Page 22 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
“Well?” Tucker asks.
I sidestep to Angelo’s flank, using his size to hide while I adjust my hard-on. No way in hell I’m telling Tucker I’m limping because my dick is a jerk with poor timing. Tucker and I are close. But not that close.
I met Tucker twelve years ago when we were both angry, pissed-off kids looking for a distraction. I’d been twenty-two and trying to overhaul the ranch I inherited into something profitable. Flynn was lost in the world of the rich and useless, and Rose had been away at one of the elite all-girlsboarding schools that she was repeatedly kicked out of.
Tucker had been ten and angry at the world for giving him a dad who ran off and a mother so busy working to put food on the table she looked ten years older than her age and never had time to spend with her boy. We found each other at the Big Brother Big Sister foundation. I let him work out his anger on the ranch and he made me feel that I wasn’t quite as useless at giving brotherly guidance as I thought.
I glance up at Tucker to see he hasn’t moved from his position by the door, his hands tangled in some rope. He’s grown up a lot over the past ten years, probably more than I have. Knowing the stubborn bastard won’t get to work until his curiosity is satisfied, I relent.
“That was Julie Starr. She’s going to be staying here for…” Huh, I actually don’t know how long she’s staying. Hadn’t even thought to ask. Shoot. What if she leaves before I can apologize?
“Wait.” Tucker drops the rope he’d been coiling on his shoulder. “Julie Starr. As in, theastronaut? The one who was all over the news a month or so ago?”
I nod while brushing my hands over Angelo, willing us both to relax.
“The one who basically saved the Space Station,” Tucker continues.
I nod again before reaching for the saddle draped over one rail of the stall. With a grunt, I swing it up and over Angelo’s back. “That’s the one.”
He must have nothing to say to that, because Tucker finally stops talking and begins coiling rope again.
The quiet is nice. Just what I need to get my body parts calmed and thoughts in order.
So I don’t know what possesses me to open my mouth and say, “She’s here to help with the wedding.”
The rope drops again. “Wedding?” His eyes bug out. “Who the hell is getting married?”
Tucker’s exclamation has the stallion shifting his weight, specifically his right front hoof straight down onto my foot.
“Jesus,” I gasp, hobbling out of the stall, my foot throbbing.
“Dude.” Tucker’s eyebrows reach his hairline. “Sorry.”
When I try putting weight on my foot, it hollers back at me in pain. Unable to form words, I grunt at Tucker and wave him off as I slump down on a bale of hay.
“Uh, I’ll go finish saddling Angelo,” Tucker mumbles, shuffling over to the annoyed horse.
I lower my head and let out a long sigh.
The good news? My hard-on is one hundred percent gone. The bad? I’m still limping.
Seven
Angle of Attack
Jules
Holt’s hiding from me.
It may be because he feels like a jerk for what he said earlier, or it may be that he sincerely just doesn’t like me.
But I’m betting the former.
“Yo.”
Three ranch hands turn in my direction. They range in age from twenties to forties by the looks of it and are taking turns hefting ginormous bags of something or other into the back of a pickup truck.
I stop well out of their way. “Have you guys seen Holt around?”
