CHAPTER THREE
Sam couldn’t help but wonder about his unfortunate but feisty passenger. He’d been glancing at her off and on during the drive. She, on the other hand, stared straight ahead. He was thankful he’d driven the new truck instead of his favorite old metal can of a V-8 because they were warm and safe. In fact, too warm. Sam turned the blasting heat down and hummed quietly to his satellite radio.
He was curious about Ms. Casey Pickett—beyond curious. There was no ring on her finger, no white band of skin to allow a deduction that she’d ever worn one. And she was as skittish as a young colt in a thunderstorm. She had guts though.
According to his dashboard, the temperature had dropped to forty-two degrees. It made him glad they’d be at the ranch before he had to worry about ice on the roads. He didn’t figure he could get her to open up, at least not now, so he started singing aloud. Christmas was his favorite holiday, even if his daughter, Natalie, wasn’t home from school yet.
“Sleigh bells ring, are ya’ listening, in the lane, snow is glistening, a beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight, walking in a winter wonderland.” He glanced over quickly, hoping for a reaction from his truck-mate.
Nothing.
He figured they were getting near where her wreck must have been. People who didn’t know the road often lost control coming down from the pass because their cars had picked up speed and there was a tight S curve right before the grade bottomed out into the long ribbon of highway that came and went through Briarwood. His eyes on the road, Sam asked, “So, are we near where you had your accident?”
She sat up straight and looked out at the darkness, seemingly trying to judge the location of her wreck. “I don’t think so.” The reaction revealed that she was paying attention.
“Hmm, well, about a mile up is a common site for accidents because of the curve and downhill speed.”
“That makes sense, but I didn’t lose it on a curve.”
“No?”
“Nope. I abhor the mundane, so I almost hit a cow instead.”
Sam burst out laughing despite the fact that it wasn’t funny. Hitting a large animal could get you killed. It also meant a loss for some rancher. He started to express that thought when Casey snapped, “It’s so not funny, cowboy.”
“No, it isn’t, but your delivery was.”
“Oh.” She turned her face away and looked out the window into darkness. “What’s the temperature now?”
“It’s dropping quickly, about three degrees in the last few minutes—” He looked at the gauge. “Thirty-nine degrees.”
She shivered and returned her stare to the road ahead.
“We’re almost there.” As he said it, he hit the blinker, slowed the truck, and turned left at a wide swatch of pavement covering the first fifteen feet of road up to the gate. Stopping, he put the truck in park, undid his seat belt, and jumped out.
***
Casey watched as her captor-maybe-benefactor ran to the large gate. A blast of cold air had whirled around her inside the cab until the door slammed. Like earlier when she’d noted the various ranch names along the highway, she was staring at an arch fastened between the posts holding up the gate. Large letters forged out of iron read 2WRanch. Of course, she was curious about the name, but even more so about the man.
It was obvious he was comfortable in his skin. She couldn’t fault him for being confident, articulate, and apparently generous, but she hoped the confidence didn’t segue into arrogance. Arrogant men, her pet peeve. Full-of-themselves males. She’d dealt with male egos throughout her nine years in law enforcement, including four as a detective, but there was no time to revisit the past now, because the door of the truck swung open, letting in another blast of cold air.
“Ok, hang on.” He pulled the door shut and drove the truck forward without his seat belt. Casey thought about writing him a ticket, but he jumped back out and jogged toward the gate behind them before she could voice her intentions. He was back in the cab within a minute, seat belt on, and with the truck idling leaned toward her.
“Had to close the gate behind me.” He smiled. “Can’t let any of my livestock get out to the highway. Big steer, cow, and of course any bull could cause a wreck, you know.”
He turned his attention back to the road, but not before she caught a glimpse of the smirk on his face, visible as it was with a cloudless sky and a full moon. Casey didn’t hesitate: leaning across, she gave him a knuckle punch to his bicep.
“Ow.” He slammed on the brakes hard enough that her seat belt snapped tight, then added, “What the hell was that for?”
“Teasing me, and don’t you deny it.” It sounded bitchy, but she didn’t apologize.
For a few seconds he rubbed his arm as if mortally wounded. She could just make out the words to a tune emanating from the radio he had turned down earlier. “Baby, it’s cold outside…” No kidding.
“I am sorry, Ms. Pickett. You’ve had a rough day and I’m giving you a hard time.”
“Indeed.” She slammed her arms together across her chest.
Cowboy Sam reached across the console, his hand accidentally brushing her knee in the process. A flash of wanting him to brush against her again struck like lightning and then was gone. He popped open the glove box. “Here.” It was a brain warmer. “Peace offering?” She took the soft wool cap into her hands. “Put it on, it’s only about six minutes to the house but this will keep your ears from freezing when you get out of the truck.”
“I’ll look ridiculous.”
“Nah.” But then he smiled. “Yeah, maybe.”
Casey pulled the cap down over her ears and tried to judge his reaction; like, was he laughing at her again?
“You look cute.”
She snorted, then turned red—the heat of embarrassment flushing her cheeks. With a deep breath she changed the subject. “You said, cow, steer, and bull a minute ago like there was a difference.”
“There is.” He took his foot off the brake and the truck started forward again. “Here’s a little cattle ranching one-o-one. A cow is a female that’s had a calf, a heifer on the other hand, female, no calf. A bull, I’m sure you know, is for breeding, i.e., they make more cows. Finally, a calf can be male or female.” He stopped. “You getting this so far?”
“Oh, get serious. I know what a bull is for Pete’s sake. And a steer must also signify a male. Like the bull.” She felt brilliant.
“Well, Casey, that would be right except for one itty-bitty difference.”
“And what would that be?”
“Steers can’t reproduce.” He reached over and patted her shoulder with a “there-there.” “They’ve been snipped.”
The heat returned to her face, and she wished instead of a full moon, the sky was full of dangerous thunderheads so a lightning bolt would hit the hood ornament and fry the truck, putting her out of her misery. He’d said they were close to his home, but she closed her eyes anyway, putting an end to further cattle talk.