3. Houston, We Have a Cowboy #2
He loved meeting new people and going to new places. It was not something he’d inherited from me. I was always shy and hated going into new situations. One of the things I loved so much about my job as an events coordinator was that it was behind the scenes. I was never the center of attention.
I called Selma back, to ask what would be a good time and she said thirty minutes. I agreed before taking into account that neither Mav nor I were ready for the day and I had to drive to drop him off.
“Go get dressed and brush your teeth,” I instructed Mav as I walked back into my bedroom where four large moving bags stood against one wall stuffed with the contents of my entire wardrobe.
I rummaged through and pulled out a blue wrap dress that didn’t need ironing. It wasn’t the most professional dress I owned, it was slightly low-cut and body-hugging, but it would have to do.
Within ten minutes we were headed out the door. Nonna’s house was only a five-minute drive. We arrived, and she was making tarts called crostatas. She had an apron waiting for Mav and asked if he wanted to help. He, of course, jumped right in.
I thanked her, told her I’d be back as soon as I could, and headed out feeling much more comfortable than I probably should leaving my young child with, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.
One thing about small towns that I appreciated was the lack of traffic and easy access getting where you needed to go. Due to that charming discovery, I was pulling onto Lockhart Ranch property with eight minutes to spare before my interview.
As I looked around, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed by the land’s natural beauty. Not to mention the animals. In the pastures, I saw goats, cows, horses. Mav would be absolutely in love with this place.
Lockhart Luxury Dude Ranch didn't exactly sneak up on you.
It announced itself about a mile before you got there.
White fencing stretched along both sides of the road, so pristine I had to wonder if someone followed behind the horses with a bucket of paint and an anxiety disorder. Manicured hedges ran the length of the drive, trimmed into submission, while neat rows of lavender surrounded glowing lanterns.
And that was just the entrance.
Everything about Lockhart Ranch was exaggerated, almost cartoonish in its perfection. The rolling pastures were too green. The fences were too white. The horses were too glossy. Even the freaking lavender looked like it had been individually interviewed before being allowed onto the property.
Beyond the gates, the ranch spread out in every direction, the land rolling toward distant foothills beneath an enormous blue sky.
Split-rail fencing divided pastures dotted with cattle, while closer in, a pair of horses stood nose-to-nose along the fence line, their coats catching the morning sun in shades of copper and dark mahogany.
Cabins lined the right side of the property, although calling them cabins felt insulting.
From what I could see, they were more like luxury cottages complete with the flowerbeds I’d been imagining at Walter’s house.
The five star spa I'd read a lot about sat beside the cabins, and farther up the hillside, perfectly straight rows of grapevines marked the ranch's private vineyard.
Because apparently cows, cowboys, and obscenely beautiful scenery weren't enough.
They needed wine and massages too.
At the center of it all stood the main house.
And holy shit.
The place was enormous. Two stories of stone, timber, and weathered cedar, with tall windows reflecting the morning light and a wraparound porch that looked like it had been there long enough to belong to the land rather than just sit on it.
Rocking chairs lined one end. Flowers spilled from oversized planters.
Wide stone steps led to double doors that probably cost more than my car.
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A horse answered with a low whinny. Then came the metallic clang of a gate and the rumble of a man's voice I couldn't quite make out.
The air smelled like sun-warmed grass, cedar, horses, and lavender, with something faintly sweet drifting over from the vineyard.
It should have felt manufactured.
Too polished. Too expensive. Too perfect.
Instead, somehow, it worked.
Lockhart Ranch was the kind of place where you could spend the morning getting dirt on your boots, the afternoon getting that dirt scrubbed off during a two-hundred-dollar massage, and the evening drinking wine made from grapes grown fifty yards from your chair.
Rustic luxury on steroids.
And as I stared through the windshield at the ridiculous postcard unfolding in front of me, one thought kept running through my head.
Who the hell actually lived like this?
I followed the directions Selma texted me and parked at the admin building.
As I got out, I had the strangest feeling.
I’d only had it once before, it was the day I found out I was pregnant.
I had no inkling at all that I was, but as soon as I got up that morning, I just knew my entire life was going to be different.
Something in my soul told me my life would never be the same, and whatever it was, intuition or premonition, was correct.
From that day forward my entire world revolved around Maverick.
That same feeling came over me now. I knew for certain, without a shadow of a doubt, from this day forward my life was going to change. I just wasn’t sure if would be for the better or worse.
I grabbed my bag which had my portfolio so I could show Selma my work.
I, of course, had digital versions online, but some people liked old school.
When I reached for it, I noticed my hands were trembling.
I did my best to be my own mental beta-blocker and just focus on being myself, putting the best foot forward, and whatever other contrived saying would help me get through the interview.
As I walked up the pavers to the building, the front door opened and a stunning woman appeared. She was short. Petite. I was only five foot two, and I was at least a couple of inches taller than her.