14. But She Wanted a Cookie
BUT SHE WANTED A COOKIE
EXTON
I wind through the property, past Braxton’s and past the office, moving away from the barn and up Pop’s drive. I park and round the car, offering my hand to Willa, only to realize she’s shaking.
I look down at her hand, before meeting her gaze. “Are you nervous?”
She nods.
“Don’t be.”
“Easy for you to say,” she grouses, but closes the car door behind her and clutches the strap of the purse over her shoulder.
I walk up the steps and pull open the screen door, only to find Pop opening the heavy wood front door at the same time.
He lifts the brim of his ball cap, tipping it on his head. “Hey, there.” He extends a hand that she accepts. “You must be Willa. Nice to meet you.” He pulls the door wide. “Make yourself at home. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I just had the equivalent of four cups and am good for now, but you’re my favorite Ranger today for asking.”
Pop smiles and welcomes us in, shutting the door behind us, and clamps a hand on my shoulder. “You better have offered her coffee. I raised you better than that.”
In another time, I would give him shit. Mom raised me better than that. Pop was spoiled rotten by her and never had to fill his own mug unless he rose before her. But today is not the day to remind him of that, so I clap back, “Yeah, slacker here. She hasn’t had breakfast either.”
“I—”
“Now, don’t play coy,” I say, offering her a wink. “You’d hate to be rude when Pop probably has lunch started.”
“Brighton has lunch started,” Pop counters. “I’d survive on sandwiches, but she keeps me in hot meals, or tries to at least. Beef tips, rice and gravy, with other stuff—who knows what—and tea. But it’ll be another hour. She’s in the barn. Want to walk down there?”
“I’d like that, Mr. Ranger.”
“Pop, please. Kimpton, if you must, but never Mr. Ranger.” He looks out the living room window, and says with a solemn, straight face, “Unless you’re a fugitive in FBI custody. Then, Mr. Ranger is fine.”
Willa gasps, and I laugh. Pop looks her in the face, eyes twinkling, and adds, “Welcome to my home and to our ranch. We’re glad you’re here.”
“What’s her name?” Willa is taken with Marron. It took roughly two minutes for her to forget I even exist—Willa that is; Marron is still my best girl.
I feed her another oatmeal cookie, before being reprimanded by my busybody sister, who walks toward the stalls. “I told you yesterday you’re giving her too many cookies, Exton.”
“I don’t get to spoil her enough, and I need to remain her favorite.”
“And you think cookies are the way to do it?”
My face says “duh,” because Marron is serious about her cookies.
“Try coming home more often. Or offer her an apple next time.”
“But she wanted a cookie,” I let her know, sounding as petulant as I feel.
“Yeah, yeah,” Braxton says.
“Don’t you start too. Tag teaming your favorite brother is bad form.”
“Favorite brother?” Bright wonders, sarcasm lacing her tone.
“Bad form?” Brax pipes in at the same time.
“Is it always like this?” Willa asks Pop, who’s just leaving Marron’s stall after checking on her.
“When they’re together and conscious? Yes.” But he adds, “Wouldn’t change it for the world.” He swings into the next stall, saying hello to Wandy, Braxton’s horse, and giving her a once-over.
“You act like I’m not doing my job,” Brighton hollers after him.
“Well, the talking part’s done,” he throws right back, but there’s no malice in his tone. He’s as proud of her as we all are.
She harrumphs and follows him into the stall to save face. No question the horses are fine. Brighton is skilled and she loves these animals. They’re well taken care of.
Willa is in old jeans that Bright had left in her room. They’re too wide on her slim legs, and they’re long enough simply due to being oversized. She’s wearing a tee that’s Brighton’s from college, showing the head and snout of her dragon on her left bicep.
Pop hasn’t asked. Not that he’s that old-school, but he’s still of the generation where tattoos were synonymous with military service.
And this behemoth isn’t a sweet saying dotting her ankle.
Her entire upper arm is tatted with fiery reds and yellow flames, licking below her elbow.
The dragon’s eyes aren’t visible under the short sleeve, but I know where they rest.
While Brighton’s eyes have snagged on the ink, she hasn’t butted in or tried to make it her business. It’s very unlike her, but I appreciate it. Not because Willa can’t hold her own, but because there’s a lot going on and so much to take in. Besides, I want to know first.
“I’m an only child,” Willa volunteers, looking around the barn, my family weaving in and out of stalls, old country music streaming through the speaker system.
Ranch hands muck out stalls and load feed onto Gators.
“I can’t imagine the constant everything-ness of three siblings.
Not to mention this much activity at home every day. ”
“I don’t know any different. I remember Layton coming home, but I can’t remember a time without Braxton or Brighton… before college anyway. Pop grew up on this ranch. It’s been in the family for years.” We move away from the activity and toward the sunshine of the barn doors. “Is this too much?”
“It’s madness but it’s comfortable. There’s a lot of love here. It’s visible with every interaction. Also, sarcasm. There’s a lot of that too.”
She looks around, watching the comings and goings, when I reach for her face and drop my mouth to hers.
I plunge deep, not caring about the rest of the world, pulling her tight to my body with an arm riding low around her back.
The other moves to tug at her hair, cautious but commanding.
She opens for me, and her moan when my tongue meets hers stirs my dick.
I only come up for air after the catcalls ignore my raised middle finger.
