Cowboy Kit and Caboodle
LAINEY
The enormous barn goes silent the second I step through the door that Colton holds open for me.
It’s like the ranch hands—horse whisperers? whatever you call the people who work inside—heard my clogs hit the floorboards and immediately knew it was someone who doesn’t belong.
A dozen men and women look up from their tasks to stare at me with unabashed curiosity. Even the horses stick their heads out of their stalls. They peer at me with enormous, soulful eyes that gleam in the sunlight that streams through the open doors.
I can only describe the smell inside the barn as warm. Warm animals. Warm hay. Warm sunshine.
It’s actually really nice, soothing in a strange way.
It’s not nice being the center of attention. I manage a horrendous little wave, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me whole. “Hi. Hey, y’all.”
Everyone waves back, but no one says a word. They keep staring.
Maybe this was a mistake. Colton may be an idiot, but he did make some interesting points. I’d never admit that out loud, of course. Still made me think.
He hit on a very old, very familiar sore spot. The one that tells me I don’t matter and that the things I do and care about are stupid.
Colton, being the self-important son of a bitch he is, just strides right past me. No introduction. No, “Oh, hey, here’s where we keep the horses. It’s called a stable. This is what we do here.” Definitely no, “Everybody, this is Lainey. She’s here to help us level up our marketing game.”
Instead, he disappears into a room to our left. I take the opportunity to ogle the state-of-the-art stables Dale told me they built five years ago. I’ve never been inside a barn before, so I had no idea what to expect.
This barn is an architectural wonder. It’s built of rough limestone and timber painted a deep shade of brown. The sloped ceiling soars two, maybe three stories overhead, culminating in a large cupola with windows on all sides.
On the ground level, the wood grain of the stalls and central aisle gleams. Whoever takes care of this building does their job exceedingly well.
A few horses are tied to rubber ropes in the wide aisle that divides the space in two. Others continue to look at me from their stalls. They are beautiful animals, showing off their glossy coats and long manes when they shake their heads or bend their necks.
There are people everywhere. In the stalls, brushing down horses, slinging bags of what I assume to be feed over their shoulders. When I pictured ranch life, I thought there’d be plenty of animals but that people would be few and far between. Definitely got that wrong.
Grabbing my pen, I start to scribble more notes. When I look up, I see Colton emerge from the room.
My breath dies in my throat.
Oh God.
Oh dear God.
Chaps.
The man is wearing chaps. They’re brown leather, a little beat-up looking, and they cover his legs all the way down to his boots.
I didn’t know cowboys actually wore these things. I thought they were for Prince and male strippers who perform in Australian-themed shows in Vegas.
The chaps are held together by a thin length of leather that is fastened directly over the man’s crotch.
I’m staring. I’m burning up.
He’s pulling a pair of worn gloves onto his hands when he looks up and smirks. “You all right there, Dallas?”
I swallow. Hard. “Fort Worth.”
“Close enough.”
“Not really. Why”—I lick my lips—“do y’all wear those?”
“Gloves?” He holds up his hands. “It’s always better to use protection.”
One of the cowboys lets out a bark of laughter.
Randolph may have propositioned me, but I can’t imagine him ever being outright indecent like this.
He’d never be playful either. But that’s neither here nor there.
I did make some dirty jokes of my own with Colton, to be fair. What can I say? I like to give as good as I get.
Really, why not be honest? I held it together so well for my interview at Prestige. I was well-mannered, well-prepared, well-versed in the firm’s history and mission. I kept my feelings in check and did everything perfectly, but I still didn’t get the job.
So I guess part of me had a “fuck it” moment when confronted with Colton’s shitty attitude. This is a job I did get. Even if I didn’t, I’m learning that dotting all your i’s and crossing all your t’s just might be a gigantic waste of time.
I can show up without having to be perfect. I can show up as I am and still knock this assignment out of the park.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself. I have no idea if Colton would be able to actually get me fired. Dale seems to really like me, and he’s clearly the one who calls the shots on Wallace Ranch.
Speaking of. I definitely need to come up with a new name for the property, because I’d bet my bottom dollar that this isn’t the only “Wallace Ranch” in Texas.
The new name needs to be something unique and fresh, but it also needs to be a callback to the family name and their history.
I’m ready to do some digging.
“You only need protection if you’re getting some action,” I reply breezily, tapping my pen against my notebook. “Considering how grumpy you are, Colton, I’m pretty sure you haven’t had an opportunity to use those gloves all that much.”
Now two cowboys—well, one cowboy and one cowgirl—are laughing.
“Who’s she?” one of them asks. “I’m Ava, by the way. I think we’re gonna be friends.”
The other adds, “Can we keep her? I’m Mack. I’d come shake your hand, but I am literally covered in shit, so…”
I wave to them. “Nice to meet y’all.”
Colton put out his cigar in the car, but it’s still clamped between his teeth. I watch him chew on it as he stares me down. More like squints at me, his gaze shimmering with annoyance.
“You think I don’t get action?” He chuckles. “How about you do some observin’, Dallas, and then let me know what you think, yeah?”
“I was asking about the chaps.” I nod to his legs. “I imagine those protect your legs?”
He tilts his head, making the sinews in his neck pop against his tanned skin. “Look at you, already learning.”
“But why do your legs need to be protected?”
“Observe, Dallas. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
He turns around so that his back is facing me. Then he bends down, literally showing me his ass as he lifts a bale of hay off the floor and starts walking away from me.
