Bruce's company has grown fast, and quickly become the go-to resource for anyone looking for information specific to the histories of the families that have made up rural America for as long as there's been a rural America.
And, as the company continues to grow, we've been able to hire more researchers with the goal of expanding the database beyond the US in both the physical border of the country as well as the time it's been on the map as the United States.
Which is why I'm here. At an airport gate that very much feels like an afterthought in the more complex schematic of the Seattle/Tacoma airport, under-caffeinated and over-dressed, uncomfortably aware of the scrutinizing glare of the man seated across from me, making me feel every bit the fish out of water I most definitely am.
I'm desperate to prove that I can handle a bona fide field researcher position with the company. It's the reason I wanted to work for History Vault to begin with and, as a professional historian and genealogy geek-- it's pretty much my dream job.
Although, I am starting to clue in to the fact that doing field research in small town America might not be a business attire-friendly undertaking.
There are only six other people waiting for the flight that will take us to Slow River, and every one of them is in jeans and boots.
Even the woman scowling at the soda machine is wearing chunky hiking boots with a pair of no-nonsense Wranglers that are a far cry from the Designer label fashion jeans I see in the city.
Nervously, I cross my legs and try to concentrate on the list of families I need to concentrate my research on while I'm out here.
Slow River is primarily a ranching community that was founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The land that sprawls the long corridor of the Slow River Valley consists of several ranches split among five family names that go back to the gold rush when it flooded the area with new settlers seeking easy fortune.
Unfortunately, outside of a couple of locally-written books on the history of the town, there's not much available on the web about the history of the people who settled the Slow River Valley.
So I'll be spending the next week sitting in a musty basement or back room of a small-town library, copying acres of microfiche to make sense of once I get back to my office.
It's not the kind of field research that Hollywood action movies make look sexy, but I'm good at it, and it is the kind of thing that I get weirdly excited about.
The man sitting across from me openly contemplates me like I'm a specimen in a petri dish, making me uncross my legs and cross them again in the other direction. I keep my head tilted toward my phone and try not let on that I can feel the heavy weight of his eyes on me.
Ranger
The pretty little thing sitting across from me, looking all kinds of out of place, has my interest piqued and my dick hard.
Probably because I can't help but thinking that the outfit she's got on would look more appropriate for bending over a billionaire's desk in a city high rise office than for getting on a plane to cow town.
From the disheveled look of her, maybe that's exactly what she was doing before she got dropped off at the airport.
Leaning back against the hard plastic that passes for a chair, I widen my stance and set one ankle on my other knee.
It gives my dick a bit of breathing room and my eyes a better view of her.
Young, curvy, cute as hell. Dark chocolate hair still mostly pinned up in one of them neat little knots woman are able to pull off, the kind where they can loosen the whole mess so it falls down over their shoulders by just pullin' one pin.
My eyes drank their fill of her heart-shaped face and sweet features when I sat down across from her, when I took my opportunity to get a good look at all the things you can look at on a stranger without being a creep.
Now they're determined to cross that boundary and take what they want.
The plane's not here yet and there's nothing else worth looking at in this room, so I let 'em.
From the bow of pouty lips that look like they lost their lipstick a long time ago, my gaze trails down her delicate jawline, following a tendril of dark hair that's found its way out of its up-do and curled against her neck as it follows the long line of her throat and lays lightly along the contour of her cleavage.
Too many buttons have been left undone at the top of her deep green blouse. Not only are the tops of her full breasts on display but so is the lacy edge of the black bra holding them up. That, along with the wrinkles in her skirt and the thick runner in her stockings, just adds to my theory that she's got a rich boyfriend here in the city who's smart enough to keep her from looking at another man.
Old men like me, leering at her so hungrily that I almost manage to forget why I'm headed home after all these years and what awaits me when I get there.
The plane rolls up to the gate outside and I watch while the roll-away boarding stairs are moved into place and a handful of passengers debark the plane before those of us waiting to board make a move.
Except the pretty woman in front of me.
Before the plane has even pulled to a full stop out on the tarmac, she's shuffling about like she's eager to get on the plane.
"This your first visit to Slow River?" I can't help but grin at her fidgeting. No one dressed like that is ready for the Valley, or likely to be impressed with what they find when they get there.
Thick, dark lashes flutter as her gaze moves up to mine and I'm not gonna pretend that I don't notice the way her cheeks redden and her breath quickens as they do. Then, the prettiest set of aquamarine eyes have me transfixed in their stare and it's me that can't seem to catch my breath.
"Guess it's pretty obvious, isn't it?" Those stunning, jewel-toned irises dart past me to sweep over our fellow passengers before making a quick trip back down my own body-- taking in the t-shirt, jeans, and well broken-in boots before coming back to meet my gaze.
Getting to my feet, I hold out a hand to help her onto hers. Those fuck-me heels she's balanced on can't be the most comfortable shoes for traveling, but there's not a trace of wobble in her stance as she lets me pull her up.
She's obviously used to wearing the things, which only furthers my theory that she's a pampered city girl.
"What's got you headed for Slow River?" I ask casually, as I pick up her carry-on case in my free hand and follow her out to the plane that's waiting for us.
I tell myself I'm just being the gentleman my mama raised me to be, but the thoughts whirlin' in my head as I let my eyes drop to her plump bottom and the way it rocks with her steps in that fitted skirt are the kind I don't want my ma to know anything about.
"Work," she answers over her shoulder as we make our way up the stairs and into the prop plane's cramped interior.
After following her up the steps and down the narrow aisle to her seat, I stash her case in the overhead compartment for her and touch the brim of my hat in response to the sweet little "thanks" she utters up at me before checking my seat number on my boarding pass.
"Looks like you get to finish tellin' me about what sort of work is sending you out to the middle of cow country dressed in that sexy librarian outfit."
It's a bold choice of words, but no one's ever accused me of being shy about speaking my mind.
Doing my best to get comfortable in the aisle seat next to the sweet, young thing that's been the best distraction I've found to the thoughts stampeding through my head, I watch her turn her phone onto airplane mode and then fidget with it in her lap.
"Just going there to do some research," she answers. "I work for a genealogical group based in Baltimore. We specialize in rural American family histories-- mostly from small towns that don't have the resources to get their records online."
Those pretty eyes of hers light right up while she talks about the field research assignment that's about to have her spending a week in the library basement with a stack of old newspapers, with Ms. Lassiter going on about her cats and plum jam recipes.
She makes it sound like an all-expenses-paid vacation to a tropical island resort, but it sounds like a day in line at the DMV to me. I'd rather spend my week mucking stalls in the barn.
There's no denying that she's passionate about what she does, though. She's practically bouncing in her seat with excitement about looking up a hundred- and fifty-years’ worth of news about the valley and the families that made their millions with cattle when the gold rush didn't work out for them.
Up at the front of the plane, the door's been closed and the prop-engines are firing up. I'm just about to shut off my own phone when I see I missed a text from Mom. Opening it up, I wish I'd turned the damn thing off before boarding.
As the plane taxis into position and the attendants give their bored safety presentation, I'm left with the image of a woman I don't want to see, my mother's insistent attempts at forcing us together, and a crazy idea coming together in my brain as I turn back toward the woman beside me.