Page 35 of Space Cowgirl: Houston, All Systems Go
Tucker’s eyes get wide. “Sorry, ma’am. I was just wondering if you needed any help.”
I sigh, releasing the tension from my shoulders. Tucker fiddles with his hat, turning it in circles by the brim. He’s sweaty and dirty, which only seems to highlight the fact that he’s a cute guy. Young, of course. Too young. Doesn’t mean I can’t take a moment and indulge in my inner cowboy fantasy.
Not that my vagina needs any more cowboys to think about. My usual varieties of men—suits, geeks, military—seem to be dwindling. This sudden cowboy thing must be from Jackie and all her romance novels. Staying on a ranch, seeing men such as Tucker ride horses and herd cattle probably contributed as well. The scenery is simply affecting the direction of my libido. A certain high-minded West brother with a clean mouth and a chivalry complex doesn’t factor in at all.
Nope. The memory of Holt buttoning up his shirt, tucking the ends into fitted, worn jeans, pulling on his cowboy boots, doesn’t factor in the slightest.
Nor does the black Stetson, angled just so over Holt’s sun-kissed forehead.
Before I know it, the image of Holt half-dressed is stored in my pink paddle playlist file.Damn it.
“Ma’am?”
I blink myself back to the moment.
“Were you wanting to go to the birthing barn again and see the calf?” And though I’m sure petting Cookie will make this morning’s stalker texts fade to the back of my mind, it’s Tucker’s youthful, earnest face that reminds me of Holt’s request that I “not do my thing” around his men. All my supposed “flirting.” I do a little internal snort at that. No man tells me what not to do. Sexy Stetson or not.
Planting my hands on my waist, I cock out my hip. “As a matter of fact, thereissomething I’d like your help with, Tucker.” A slow smile spreads across my face. A smile that NASA wouldn’t dare let me use in PR photo shoots. It’s the smile I use when I’m out on the prowl. A smile that hasn’t once let me down.
Tucker swallows hard.
* * *
HOLT
I tossthe wire cutters and the extra bundle of barbed wire into one of the ranch’s work trucks and walk over to Angelo, who’s hobbled a ways down. I’m not needed here. Even the younger, newer ranch hands, with pristine work gloves and creased Levis, can dig post holes and wrap barbed wire. I’m just helping out in an effort to keep busy.
I have foremen and ranch hands that make this place run smoother than Tito’s vodka, but I needed something to take my mind off the fact that Miss Julie Starr is a permanent fixture in my life and home for the foreseeable future.
“Later, boss,” one of the hands yells at my back after I mount up and turn Angelo’s head toward home. I lift a hand in response before setting out.
I’m not sure I can say much about my accomplishments, no matter what Jules told that designer, but one thing I do take pride in is my men. They call me boss, but don’t hold back on busting my chops. They also show up on time with a smile and work uncomplaining all day. Probably because unlike most ranches, I pay mine a decent, livable wage.
My grandfather always said spend the money on your men and the men will make you money. And dang if he hadn’t been right. He was right about most things, really.
Too bad his son hadn’t paid closer attention.
The rhythm of Angelo’s hooves lulls me deeper into the past.
Flynn and Rose don’t remember much, but Grandpa used to say that when my father was younger, he’d stay out in the barn all night, tweaking motors, rebuilding machines. Jonathan Wayne West loved to take things apart and figure out how they worked. Then make them work better.
That’s who Flynn inherited his skills from. Lord knows I didn’t. I have a mechanic on payroll.
But according to Grandpa, my father’s curiosity and need to understand how things work didn’t just stop with engines. The flirtatious wink and quick smile of Celia Luanne Bellerose had drawn my father in like water in a mill.
We still don’t know much about where our mother came from, and honestly, no one’s been too fussed to figure it out. Grandpa said that one day she had simply shown up, an overnight fixture on the ranch.
And though my father had been curious about the world and its inner workings, including what made the sweet Southern beauty tick, he always knew himself to be part of the land. Celia was not.
From the day I was born until the day she died, if there was one thing people did know about Celia West, it was that she may have loved spending the oil money, but she didn’t want to be reminded of where it came from.
The money was why she married my father, though I’m not sure what made her stay. My dad never signed a prenup, and during all the fights I tried to shield Flynn and Rose from, our mother threatened to leave quite often.
Laughter drifts toward me on the small, afternoon breeze, helping me shake off the unwanted memories. I blink into the distant setting sun and see two silhouettes moving along the ranch’s fence line.
Nearing the front gate, two people on horseback trot along. One with crazy, curly hair I’d know anywhere.
* * *
