15
Delicious cowboy hotness
Are you out of your mind? Brandy-Lyn thought for the umpteenth time as she saddled Sparrow, the three-year-old roan filly.
It was the quarter’s third week under saddle, and she showed great promise.
Today’s ride would be their first on open land, and riding with a seasoned ranch horse would go a long way in calming the filly down.
But her suggestion to ride together went deeper than benefiting Sparrow.
It was clear as day that the man dragged the aftermath of yesterday’s “shitshow” into today. He was strung tighter than the tightest fence line and, dammit, she was worried about him riding out to the bluff on his own.
He is not your problem.
“I know, I know,” she muttered. She swung up into the saddle without thinking, and Sparrow shifted, sidestepping just enough to throw Brandy off balance.
Cursing her inattentiveness, she shut her mind to everything but the horse beneath her. “Stand,” she instructed, injecting as much calmness into her voice as possible.
The filly flicked an ear back at her, and Brandy could feel the tension in the horse’s body.
For a few beats, they remained motionless.
A gate clanged at the far end of the yard, and Sparrow flinched.
Brandy exhaled a long intentional breath and waited some more.
After a full minute, she leaned forward to run her hand over Sparrow’s neck. “You good, sugar?”
The filly’s head dropped half an inch.
Brandy chuckled. “That’s my girl.” She gathered the reins and rode out of the stable yard, promising herself to keep her emotions firmly under control.
Alas, her resolve crumbled when she reached their meeting point.
Rafferty trotted toward her with the early sun behind him, turning the dust at his horse’s hooves to gold. Light caught the edge of his hat — not his usual ballcap but an actual cowboy hat — haloing him in morning fire, and for a beat, Brandy forgot to breathe.
The gelding, Rocco, one of the ranch horses she recognized, moved at a steady lope, muscles rippling beneath a glossy brown coat, but it was the man who held her gaze. He sat deep and loose in the saddle, every part of him moving in rhythm with the horse.
In the saddle, riding, he looked … more.
More imposing, more assured, more alive .
And incredibly sexy.
Sparrow shifted beneath her, but Brandy didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
She just watched him near, sunlight burning the edge of her vision and something quieter — warmer — burning low in her belly.
It wasn’t desire.
Rather, it was something … more .
Dear Lord, I am in so much trouble.
“What’s her name?” the subject of her discombobulation said in a low voice, stopping a respectful distance out. Brandy leaned forward and patted the filly’s shoulder.
That’s right. Concentrate on the horse, the task , and not your companion.
“Sparrow. She’s three years old, and almost a month into her training.”
“Okay if I approach?”
“Yeah,” Brandy said, keeping her tone dry. “She’s green, not glass.”
A flash of a grin crossed his face, quick and crooked. It tugged at one side of his mouth and lit something unguarded in his eyes.
Her pulse fluttered. That warm feeling spread, winding up through her chest. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to look away — or lean in closer.
So. Much. Trouble.
Rafferty guided his horse up beside her. He eased one gloved hand from the horn and let it hang at his side — open, relaxed, inviting. He didn’t even look at Sparrow when he spoke, like he wasn’t talking to her at all.
“Pretty Sparrow,” he murmured, voice pitched low and soft. “You up for some riding?”
Sparrow didn’t move her hooves, but her neck stretched, nostrils fluttering.
Rafferty stayed exactly where he was, that loose hand still and steady in the space between them.
The filly’s nose touched his fingertips, just the barest graze. “Good girl,” he said, quieter this time. “That’s it.”
Brandy’s insides turned all warm and gooey. And this close, she caught a whiff of citrus and leather. The smell swirled around her, mixing with earth and crisp morning air had a far too heady effect on her. Unnerved, she picked up the reins. “Day’s wasting, cowboy. Let’s go.”
They rode out, hooves muffled in the packed earth, Rocco taking the lead by half a stride. The buildings faded behind them as they passed the last fence line and dipped into a recently plowed pasture. A breeze stirred from the west, rustling the dry grass and tugging at her braid.