“There’s definitely a lot of sarcasm here. ”
“Does everyone have a horse?” Willa asks as we sit down to lunch at Pop’s.
“Sort of,” Bright says. “We breed, so they’re part of the business operation, but we’re not enterprise-level players, so it’s far more personal than just a breeding operation.
Think of it like the difference between someone who loves a dog breed and has puppies versus a puppy mill.
We’re on the love-of-the-breed side of the spectrum. ”
“We’re small time for what this business actually could be,” Braxton continues.
“But we made a conscious decision to operate this way. Stay in the black, be able to run it ourselves. With help, obviously, but keep the family atmosphere. Anyone who buys from us knows us, has walked our grounds, and has had coffee at dawn in the barn.”
Bright takes the lead again. “But each of us knows the business, the horses. We ride. We train.” A sly smile pulls across her face. “Exton was even pretty skilled in the rodeo before he went to college.”
Willa
“Really?” I turn my wide gaze on him, but I know the best way to get info is Bright. “You have pictures?”
Kimpton stands, his chair legs scraping across the old floors, tossing his napkin next to his plate, and silently walks away. He returns a minute later with a thick, white hardbound book, passing it to me with a smile.
The cover has a family photo that is dated by the hairstyles and clothing. It’s titled The Rangers with the year and includes Braxton 13, Exton 11, Brighton 7, Layton 5.
“Pop, seriously?” Exton asks.
“Nice hair,” I say.
“Hey, that was the style.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Braxton says, rising with his plate and heading to the stove.
“This is about to get ugly.” But he returns carrying a square ceramic dish before making another trip for plates and forks.
“Not missing this shit show,” he adds, but clears the plates and makes a trip to the sink at the same time.
Kimpton leans back, extends a hand as if displaying the art he created and with a smile says, “Open it.”
And I’m sucked into the Rangers—their life, their family, their smiles, their joy.
Nothing could be further from my experience.
The page opens with an olive-skinned, dark-haired woman, not a single gray hair in sight, broad smile across her stunning face, waving a potholder at the camera.
The other hand is on her hip, as if she’s put out at the camera in her face.
The oven stands open and a foil-covered dish is visible.
I run my hands down it and wish for one moment, for this one picture that the moving pictures in Harry Potter were real.
“Wow,” I say under my breath, and the hush that falls over the table is thick, and it lingers. So, I turn the page.
The picture that greets me is of a young girl, long ponytail braided down her back, tall cowboy boots up her legs, covered in mud and surrounded by three boys, all equally covered.
But the shot highlights the subject. It’s obviously Brighton.
Her eyes show shock and amusement. She’s propped her hands on her hips.
Her chin is turned up, highlighting the lower lip jutted out for the photographer.
The fact that she’s going toe to toe with obviously taller, bigger boys—save one—is apparent.
“What was happening here?” I tap the picture and flip the book around.
“Well,” Brighton begins, the attitude in the picture rising to the surface. “I had just gotten those boots.”
“Here we go,” Braxton says, scooping cobbler into his mouth.
“They were brand new, and I was going to the barn. It had rained the day before and I was trying to pick my way across the yard so I didn’t get them muddy. When, this one”—her eyes whip to Braxton, who holds up his hands in a “don’t shoot” gesture—“and this one decided to douse me in mud.”
“That’s not exactly how it went down,” Exton says when Braxton cuts in. From there it’s a free-for-all, with everyone talking over one another, gesturing, interrupting, and contradicting the stories of that day.
Kimpton’s smile is wide, and he watches the whole scene as a man truly living in the moment. He winks when I catch his eyes. My responding smile is genuine too. It would be easy to lose myself in this kind of family. It’s odd and terrifying.
And idyllic.
I lose his gaze when Exton’s head comes down, and he whispers in my ear, “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?
“Me? I’m the victim here. I’m totally innocent.”
He should know from my tone that it’s a lie. Whatever happened with their mom and that moment with the picture was palpable. It was too much.
“I’ll clear the table,” Brighton says. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“I already did that,” Braxton retorts, and I can see the dynamic of how they work as a family.
“Well, you did a piss-poor job, because I have to finish it,” she goes on, carrying a load from the table to the counter. The smile in her voice is unmistakable. She’s giving him shit and enjoys it.
“Exton, dishes are on you. Some of us have to work,” Braxton throws in, adjusting his hat on his head, and rising from the table. “Pop,” he acknowledges and leaves the house.
“Right behind you,” Bright says, waving, and scurries behind him.
“We just got relegated to dish duty,” Exton says.
“You just got relegated to dish duty,” I correct. “I’m a guest here.” I bat my eyelashes just to sell it.
Kimpton laughs and heads to the back of the house. “I like her.”
“You’ll pay for that,” Exton says, laughter dancing in his eyes.
“Yeah? Make me.”
“Oh, Miss Jayne, be careful what you wish for.” He stands and moves to the sink, flipping on the water and opening the dishwasher.
I join him, not able to just sit here, grabbing a butt cheek as I get close.
“What I wish for… What I wish for… We’ll see,” I say trying to play sex kitten, but doing it poorly.
He releases a little growl, but continues loading the dishwasher, directing me to the storage containers so I can put away leftovers.
“How’s your head?” he asks, wiping his hands on a towel when we’re done.
“I could lie down.”
“You hurting?”
“I didn’t say anything about hurting.” With that, I sashay toward the stairs and throw over my shoulder, “You coming?”