Colton is doing this on purpose. Doesn’t he know he already got a rise out of me with the chaps and the gloves?
Maybe that’s why he’s giving me a front row seat to the perfectly delectable, perfectly juicy shape of his thick, well-muscled ass.
I roll my eyes when I notice there’s a round canister tucked into his back left pocket.
All the guys I went to college with were obsessed with chewing tobacco.
It’s a disgusting habit—the smell, the spitting, the black debris it leaves behind on everyone’s teeth—but I’m not at all surprised Marlboro Man here sticks a wad of dip in his lip on the regular.
Gross.
Only it’s not gross when he drops the bale to finally greet his employees.
He shakes each and every one of his employees’ hands.
He even says a gruff “Mornin’” to a few of them, doling out instructions in a way that’s authoritative but also…
gentle somehow? There’s a worn-in quality to his style of leadership, like he’s been doing this since, well, forever.
Colton is a prick to me. But he might actually be a good boss to these people.
“Bryce, Tanner, y’all put out some hay bags in the paddocks.
Ava and Beck and I will turn out the horses in a bit here.
Then we gotta get this place in tip-top shape.
Remember that buyer’s coming in from Kansas City around noon, so I’d greatly appreciate it if y’all could do what you do best and make everything shine.
Ava, meet you at the arena at noon to talk about that race? ”
Ava nods. “You think he’s gonna take Starlight too? She’s fast.”
“That’s the hope. We’ll let you work your magic.”
A voice thunders from behind me. “But I’m the one with the magic hands, right?”
Glancing over my shoulder, I see another cowboy approaching. He’s also dressed in a hat, gloves, and chaps—the whole cowboy kit and caboodle.
My stomach dips at the familiar handsomeness of his face. He looks startlingly like Colton, with thick, dark hair, heavy scruff, and a sharp jawline. Only difference is this cowboy’s eyes are hazel, more brown than green.
Is there such a thing as too many hot cowboys on one ranch?
I feel like I’m on an episode of some weird dating show where the contestants are all cowboys and they’re all wildly, unbelievably attractive.
He smiles when he sees me.
“I’m here to rescue you from my brother.” He takes off a glove and holds out his hand. Like Colton, he’s a head taller than me and twice as broad. “Beck Wallace, Colt’s better-looking younger brother.”
My smile is involuntary. Beck’s energy couldn’t be more different from Colton’s. He’s warm. Genuine.
Well, I guess Colton is genuine too. A genuine dickhead with an ego the size of this state and not one but two disgusting tobacco habits.
I take his hand and shake it. “Lainey Brown. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beck. You’re the restaurateur, right?”
Another tidbit Dale shared with me on our introductory call: Beck was part of the investment group that recently opened Hartsville’s very first farm-to-table restaurant, the Homestead Hen.
Colton must be the black sheep of the family. Did something happen with his wife? What about his kid? I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that he’s a walking, talking rain cloud.
Beck’s smiling ear to ear now as he pats his stomach. “I like to eat, yeah. I see Dad’s been bending your ear.”
“He just loves bragging about y’all. It’s super cute.”
We drop hands, and Beck shoves his back into his glove. “When Billie told me Dad sent you off with that one”—he nods at Colton—“I knew a rescue mission was in order. I’m happy to show you around today if you’d like.”
“Dude, stop.” Colton is hauling more hay, his shirt stretching taut over his shoulder blades as he lifts another bale. “You work in the stables every damn day.”
“Just because I was going to be here already doesn’t mean I can’t also help out a damsel in distress.” Beck’s eyes twinkle as he looks at me.
Colton scoffs. “She’s no damsel.”
“And the only distress I experienced was after inhaling all that terrible cigar smoke on the ride over here,” I add.
Beck laughs. “It’s awful, ain’t it?”
“You.” Colton points at his brother as he walks back down the aisle after he did whatever he needed to do with all that hay. I notice he’s getting a little sweaty, his shirt sticking to his chest and stomach. “Mucking duty. Now.”
“Aw, man—”
“You keep complainin’, and you’ll be shoveling shit for the rest of the day.”
But Beck only smiles. He tilts his head toward the stalls that are emptying out as the ranch hands lead the horses outside. “Here, I’ll show you how things work around here. Dad said you wanted to do some hands-on research?”
“Beck.” Colton sounds like his father now—certain, slightly aggrieved. “I don’t need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself, right?”
His brother chuckles and meets my eyes. “Someone’s a little territorial today.”
“Dude.” Colton stares down his brother, hands on his hips. “Quit while you’re ahead, yeah?”
Waving him away, Beck starts walking down the aisle. “Lainey, just ignore him. His mood usually improves after lunch. Usually. Well, sometimes. Not often. But sometimes.”
The last thing I see is Colton’s head falling back and his throat bobbing on a swallow before I scurry after Beck.
A scent assaults my nostrils. It’s earthy, but not in a good way.
Manure. Colton wasn’t joking about shoveling shit, I guess.
“Sorry about him.” Beck keeps his voice low. “I promise he’s a good guy. He’s not nice—”
“I’ve discovered as much,” I say with a mirthless scoff.
“But he is honest. I keep telling him that everyone deserves a second chance…” Beck shrugs before he grabs what appears to be a pitchfork and a shovel. “Anyway. You have any questions before we get started?”
So many. Mostly about your brother.
But I’m a professional, damn it, and I’m here to do a job. So I set down my notepad and pen on a nearby post and hold out my arms. “How can I help?”