Chapter Eleven #2
He must see the worried expression on my face, or the slight tremor that’s now racking my body, because his previously determined expression falls.
He sets the cutters on the seat next to him and starts to roll down the sleeves of his flannel before shucking it off and wrapping it around my shoulders.
He helps me slide my arm through each sleeve, and as soon as it’s on, a warm blanket of comfort washes over me.
The twitching in my legs stops, and I smile, wrapping my arms around my core. “Thank you.”
Grayson winks once then reaches for the pliers again and heads back through the stream toward the anxious mama.
Once he’s at the thick bushes, he crouches down so the top half of his big body disappears amongst the wide branches.
His arms move and muscles flex as he chops branches, grabbing them with his bare hands and tossing them aside.
Within a few minutes, there’s a tug, some grumbled words, and then a baby calf emerges from the bushes.
With a little cry, he runs to his mom, circling around to immediately start nuzzling her.
His mom finally stops calling out, and she begins sniffing him, cleaning the mud from his face and body.
Grayson watches them for a minute, and a soft smile grows on his face before he gestures for them to cross the creek and join the other cattle.
The mom must want the same thing, because she starts to walk with Grayson through the water, but when her baby reaches the edge of the stream, he stops walking and starts crying.
The mama runs back to her baby, both of them crying with one another, and she throws a look back to Grayson that I swear says “help me.” With a heavy sigh, Grayson tucks the cutters in his back pocket and reaches down.
He tries to wrap his arms around the calf, but the calf is so skittish, bucking and kicking at him as he does.
“Hey, hey, buddy, shhh…” Grayson whispers to the calf with a soothing tone, and then the calf is up, lifted into Grayson's arms before he maneuvers its front legs over one shoulder and its back legs over the other.
My ovaries nearly explode when that man carries a half-kicking, half-screaming calf through the muck and water, bringing it to safety on the other side.
The mom follows close, crying out her concern that he has her baby, and I wish I could tell her that her baby could be in no safer hands than with Grayson.
The moment he sets the calf down it scampers away, its mom chasing after it with her full utters jostling.
Once the calf stops, she circles around and goes back to licking.
The calf nuzzles her udder hungrily, beginning to feed once she gets closer.
I'm standing frozen in my spot, completely mesmerized at what I just saw.
“You all right?” Grayson asks, smiling at the expression on my face.
“What the hell?” I scoff. “Is this just another day in the neighborhood for you? Do you realize you just carried that calf like it was nothing?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s still a baby, not quite a newborn, bet it only weighs around a hundred pounds.”
I scoff again. “Only a hundred pounds. You didn’t even struggle. I’m starting to think you could sling me over your shoulders like that.”
Grayson's eyes meet mine, and the heat that passes between us has me wanting to duck and cover. Or maybe run to him and see if he can do just that. Because I’ve never felt something like this. This carnal, raw urge. This attraction to pure masculinity that Grayson seems to pull from me.
Grayson Hart: cat rescuer, cattle saver, ovary exploder.
We stand in peaceful silence for a few more minutes, watching the mom and her baby work together.
He busies himself eating dinner and she works tirelessly to clean him.
Looking around, I notice in general that the other cows seem to be standing next to their own baby, protectively, ready to ward off any predator.
“We should head out,” Grayson finally says with a tilt of his head toward the setting sun. “It’ll be dark soon. We don’t want to be out here during nightfall in case any coyotes start howling.”
“Coyotes!” I squeal, and with an abrupt spin, I try to turn and run toward the side-by-side.
But I only make it one step, because when I go to lift my back foot, I can’t seem to move it at all.
I look down at my frozen feet, realizing that I had been standing in the same spot of muck for so long, my boots have solidified with the clay.
“Ahhhh,” I squeal again, trying to swing my arms to give me some momentum. Grayson reaches for me, and I take his hand. With a firm grasp, he tugs me forward, and my foot comes unstuck, but not my boot.
I don’t have time to think because his momentum continues to pull me forward, and the next thing I know, my bare foot, sans boot, squishes into the mud and muck in front of me. I cry out when the cold clay squeezes between my toes, and Grayson releases a deep belly laugh at my dilemma.
“I think I’m stepping in poop,” I push out, laughing so hard that tears begin to well in my eyes.
