Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Warrick
P unching the lumpy pillow on the even lumpier couch, I huffed and turned on my back, trying—and failing—to find a comfortable position to go to sleep. “I should have demanded my bed.”
I could blame the couch all I wanted, but I damn well knew it wasn’t the reason I wasn’t asleep.
Zara.
After a long day of meetings with the mayor about the dormant ranch lands that I planned to lease to the town to make a park and hiking trail, I had not expected to find a pretty woman there. Forgive me for making assumptions.
Speaking of pretty….
My unexpected housemate was pretty, even while spitting fire from every pore of her body.
Dark, winged eyebrows, large almond eyes, button nose, and killer bone structure.
The way she’d crossed her arms under her breasts, that blue silk slip of nothing that was not hiding a damn thing, might have distracted me for a minute or two. Her hair was wild and tumbled, and she was…well. She was something to look at.
Zara.
She struck me as a stubborn soul, and on any other day, I would admire such tenacity…if only I weren't just as hardheaded.
Forcing my mind away from my soon-to-be assistant, I thought about the problems from the meeting with the mayor. I’d been floating ideas about the Processing Plant to the town council for years, and judging by the dozens of times the idea had been booted back to me, it was as likely to happen this year as much as my growing my herd from 100 to of 200 steers overnight.
For the past four years, the butchery and processing plant I’d proposed for the town had been sent to the Town Council, escalated to the mayor’s office, and sent off to the County…only to get kicked back, forcing the process to start again…and again…and again. Every year, something more was added to the petition, or something was added that did not need to be there.
If I were a betting man, I would gamble that someone in the County is sabotaging it. This must work, or everything I have put in for years on those hills would be for nothing . The future of my entire family is riding on this ranch.
Turning again, I winced at the lump pushing into my back. “I have to tell Laura to turn this sorry excuse for a couch into firewood.”
Coming to town always tore me apart. I was a part of this place, yet not one of them. The town's amenities were great, but I could not fully enjoy them as my mind was always on the ranch. What if something went wrong on the ranch, and I wasn’t there to stop it? What if something collapsed, a steer died, or a machine blew up?
Concrete jungles were not my thing. I didn’t like the smell of fuel exhaust, the glint off glass and steel…there was nothing a town offered me…well, not anymore. Not since the accident that ended my rodeo riding days.
Sleep wasn’t coming.
With a grunt, I sat up and rubbed my face.
Moving from the couch, I yanked the satchel from the corner where I had placed it and took out the folders inside. Going to the kitchen, I switched the lamp on and started working on the organization for the upcoming annual Silver Ridge rodeo.
My eyes flickered to the door where Zara slept.
Well, I assumed she was sleeping.
She didn’t like me, and it was my fault for thinking she was a call girl. Would she forgive me for it or not? I didn’t think she would.
Maybe if I apologized? Would that get me anywhere?
Probably not.
With one eye on the clock and another on the papers, I tried to focus. I was getting a pretty penny for being a consultant for the town’s rodeo, but it didn’t stop me from not liking it. I wasn’t bitter about losing my rodeo life—I was numb.
If I thought about it, I could feel the moment I’d been launched off the back of that beasty bull and landed on my leg wrong, almost snapping it in half. The pain…
I thought of the X-rays, the one showing my knee socket shattered to splinters, ghostly fragments of bone floating like wreckage from a sinking ship. And then there was the other X-Ray a week later, the one with the imperfectly reconstructed joint, the pins and screws, bold against the bone. The injury that had ended my lucrative bull riding career.
When the doctor had said I’d torn it to shit, he hadn’t been joking.
Reflexively, I reached down to touch my femur and felt the iron rods inside it.
“It was all for the best anyway,” I muttered, shuffling the papers. “I was on the verge of retiring anyway.”
I liked lying to myself; it made it easier.
As for this problem with Zara, I had to sort out this temporary living arrangement as soon as possible. I was not one to get too familiar with my employees—I didn’t get familiar with anyone at all.
I’d intended to meet Zara at the ranch, but now that she was here, I had to take her over the rodeo set-up, too. I needed to organize the rounds and put the riders in groups according to their history and experience.
“I guess I can arrange it like Pbr teams, the teams going head-to-head, 5-on-5 games against a different opponent each day….” I tapped the pen on my temple. “I’ll have to scale it down for the days and the opponents, though.”
Twelve riders meant a four-day festival, meant four per night, and, on the last, the winning round.
After reading over the bios, I put the riders into their teams without having to worry about the judges. They were already lined up.
Then, there were the live entertainment, bands, food sellers, and safety regulations to consider. We had to get their permits, food lists, and prices and ensure the city got its tax cut.
Sagging into my seat, I groaned. “Why the fuck did I agree to this?”
Ten thousand dollars—that was why.
It was a pretty penny to push paper around, and it would inject some well-needed cash into the ranch. All I needed to do was set things in place, collect my check, and return to the ranch with my bulls, my men, and my big ol' slobbery Newfoundland, Bagel.
