Chapter 1 #2
I tune him out without meaning to, but I’ve heard this one several times before over the last five years I’ve been working at Hawthorne Ranch.
William Hawthorne’s my boss, and I respect the hell out of that guy. He reminds me of Dad, except he does nothing but work. The guy loves it, and I do too, but Dad balanced his life with recreation. Still, I admire William for having something he’s passionate about.
I take a sip and stare at the whiskey inside the glass. How do distilled grains have a vanilla flavor? How does Myles infuse cinnamon? Yeah, I’ve tried his cinnamon whiskey. It’s some of the best alcohol I’ve ever had.
His offer runs through my head. With all that money split three ways, I could do a lot. I could get my own place instead of living in the bunkhouse with the other Hawthorne Ranch employees.
I work someone else’s land instead of my own. Dad put all his assets in a trust, and when I turned twenty-five—well beyond the years of Mom trying to get her hands on it—it became mine and Haven’s and Durban’s, with me as the executor. I’ve done nothing with that role.
Haven and Durban claim they aren’t interested in selling either. Guilt gnaws at my insides. We could be doing more with it, but what? How? I’m the oldest. I’m supposed to have the answers, but my brothers and I are content.
Or have we become complacent?
A cloud of lilies surrounds me as a woman slides into a seat two stools down.
I tuck my chin down and peer at her out of the corner of my eye.
I thought I knew all the women in town. But this girl is heads and tails above them all.
Long, glossy chestnut hair hangs down her back.
The neon lights of the bar reflect off the silky strands covering her bare shoulders.
Her sundress—goddamn. I can only catch a glimpse of the long, tanned flesh of her legs without leaning back and leering at her.
All I can see beyond her curtain of hair is the delicate slope of her nose and long lashes.
Silas squints at her, and the girl tips her head, arching a brow.
“What can I get you?” he asks with a note of awe in his voice.
So he doesn’t know her either.
She sucks in a breath and straightens her shoulders. “Kinky Blue, please.”
Her husky voice rolls right into my brain and sticks. I’d hear that voice late at night when I had only myself to get off with.
“What?” Silas asks, insult filling his tone.
Instead of doubling down, she laughs. “It’s a vodka.”
“Is it blue?”
My lips twitch. It isn’t often Silas is shocked, but this girl’s drink order does it.
“Yes, in fact it is. Tastes like candy. But I can just have a Malibu Coke.”
Silas’s lips form a line. “I can do is a plain rum and Coke.”
“You don’t have Malibu?”
He just shakes his head.
“Rum and Coke it is.”
Surprised and a little pleased that she doesn’t argue with him about why he doesn’t have much selection, I concentrate on my own drink.
A few minutes go by before she turns toward me. “You don’t look like the type to order a Blue Kinky.”
Damn. A woman who looks like that saying the word kinky to me? If I was taking a drink, I would’ve choked.
“Just whiskey for me,” I say, not wishing to encourage her. I’m nursing my drink after a week of being anxious over Myles’s request to meet. A whole lot of fucking would ease the tension too, but I need to straighten myself out first.
I don’t have to go out of my way to pick up women, but when they learn I have nothing to offer, they often leave quickly enough. I’m good for a good time. That’s it. Usually, I don’t mind.
Perhaps I’m raw from the feelings my talk with Myles brought up, but I wish I had more to offer someone like this.
A person who comes off as gorgeous and good-natured in the smallest of small-town bars.
She’s refined, and not just because she’s sitting primly with one long, curvy leg crossed over the other with a strappy sandal dangling from her foot.
“I like whiskey too,” she says in that voice that’s pure sex, “but I wanted something lighter. Summery, you know?”
“Like a beer?” I ask as if that should be an obvious choice in a place like Bootleg Tavern.
Silas has the five most popular beers on tap, along with the traditional tequila, rum, vodka, gin, whiskey, and bourbon.
There are no umbrellas, little swords, and it’s a rare treat for him to throw some peanuts on the bar.
“I haven’t had a Miller Lite since my pasture party days.
” She laughs, and damn, the light tinkling sound goes right for my gut.
She’s vibrant in a way I haven’t seen for a long time.
She reminds me of easier times, like when my brothers and I explored the trees and wielded our bear spray at any shadow that moved.
“I’m sure if I ordered a Fat Tire, I’d get the same stink eye. ”
I scan the line of taps with the most common, most commercial beers. Silas likes the originals, and he sticks to what he likes. His patrons learn to like it or make their drinks at home.