“Oh, you’re definitely stepping in poop,” he teases as he holds onto me with one hand and reaches down to tug my still-booted foot free. He gives it one tug, then another, and then we both pull at the count of three.
My foot comes free, again with no boot, and I stumble forward, both bare feet now firmly planted in the muck. “Grayson!” I wail with laughter. I swing to face him, losing my balance with the twist, and my arms flail, swinging in wild circles as I do my best not to faceplant into the mud.
But it’s no use.
I fall forward with both hands stretched out in front of me, landing in the mud with a splat.
Laughter rips out of me, and tears stream down my face as I turn my head.
I take in my form: hands and feet lost in the mud, the sleeves of Grayson’s flannel slowly dampening, with my ass pointed in the air like I’m in a modified downward dog pose.
“Leave me!” I scream to Grayson. “I’m a lost cause! Save yourself!”
Grayson's hands come to his knees and he doubles over, laughing so hard I can see the tears beginning to stream down his face. “Come on, city girl,” he says as he takes a giant step forward. He squats low, moving his shoulder under my waist, and before I know it, I’m hoisted out of the mud over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, much like he carried the calf earlier.
Even though I’m covered in cold mud and cow dung, I’m still a warm-blooded woman, and a hot heat forms between my legs at how he can throw my weight around like it’s nothing. He sets me down on the seat, taking a step back so we can both look at the mess I’ve made.
Thick clumps of brownish goo mixed with hay and God knows what cover my feet, nearly up to my knees. My hands are just as bad, and I can make out the splatter of muddy liquid at the bottom of my dress.
“I’m so sorry,” Grayson mumbles, digging through the back of the side-by-side for a work rag. He finds a small semi-used one and quickly starts to clean the mud off of my hands. It smears into my skin more than cleans it, and I cover my free hand with his, stilling his motions.
He looks down at me, and I tilt my head up. A slight breeze picks up, taking my loose hair and brushing it across my face. Grayson grazes a hand along my cheek, brushing back a few of the flyaway strands, and then his knuckle trails down, coming to rest along my chin.
“Holly,” he murmurs, ushering my mouth a little closer to his. “I promised myself I wouldn’t rush you, but I’d really like to kiss you right now.”
My muddy hands fly out to rest on his hips, fisting the hem of his shirt to pull him closer to me. He jolts forward, standing between my spread legs. His eyes flick down to the space between us where my dress has inched up, and my thighs are on full display for him.
“Holly,” he rasps again, his voice suddenly dry. “Can I kiss you?”
“Depends.” I dart my tongue out to lick my lips, leaning into his touch.
He brushes his nose against mine. “Depends on what?”
With a smile, I whisper against his lips. “Well, do you kiss all your friends?”
He slides the hand that had been holding my hair in place back to grip my neck and pulls me into him. “Baby, we both know you were never going to be just my fucking friend.”
And with that, I chase that last inch of space between us. Our top lips meet first, and then our mouths slowly come together. I inhale a sharp breath once we kiss. His lips are soft, warm, and I whimper when he runs the tip of his tongue along my bottom lip.
I open for him, and my hands that had been gripping his waist move up for better reach, and I pull him to me, nearly knocking him over.
He lays me down on the seat of the UTV with all of his weight pressing me into the cushions.
The friction from his jeans rub against my underwear as my legs are spread wide to accommodate his broad waist.
We make out like teenagers, exploring one another as my arms wrap around his shoulders. His mouth moves down to my neck, my chest. His thick forearms bracket the sides of my head as I wrap a leg around him.
It isn’t until we hear a cow moo, one that seems awfully close, that Grayson breaks the kiss. He looks over his shoulder to find one of the cows standing nearby with its head cocked to the side as if it was wondering what we were up to.
“Cock blocked by a cow,” he groans, standing up to his full height. He guides me to sit up, and I chuckle when I see him, noticing the shared mud that now covers his shirt, face, and even parts of his mussed hair.
He reaches a hand up, gently swiping some of my hair that’s fallen over my forehead, and tucks a strand behind my ear, his fingertip grazing under my chin as it falls. “Dr. Carrington,” he says with a smirk. “I think we’ve officially made a cowgirl out of you.”