“Coffee, I need coffee,” I sighed, pushing away from the table to go to the kitchenette. With the kettle on, I searched for the packets and dumped them in a cup, then rummaged for milk and sugar in the fridge.
“You’re up early.”
I rammed my head into the top of the fridge. Pained, I pulled away. “What?”
Zara pointed to a window. “It’s morning.”
Jarred, I looked to the window and damned if the weak rays of sunlight were not coming in through the panes. How long had I been awake?
“Did you get any sleep?” she asked, nodding to the couch.
“No,” I grunted while the kettle began to whistle. “That thing is prehistoric rock, and Laura needs to throw that pile of springs and lump into the trash heap.” Nodding to the table, I said, “Since you’re here, your job starts today. Trial by fire.”
Her lips were pressed tight. “What do you mean?”
“We need to head to the fairgrounds and set up with the organizers,” I nodded to the papers on my desk.
“The fair?” She gaped. “But I thought I was to work on the ranch, n-not the?—”
“You’re my PA, right?” I tasted the coffee and grimaced at how bitter it was. I like my coffee black but not bitter. “Your job goes where I go, and we’re going to the fair today. And I have to sort out this room situation.”
“Thank you,” Zara replied, “Do we have more coffee?”
I gestured to the cupboard, “Knock yourself out.”
The tension in the room was so stiff a sledgehammer couldn’t budge it. As I sipped my cut-rate coffee, I focused on the papers. A whiff of vanilla—and was that lily?—lingered in the air after she took the cup to the room.
After rinsing the cup, I slid my boots on, shoved my arms into my jacket, headed out, and decided to find Laura and fix this room mishap. The mist was still lingering on the ground as I trudged up to the main office, birds twittering away in the treetops.
Getting to the blue-painted door, I knocked and waited for Laura to answer. When she did, I barely got the greeting out before I said, “I need you to change Ms. Harrington’s room now, please.”
“Why?”
“Because she is housed with me,” I said, tone grating. “And I made a big mistake when walking into the room.”
While fishing her books out, Laura asked, “What happened?”
“I’d rather not say,” I huffed. I would swallow a cactus before I admitted that I had mistaken the poor girl for a hooker. “Suffice it to say, I need to find separate quarters for her.”
She began to look over the books while I began to plan my day at the fairgrounds, who I needed to talk to and complete the prelim arrangements. Then, get a good cup of coffee so I could start the next seven days right. After that, I needed to call Frankie and check on how the birthing was going on?—
“Oh dear, oh dear,” Laura’s mumble snapped my attention back to her, and before she spoke, I felt dread sink an ice cube the size of Antarctica into my gut.
“What?”
Her face fell with regret. “Because of the influx for the festival, all of our rooms are filled. There are no more rooms.”
“No…more…rooms,” I echoed the words hollowly. “Are you sure? Maybe someone has canceled, or maybe you overlooked someone? Is there anything? Anything at all?”
Laura shook her head. “I am so sorry, Warrick. This was my mistake, but sadly I can’t correct it…not until the fair ends or someone bows out.”
The reality that I was to be stuck with Zara for seven days made my blood run cold. Swallowing, I considered what to do next. “Can you at least get a single bed in, please? That couch is harder and lumpier than…I don’t know what to liken it to. It’s probably better off as firewood.”
She laughed guiltily. “I’ll get Robbie to get one of those fold-out beds from the attic and send it over to you by this evening. I assume you will be out today?”
“We both will be,” I added. The disappointment at not remedying the living situation curdled in my gut. “I suppose I’ll have to make the best of it.”
With that settled, I headed back to the cottage, unsure of what to do or say when I got inside. Stepping in, I found Zara pouring another cup, but she was dressed in a polo and dark jeans that could work on the field or in an office.
“Bad news,” I said, tugging the bomber jacket off, “There are no vacant rooms, so we’re going to have to tough it out.”
“Together.”
“Yes.”
“For a week.”
“Yes.”
“I see,” she nodded. “What do you need me to do today?”
Why was I so suddenly suspicious of this easy compliance?
“We need to get in, assess the situation, shake a few hands, get out. Hopefully, the rest of my job will be via email,” I replied.
“Aren’t you a rancher?” she asked, “Why are you organizing a rodeo?”
“Are you familiar with the quid-pro-quo?” I asked.
“I am,” she replied stiffly. “Forgive me for being crass, but whose back are you scratching?”
“The mayor’s,” I replied, while eyeing the bathroom. “Excuse me, I need to shower.”
Something was not right. Whereas the tension from last night had cracked and popped, now the air felt strained, like a tight rubber band just waiting to snap.
“If this is how the day is going to be, God help me for the rest of the week,” I muttered while retrieving my bath items and clothes from the bedroom’s closet. “I may need to get another bottle of migraine pills…”
Glasses.
She wears glasses.
Behind the big frames, I saw her overawed expression the moment we stepped into the fairgrounds, a seven-acre field. Converted from an empty field, a wall of food stalls was being constructed at the far end, and a shed of tables and chairs was nearby. Her mouth dropped when she saw the men set up the bull riding machine and inflate the rubber ring.
