Page 80 of Bucked Hard

The cowboy cuts him off with a jerk of his head and stern words. “Lunch.Now. You. Go.”

“Yes, boss.” I don’t see the man go, but I hear his boots on the dirt as he moves.

A moment later, there’s the roar of an engine, and a rust-colored pickup eases out from the side of the barn, tossing up gravel as it heads down the worn track, swinging around a field of grass toward a beautiful white farmhouse.

“Well,” my dad pipes up with his newfound country cheerfulness, seemingly oblivious to the exchange that just took place. “How do we get it all on the trailer?”

When the cowboy turns, I nearly fall on my behind. I clutch tighter around my waist, trying like mad to keep the flipping of my insides to a minimum. But God help me, I’m losing that battle.

“We stack ’em.” That voice hits me again, and my mouth is dry but my headache is long gone.

Wind throws my hair into my face, and I puff and blow, trying to get it out of my mouth, refusing to release my arms as they’re all that’s holding me together. Even through the strands of hair, I realize I’ve never seen a more beautiful man, whether in person or on the pages of a magazine.

He’s huge. Enormous. I’m not sure the words have been invented to describe just how big he really is. Massive, yes. But oh, his face, cut from summer dreams and old Westerns. A dark shadow of a beard just accenting his square jaw. His brow is strong, with dark eyebrows that top eyes as blue as any Montana sky, but they are rimmed in black and laser focused on me. His shirt hangs open, top to bottom, showing off angles and lines that scream for me to reach out and touch, if only to make sure they are real. He feels older than he looks. I’d place him late twenties, but his eyes hint at a wisdom a few decades more.

“Great!” Dad exclaims, and his enthusiasm seems out of place as he moves toward the stack of hay bales, apparently ready to get his cowboy on.

I watch as he reaches into his back pocket and grabs his brand-new work gloves, but even as he’s pulling them on, I feel the cowboy’s eyes on me. He hasn’t shifted or moved. He’s just staring at me, and as much as I fight the urge, my eyes betray me, looking up right into his gaze.

“I’ll help,” I mutter, half dazed but aware of the enormity of the task. Even with my scrawny arms, I’m sure I can drag a bale to the trailer without too much embarrassment.

“Nope,” the cowboy snaps. “We got this.”

“Don’t think a woman can do the work?” I chirp back.

This backward country boy is going to find out quickly I’m not like the usual town girls. I have my master’s in accounting, and I’m going back as soon as I can to finish my PhD in statistics. But I can still do some heavy lifting when the need arises.

“Iknowwomen can do the work. But I also know that you’re paying me to load up the trailer, not to do it yourself. Now, as for your dad here, I’m going to show him how to stack the hay, ’cause he’ll need to know in future. But, most of all, I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you get all tangled up and sweaty in that beautiful dress of yours.”

I huff. I’m not sure if he’s being a condescending ass or just a straight up gentleman. I’m leaning toward the latter, and I’m certainly not keen to get up there lifting hay anytime soon, but for some reason, his smooth country talk and sex-dripping tone make me want to push back. I’ve come to understand some of the culture here. My new job at Rustler’s End Diner has taught me a lot in a short time.

“Fine. Youmenwork. I’ll take a walk.” I don’t so much want to walk as much as I want to get away from him.

“It’s not about being men, but it is about being a gentleman and knowing you are not dressed for stacking hay.”

With an eye roll, I step away, knowing—and simultaneously hating—the fact that I deliberately wore this dress when I knew it wasn’t appropriate for picking up a load of hay.

The thoughts he’s provoking inside my head would frighten fish, and I’m half sure they are playing for all to see above my head in some sort of exposed cartoon bubble. But there’s a pull in my chest I’ve never felt before, and I can’t deny it or make it go away. It’s a kind of heaviness, and it actually hurts a bit inside when I spin on my white Keds and march away down a thin dirt path running through a patch of grass toward a little pond. It’s in the opposite direction of the house, but it seems like it’s kind of a forgotten chunk of greenery, and it makes me wonder just how much land they have here.

“Don’t be gone too long.” The cowboy’s voice hits me in my stomach, forcing my eyes shut for a moment.

“Bossy,” I mutter to my feet. The breeze hitting my face whips hair into my mouth, and I pull it away.

“Nope. Not bossy,” I hear him say, and my heart speeds up. He must have ears like a cat. Then he adds, “Protective.”

That single last word sends heat from my cheeks to my chest.

And lower.

“Hey!” I kick out at the enormous, fat, black bird that’s chasing me. “Stop!”

I’m not even sure what it is. A turkey I’m guessing, but I didn’t realize they were so mean!

My stroll took me down the sandy rut through the grass. Then I took a right turn where it curved off. I could go straight toward the pond or around the barn where I couldn’t be seen toward some other fenced pens and outbuildings.

When I got closer to a framed-out section of fence, I looked over to see the gate to the pen swinging wide.

The next thing I knew, a bright flash of pain hit me in the back of my right calf, and now here I am, fighting off these enormous black dinosaur-birds with angry red chins who seem hell-bent on havingmefor a meal.

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