Hawthorne Ranch has a fancier bar. Since it’s a working ranch, in addition to being a vacation spot that offers its guests a taste of life in the West, my boss caters to their pocketbooks.
I work the cattle and stay away from the guests.
One warning to me and my brothers that we’d get booted out of Huckleberry Springs is all we needed to stay away from the tourists.
We came too far to get back home, and I’m not ruining it.
“I think you’re out of luck,” I agree.
She twists toward me, and even though I don’t want to start anything tonight, I turn my head. Those legs are too tantalizing to resist. A guy can look. Doesn’t mean I’ll touch.
First, I have to make sure it’s okay to even chat with her.
“You a guest at Hawthorne?” If she says yes, I’m done. I steal one glimpse before she answers. The skirt of her dress rides up her lush thighs even more when she changes her position. A simple brush would push the fabric past her panties and?—
I clear my throat and focus on my almost-empty whiskey.
“No,” she says. “Not a guest.”
Then what’s she doing in Huckleberry Springs? I ignore my excitement. If she isn’t Hawthorne Ranch clientele, she’s not off-limits. Not tonight. “Passing through?”
She smiles at Silas when he slides her rum and Coke in front of her. The heat of her attention is back on me, and I like it way too much. I have a condom in my pocket, begging to be used.
“I don’t know yet if I’m passing through or not.”
Then I’m definitely not fucking with her. If she stays, she’ll move on. I’ll see her around with some other guy. Like Andrew at the bank. He just got divorced, and he’s a nice guy. He’d go better with Miss What’s Her Name than my dusty ass.
“I’m Sunny.”
Fitting. She lights up the room. “Nice to meet you.” I tip my imaginary hat. It’s on the front seat of my pickup. “Iverson.”
Her brow arches. “Iverson. That’s not a name I’ve heard before.”
“My parents liked to use last names as first names.” Might’ve been the most sane thing my mom did.
She laughs again. I like her laugh. A lot. I like that she does it easily, no inhibitions. I wish I could make her laugh more. “Fair.”
She scoots over, and her lily scent grows stronger. I never cared about a girl’s perfume, lotion, or whatever product they used, but I could bottle her up. “I’m going to be honest, Iverson.”
My interest skyrockets. She goes from light and bubbly to serious, and somehow I find that real fucking attractive. “Yeah?”
“You’re hot.”
“I’ve heard.” It’s probably the cowboy effect.
The swagger from being on horseback so much and the rugged aura I’ve adopted from being outside and working with animals that could crush me all day is catnip.
It’s the same with my brothers. We all have brown hair, brown eyes, and we’re tall.
Beyond that, men like Andrew are the ones the girls want to marry.
Sure, he’s single at the moment, but I give it a year, and he’ll be engaged.
Hell, I’d marry Andrew if I could. He’s a nice guy.
He gets benefits at his job instead of bug bites and sunburns.
I’m tired. I have years until retirement, and I’m looking at doing the same thing for…almost thirty more years. Fatigue hangs heavy on my shoulders, yet I’m restless. I love my job, but lately, I’ve been wondering… Is there more out there?
Christ, I’m becoming a country song. I tip my glass back again. I don’t need a third drink, but I could use one more sip.
She leans closer. “You seem like you could ride a girl into the sunset.”
The last drop of whiskey catches in my throat, and I sputter.
“You okay there, Iverson?” Silas asks from the opposite end of the bar. “I know the Heimlich, but I might break as many ribs as when I rode Spitfire in the San Antonio rodeo…”
I wave off his concern. “Excuse me?” I heard her wrong. That’s all.
“Do you want to have sex?”
I nearly choke again. Hell, yes. “Why?”
“Because I do too, and I don’t like playing games.”
“Did you come to the Bootleg to get laid?” She doesn’t seem like the type. She’s not rough around the edges. She’s not drooping like surviving each day is such a struggle; only a mutual orgasm can make it better.
She takes a gulp of her drink. “No. But then I saw you and thought it might be a good idea.”
It’s a hell of an idea.
She might not be passing through. What if I see her again?
My brain and my dick have a quick chat, and they decide not to care. She’s not a guest. Therefore, she’s not off-limits. I give her one last out. “It might be a bad decision.”
She cocks her head, and that silky curtain of hair slips off her shoulder. My palms itch to run through it, to see if she’s soft everywhere. “Will it be, Iverson?”
She asks as if I said yes. As if it’s some foregone conclusion that I’ll end up inside her tonight. And maybe I need to quit fighting the feeling inside me that wants more. I do want more. But right now, I want this woman. And she’s giving herself to me.