On the other side, little pigs, goats, and lambs were being ushered into the petting pen, but the main event was the temporary set-up for the bucking bronco block, and the bleachers for spectators were being nailed up.
She edged closer to the pen, a hand stretching to touch a goat.
“She’ll bite,” I said.
Her hand snatched back, and her gaze was accusatory. “How do you know that?”
“Her name is Mad Matilda for a reason,” I told her. “Missus Applewhite always entered her into the petting zoo knowing full well how temperamental she is.”
“Why is that?” Zara asked.
“She’s a town favorite,” I shrugged. “But we’re not here to pet the animals. We are here to talk to the food sellers, confirm their licenses, check who won't be attending, and then move on to talk to the rodeo contenders. We have a long way ahead of us. Please do not make my life any harder.”
“Coming from a man who thought I was a hooker,” I heard her mumble.
I stopped, internally groaning. “I am sorry about that. I made a mistake and I regret it. Are you going to crucify me with an unfortunate error for all the time we will be together?”
She brushed a stray lock that had broken itself free from her tightly wound bun behind her ear, then pushed her glasses up her nose. I imagined twisting the silky-looking lock around my finger—then jerked my head away.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Shifting my weight uncomfortably, I reminded myself—for the hundredth and tenth time—that I needed to stop this line of thinking and get a grip.
She pushed her glasses up her nose again. A nervous tell, but I knew she wouldn’t admit it.
Well, that makes two of us.
A herd of wild buffalo could never drag that admission from me, even though I was overcome with the urge to make her see the better parts of me.
It was only unfortunate that this damned one-sided attraction had lodged itself in the middle of my gut and wouldn’t leave.
I did not think my attraction to her was because I’d gone so long without any kind of intimacy, although that wasn’t helping. I almost wished I had a girlfriend—it would provide a buffer. No, it was because something in Zara stirred something inside me—it sparked a fire that I’d let slumber for years.
“Get your notebook out,” I told her. “We need to start now.”
She did so, and the painful realization that she had not acknowledged my apology or accepted it made the air between us that much tighter.
Turning to the stalls, I heard her say, “I accept your apology.”
Tipping the Stetson back, I pivoted, “Sorry? What did you say?”
“I accept your apology,” Zara replied, swallowing. “And I am sorry for making you feel like a sexist pig,” she paused. “Wait…you’re not one…are you?”
“No,” I said, a measure of relief washing through me. “I’ve been told I am a surly bosshole, though,” I threw over my shoulder as I headed to the line of tents, an Artisanal Sausage vendor, a name that had gotten him grief all his life. At five foot nothing and broad like a brick shithouse, he’d put his name and stature to work.
“Billy,” I called over, lifting a hand.
He looked up from the hand grinder. “Warrick, good to see ya. It’s been what? A couple months since you came down from that ranch o’ yours. Can I interest you in a sample of my newest creation, Caribbean spiced veal sausage?”
“Perhaps later,” I said as Zara came to my side. “This is Zara Harrington, my new assistant.”
Billy squinted. “Your new assistant? Are you sure? She’s too pretty to be a PA. Darlin’, is this man holding you against your will? Blink twice, and I’ll stuff him with so many bratwursts, he won’t be able to move.”
She giggled. “That’s very chivalrous of you, but no, I’m okay. Thanks for offering, though.”
“We’re here on behalf of the mayor,” I said. “We just need to get the final roundup for who will be offering services at the fair in a couple of days so we won't get in trouble when taxes roll around.”
“Oh,” Billy shook his head. “Well, what do you need?”
After I outlined what I needed from him, including his work hours, assistants, produce, and such, I had twenty variations of that same conversation with other vendors, and before I knew it, three hours had passed with me on my feet. A twinge in my thigh from the old injury warned me that if I didn’t take it easy soon, there would be hell to pay, but I pushed on.
By the time we were done making the rounds, and I walked—almost damned near limped—back to my truck, I took note of Zara’s telling silence. Hauling myself into the driver’s seat, I heard when she closed the passenger door.
“This is a lot of notes,” she said, shuffling through the papers on her lap. “It might take me all night to get this into a spreadsheet.”
“You’ve got a couple days,” I said while jamming the key into the ignition. “Don’t stress about all of it tonight.”
We were halfway down the main road when she quietly asked, “What happened to your leg?”
The very same question I’d hoped she wouldn’t ask.
“Old bull riding injury,” I said as I turned off the lane, heading to Millie’s Diner. “Six years ago. Had a bad ride from the get-go on the spinner. I don’t know what kind of mind frame I was in when I got on that bronc, but I had to be stressed and distracted because my balance and concentration were off.”
“Fucker tossed me over the horns, and I landed badly. Broke my knee and femur in two compound fractures. Took me a year to recover; by then, going back was out of the question. It was my life’s work, and I could never go back.”
She mumbled something under her breath. I didn’t know what exactly she’d said, but I thought I had heard her say, “Tell me about it.”
I shot her a look as she fixed her glasses and stared studiously down at the papers in her lap. What was that about?