They eased into a companionable silence, the soft rhythm of the horses’ breathing mingling with the low murmur of distant cattle, birdsong, and the steady chatter of insects — each sound working like balm on her frayed nerves.
The stream came into view — a shallow ribbon of water, running clear over smooth rock and fallen leaves.
Rocco stopped and started drinking, and Sparrow followed suit.
Done, the gelding stepped into the stream without hesitation, water splashing up to his knees as he waded deeper.
When urged on, Sparrow refused, backing up the bank, neck stiff, ears locked forward.
Brandy didn’t touch the reins. Just waited, letting the horse settle.
Rafferty glanced back, reining in his gelding midstream, waiting.
Sparrow pawed at the edge. Snorted.
“You’re all right,” Brandy said quietly. “Nothing gonna bite you in there.” She shifted her seat — a little forward, loosening her knees — and clucked her tongue once. The mare stepped in, cautious, ears flicking. The water hit her fetlocks, and she danced a half step sideways.
“It’s just water, sugar,” she assured.
The mare blinked, then lowered her head to sniff the water. One more step, then another. The current pulled lightly at her legs, but she crossed. Brandy gave a quiet breath as they stepped out onto the far bank.
“Good girl,” she said, brushing her hand across the mare’s neck.
They rode on, past the gate that led into the lower pasture. Rafferty dismounted to open it, Rocco standing still like he’d done it a thousand times — which he probably had. Brandy urged Sparrow through the opening and stopped, the filly turning her head to watch the cattle in the distance.
Rafferty swung back into the saddle. “You want me to take the lead again?”
She shook her head. “Let her pick her own way.”
They rode side by side through the pasture, cattle scattered and grazing, their heads lifting lazily as the horses passed.
Sparrow flinched when a steer moved too quickly, but Brandy sat quiet, hands low, without offering guidance.
Rocco gave a low whinny, and Sparrow found her footing, moving forward.
Rattlesnake Bluff loomed ahead, red rock catching the sun, casting jagged shadows along the fence line. The land began to slope upward. Sage and dry switchgrass crunched under hoof, and Sparrow’s steps turned deliberate.
The wind shifted as they reached the base of the bluff, carrying the dry scent of age-old limestone and mesquite. They rode along the fence, Rafferty still in the lead. “We found a couple of strays in the canyon, but the fly-over with the drone couldn’t spot the break.”
About three hundred yards along, they found the slack wire leading into a clump of sagebrush huddled low to the ground, all silvery-green branches and rough, wiry stems, tough enough to outlast drought and wind, and dislodge a fence.
Rafferty swung down, dropping the reins to the ground. “You know the drill, bud. Wait right here.” As still as the fenceposts, head low, Rocco watched him walk ahead.
Crouching, he tugged the wire from beneath the sagebrush. “Clips’ come loose.” He viewed the bush concealing the post and let out a heavy breath. “It’s gonna be a bitch to clean up.”
She dismounted. “Best we get on it, then, cowboy.”
*
Rafferty stood, brushing dust from his jeans. “It’s gonna be sweaty work,” he warned. “You up for it?”
“Do I look like a woman who shies away from hard labor?”
No. You look like a woman I want to press up against the cliff and fuck into oblivion.
But he tamped down the need that had been building ever since he laid eyes on her earlier. Instead, he forced an easy grin. “No, ma’am,” he said, and silently congratulated himself on the lightness of his tone.
Palming the two-way radio, he quickly relayed the supplies they needed. “Ma sent refreshments. We can tuck into them while we wait for the drone.”
“Sounds delightful.”
They settled Rocco and Sparrow a short distance away beneath a group of cedars offering enough clearance for the two to rest in the shade. The green filly seemed to be holding up well, and Brandy-Lyn set out a collapsible bucket and emptied water from one of the canteens she brought.
Unclipping the saddlebag, he pulled free the food Ma had packed the moment she heard Brandy-Lyn was riding out with him.
