Chapter 16
Ismeralda
We continue the trip to the dude ranch in uneventful fashion. When we get back on the highway, no one else follows us, and we find a local burger place for a takeout lunch. The Road Trip Burger Shack is deserted when we pull through the drive thru. Apparently there’s not a big rush for burgers at this time of day.
“What’ll you have?” a sleepy looking teenager says, not blinking an eye at the limo. He’s wearing a pointy paper hat that keeps slipping down over his eyes.
“Two roadkill burgers, a large fry, a diet Coke, and a Dr. Pepper,” Gabe says.
When I read the menu, I was hesitant to order the burgers, but Gabe pointed out that they’re made from 100% USA beef, so I guess the name is just in keeping with their theme.
The kid manages to ring up our order while continuously adjusting his hat. Don’t they have a smaller size?
“Have you considered using scotch tape?” I ask, leaning across the console to speak to the kid. Gabe’s shoulders shake as he stifles his laughter.
“No, ma’am,” the teenager says. “But that’s a darn good idea! Pull to the next window, please.” He disappears, presumably in search of tape.
“You’re always ready with a helpful tip, aren’t you?” Gabe teases as we pull to the next window.
“It’s my livelihood,” I say only half in jest, and he nods.
Three minutes later we have our order, just as the flashing neon sign advertised. “This smells delicious!” I say, sniffing the contents of the white bag. My stomach makes an embarrassing rumbly sound, and Gabe laughs as he pulls the limo to the back of the parking lot.
We snarf down the food where we sit as if we haven’t eaten in days. A good car chase does really develop an appetite. I feel sleepy after lunch, probably a combination of the adrenaline crash and a full stomach.
Yawning, I say, “I’m going to take another nap. Are you good to stay awake?”
Gabe nods towards the cup holder to his biggie cup of Dr. Pepper. “Yep, I’m good. But we might need a restroom stop after a couple hours.”
Laughing, I say, “Sure, just wake me. And don’t throw away that cup; you might need it as a weapon.”
~*~
“We’re here, sleepyhead,” Gabe says after what feels like minutes but is presumably hours later. A James Bond–worthy car chase sure makes a girl exhausted.
Sitting higher in my seat, I watch as Gabe drives through a pair of wrought iron gates with an overhead arch proclaiming Double Trouble Ranch . A small sign off to the right touts “the friendliest horses and softest beds in the West.” Whoever came up with that slogan should be shot.
“Let’s hope the name of this place isn’t an omen,” Gabe comments.
“Now that the Berringers aren’t on our heels, we should be able to relax without worrying about the stalker,” I say.
He grunts. “I give it fifty-fifty whether Bernice keeps our location secret.”
“She seemed rather committed to maintaining confidentiality. Bernie’s the one I’m worried about,” I say.
“Can you imagine wanting to track celebrities as your retirement gig?” Gabe adds.
I shake my head. “Let’s forget about trackers and stalkers and just enjoy this place.”
According to the reviews I read the ranch consists of two-hundred sprawling acres nestled near the Utah Wasatch Range mountains. There are gorgeous views of the mountains, along with a plethora of hiking and mountain biking trails. The ranch’s website boasts about trail rides and campfires and how they provide the ultimate luxurious cowpoke experience.
When we pull up at the ranch house, a handsome man dressed in full cowboy gear greets us. He gives the limo a double take, and I belatedly wish we’d traded it for an SUV as Gabe suggested. Other cowboys are milling about, and I spy a herd of horses in the adjoining corral. Looks like a group is just heading out on one of their famous trail rides.
“Howdy!” the man says, removing his hat and shaking our hands. “I’m Jethro. Go inside and Mindy will check you in.” He strides off to the corral as we stomp up the steps to the ranch house’s wraparound porch. It’s a log structure that looks like what you’d expect at a Wild West ranch. Several roughly hewn log chairs decorate the porch, and a tree stump has been fashioned into a side table. All keep nicely with the theme.
The interior is decorated similarly. Mindy turns out to be a twenty-something with a nose ring, a tattoo, goth makeup, and earbuds in her ears. The girl is dressed in cowboy attire sans the cowboy hat. She looks like Dale Evans meets Lily Munster. A comparison that would fly over this girl’s head, but my penchant for watching old TV shows conjures up the analogy.
“Welcome to the Double Trouble Ranch. We pride ourselves on having the softest horses and friendliest beds in the West.” She squints down at a piece of paper taped to the check-in counter and frowns. “I mean, who came up with this slogan? Cringe.” Her lips purse together like she just sucked on a grapefruit. “It’s really the surliest horses and lumpiest beds in the West,” she mutters.
Not a glowing recommendation from Mindy.
“She must be new,” Gabe whispers.
“Obviously delighted with her job,” I whisper back, and I feel Gabe’s shoulders shake as he stands beside me.
“How may I help you?” the girl says, finally looking up.
“We’re checking in. The reservation is under Winston Monroe,” I say.
She clacks on the ancient keyboard for a few seconds, drawing my eyes to her black fingernails. My eyes then flit back to her face, taking in the whole goth vibe. With her overuse of black eye shadow and excessive application of mascara, she’s giving the goth look a bad name. Done properly, it can be attractive in a dark, mysterious way. Maybe I can give her a few tips?
“Which one of you is Winston?” she asks.
Huh?
“Neither of us,” we say in unison.
“I gotta have a Winston or I can’t check you in,” she says.
Gabe steps forward. “I’m Winston.”
I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping she doesn’t ask for ID.
“Gotcha. And you are?” she asks, giving me a narrow-eyed look.
“Martha,” I reply.
She nods and types. Several hundred keystrokes later, she says, “Okay, Winston and Martha. I’ve got you down for a two-night stay in our Greenhorn Cabin. Breakfast is served in the mess hall every morning between six and eight. There are campfires every night at nine. You can schedule trail rides and spa services by downloading our app on your phone.” She hands each of us an oversized brass key that looks like something a Wild West sheriff would use to open a jail cell. “Follow the signs to your cabin.”
As we clomp back down the front steps, Gabe remarks, “At least we didn’t get the honeymooner’s cabin.”
~*~
The Greenhorn Cabin is well-appointed, albeit rustic. Timbers accent the lofted ceiling, the cedar furniture resembles that on the ranch house’s front porch, and the sofa sports material adorned with cowboys. A small TV sits in the corner with an antenna perched on top, not boding well for good reception. The small kitchenette comes with a Keurig and a fridge, plus a small dining area complete with cedar log table, four chairs, and an antler chandelier. I bet a lot of Old West history took place in this area. Did the Billy the Kid hide out in these hills? Or maybe Calamity Jane used this ranch as a stopover on her travels. Maybe the handsome cowboy can give me a history lesson.
As we walk down a narrow hallway, we find the bedrooms, and I’m relieved to see there are two of them. Each room has what appears to be a queen-size bed, each one covered with a poofy comforter. One bedspread has a cowboy theme, and the other one is decorated with moose and deer. Hopefully these are the softest beds in the West, rather than the lumpiest ones as Mindy suggested.
I’m disappointed that there’s only one bathroom but am relieved to find that it is located inside and has all the traditional finishes (sink, shower, and toilet). On the drive up to the cabin, I swear I saw a few outhouses, adding to my anxiety over our accommodations.
“Take whichever bedroom you want,” Gabe says after we’ve completed our one-minute tour of the tiny cabin.
“I’ll take the one with the green comforter, not the blue one,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “What? You don’t want to sleep with the cowboys?” he teases, then drops off my three assorted bags, which he sat in the entryway during our tour.
I shrug since neither comforter was particularly attractive to me. I selected the room I did for its close proximity to the bathroom, so when I have to use the restroom during the night, I’ll only have to tiptoe a couple steps and Gabe won’t catch me wearing my skimpy sleepwear.
“What’s next? Do you want to sign up for a trail ride or a spa treatment?” Gabe asks. He scrolls on his phone, obviously having downloaded the app Mindy mentioned, then quirks an eyebrow. “They offer a warm eucalyptus and tea tree-infusedolive oildrizzled slowly over the body or a soak in a bath of vitamin-infused dark lager,” he says with a laugh.
“No thanks to either of those,” I reply as I wrinkle my nose. Who wants to be greasy or smell like beer?
His finger continues to scroll. “Oh wait! This one sounds even better. Warm golf balls rolled along the large muscles on either side of the spine and down the neck.”
“What? No caviar-slathered skin treatment or a 24-karat-gold facial?” I scoff. A luxury spa approached me last year to partake in and review those over-the-top pricy services that they touted as “exclusive” to their facility. I politely declined, preferring instead to post about treatments that are affordable and have been actually proven to improve the condition of your skin.
A belly laugh rips from Gabe’s impressive chest. “So, do I take it no spa treatment for you? I’m seriously considering the golf ball one.”
I smack him on his arm. “Gabriel, when did you become interested in spa treatments?”
He smirks. “It says that the golf ball massage relaxes the back and neck muscles and helps relieve anxiety. After that car chase with the Berringers, I need that.”
“Right. You need that just like you need a hole in your head. I’m happy to show you some relaxation and stress relief techniques that I’ve included in my book,” I say in a prim voice.
Waggling his eyebrows, he says, “You can demonstrate any kind of relaxation or stress relief techniques to me anytime.”
I blush. Okay, this conversation is straying into flirting. Blatant, innuendo-filled flirting. Thank goodness we didn’t get the honeymooner’s cabin. I need to get us back on professional footing.
“I’ll put a copy of my book on your pillow. You’ll find Chapter Twenty-Three most helpful,” I say.
He shakes his head and laughs. “Izzie, you’re as predictable as the sunrise.” Looking back at his phone, he says, “Another trail ride starts in an hour. Are you up for that?”
After seeing the spectacular scenery, I would like to explore the area, and what better way to do it than on a horse? “We might as well take advantage of the cowboy theme offerings! I doubt I’ll ever come back to this place. And that gives me time to post a tips video I made last evening. I’ll be in my room; just knock five minutes before we need to depart for the trail ride.”
As I turn on my heel towards my bedroom, Gabe snorts. “How about I warn you ten minutes ahead so you can get glammed up? You wouldn’t want all your adoring cowboy fans to see you not looking your best.”
I reach out to smack him on his arm again, but he runs off down the hall, his laughter echoing around the small hallway. Watching his retreating figure in those tight blue jeans does strange things to my heart. Grinning at his flirty teasing, I enter my room and close the door.
Flopping on the bed, which turns out to be surprisingly soft and not at all lumpy, thoughts of my bodyguard fill my head. He’s come a long way from Grumpy Gus to this flirty, teasing guy. Both versions of the man are equally attractive, and I fear that I’ve fallen for him.