He spread the checkered cloth across a flat rock and unpacked the feast. Thick sandwiches wrapped in wax paper — slices of peppered roast beef piled high with sharp cheddar and slathered with Ma’s homemade horseradish mayo.
Another neatly folded package held two fat chocolate chip cookies, their edges crisp, and centers still soft, studded with dark chocolate and toasted pecans that smelled like home.
And to wash it down, a battered thermos of fresh coffee.
Biting into a sandwich, Brandy-Lyn gave a hum of enjoyment. “Damn, this is good.”
He chuckled, uncapping the thermos. The rich scent curled into the dry air as he poured. “Ma says if you’re gonna feed people, feed ’em like you want ’em to stay.”
Their fingers brushed as she took the plastic mug from his hand. Her touch was light, cool against the heat of his skin, and it sent a quiet jolt up his arm.
She looked up. His gaze caught hers.
For a split second, everything else faded.
No noise. No movement.
Just them.
Suspended in a moment.
A man and a woman alone on the edge of the ranch.
Off limits, Trick.
He broke eye-contact and nodded to the small jar of sugar. “For you.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
He watched Brandy-Lyn fix her coffee to her liking, mesmerized by the pretty picture she made.
She had taken off her hat before folding to the ground, and he looked at her there — wind in her hair, sun on her face, the wild Texas land stretched out behind her.
He lifted his hand, itching to tug that wayward wisp of hair that clung to her cheek behind her ear when Sparrow snorted, drawing his attention.
The filly’s ears flicked at the whir of the approaching drone.
It buzzed low overhead, circled once, then released its supply basket into a patch of open ground.
With the delivery made, the drone settled a short distance away, rotors slowing to a hum as it powered down — waiting for the return trip.
While she stashed the picnic leftovers, he got to work unloading the supply basket, running through how best to tackle the tangle of overgrown brush ahead.
Battery powered chainsaw in hand, Rafferty approached the sagebrush, thick and stubborn, where it pushed through the wire in tangle after tangle, swallowing the fence. The steady hum of the machine filled the air as he set to work.
Brandy-Lyn was right beside him, tugging the severed limbs out of the way.
The scent of crushed sage — earthy, wild, with a bite of something bitter and green — filled the air.
They quickly settled into a steady rhythm, each cut sending a small spray of dust into the air, but he didn’t slow down, just continued in a methodical, quick, and efficient manner.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the last of the tangle around the fence was gone. A quick glance at his watch showed that less than sixty minutes had passed. He lifted his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “Good work, partner.”
Face red from exertion, her gaze moved from him to the brush pile, and back at him.
Would she flush like that during the throes of an orgasm?
She flashed a grin. “Guess two pairs of hands make lighter work,” she said, swiping that infernal loose strand of hair from her cheek. “Let’s get the wire done.”
He was grateful she hadn’t read his mind.
Turning away — his jeans suddenly uncomfortably snug — he fetched the coil of wire. “You grab the line once I thread it through the tensioner.”
They moved in sync; Brandy-Lyn kneeling to hold the wire steady while Rafferty hooked it through the jaws of the tool.
His gaze kept slipping from the task on hand, and he berated himself.
He shouldn’t watch her the way he was, shouldn’t notice the way a strand of hair kept slipping loose, clinging to a cheek dusted with flakes of gold.
Or how the sun found a way below the brim of her hat and lit up the bottom of her face.
He resisted the impulse — again — to reach over and brush away the stubborn lock of red.
She looked up, and their eyes locked.
He masked his longing as best he could, fighting the urge thrumming through his veins to throw caution aside and claim her as his. “Thanks for helping,” he said, his voice lower than he intended.
“Anytime. I’m glad I could help.”
Her words landed deeper than she probably knew. Simple, matter of fact — but they curled into something warm in his chest. Something in him loosened. Some old, weathered piece that had been braced against the world for too long.
And it scared the shit out of him.