Travis

If there is anything I missed least about the ranch, it was mucking stalls. And yet here I am, using the rake to spread fresh bedding into the stall I just finished cleaning.

My early morning trip to town had been both productive and informative. It seems some people, at least, are in a forgiving mood. Others apparently weren’t, if the four-foot keying the driver side of my car had taken while I was in the vet’s office was anything to go by. As if it wasn't enough the veterinarian wanted nothing to do with the Hawk MC, now I would have an expensive insurance claim as well. The gouge is so deep in places that the fiberglass will need patching before the paint can be retouched. No need to wonder who had been at the heart of that, even if not directly involved.

I've been back less than 24 hours and already I have more disturbing questions than anyone seems inclined to answer. Maybe coming back was a mistake after all. I saw no emergency on the ranch to warrant bringing me home. Of course, that didn't mean there was none. Grant is just like our father when it comes to talking. They both got around to it in their own time and pushing only made them close down. Hell, with as slow to broach the subject as my family was being, I'd probably figure it out on my own first.

With a resigned sigh, I return my attention back to the stable. The ranch is a little more rundown than I expected. It appears the major necessities were being handled but the small stuff seems to be waiting. Some of the simplest projects are sitting so far back on the back burner, they were in danger of falling off the stove completely.

It feels a bit like living from crisis to crisis, with no time or cash flow or anything but the next problem. As far as any extras went, there didn't seem to be any, not even the luxury of casual labor to help with menial chores. I thrust the rake against the wall and kick some errant straw. When did things get so bad for the ranch that Grant couldn't afford a couple of minimum-wage high school kids to help out part-time?

Loud snorting sounds from the next stall told me I would have to turn the occupant into the padlock. I grabbed a lead from the hook outside the stall. The last thing I plan to do was spend the rest of the day chasing an ornery horse. No sooner than I touch the door than hooves started cluttering against the wood.

“I don't intimidate so easily, Pal,” I said in a calming voice. I flip up the latch and tug. A hairy mass, the size of a semi, barrels towards me. 

“Shit!” I leap backwards to avoid the snapping teeth and slam the door shut, a bare second to spare before one angry hoof connects.

My heart jackhammers, complementing the rhythm of the kicks coming from the other side of the stall door. What the hell was that demon of a red roan colt doing in the McGee stable? As I suck in air trying to catch my breath I consider the most obvious implication of finding the horse. My brother knows the woman behind the bluebell colored eyes. That my brother might have any sort of attachment to those eyes, I refuse to consider.

Fate owes me one.

“Seems you lost your touch with horses there, Bro.” I spin around. Grant leans indolently in the doorway.

“Horses? No.” I shake my head. “I can still handle a horse. That?” I jerk a thumb at the stall behind me, “is not a horse. That is a demonic replica of a horse.”

Grant pushes off the doorjamb and saunters towards me. Inside the stall, agitated snorts of the big roan continue, but the kicking has stopped.

“Cloud? This guy’s a sweetheart. You just gotta speak his language.” He holds up an apple.

“You mean you have to bribe him,” I say flatly. Grant smiles and holds out his free hand for the lead rein. I stand well back when he eases open the stall door and steps inside, apple first. When the horse takes the apple, he clips the lead to the halter.

“Sucker.” I mock the big horse. “Trading your freedom for an apple. You should've held out for two.”

Cloud's eyes roll suspiciously as he passes, but the spirited colt nonetheless goes easily with Grant.

I follow keeping a cautious eye on the colt as he prances into the paddock. Leaning both arms on the top rail of the fence, Grant comes to stand next to me and together we watch the horse careen around the enclosure. 

“What's the horse like that doing in your stable?”

A troubled expression creeps over Grant's face. “He's not ours. He's a border.”

I choose my next words with care. “Because you're doing a favor for friend?”

“For a friend, yes.” He speaks slowly, apparently considering his words with equal care. “But it's strictly a business arrangement.” His direct look is a plea for understanding. “We have five other borders and room for six more. It's part of the business now.”

“The Hawk MC runs cattle.” I never take my eyes off the colt, bucking and kicking his way from one side of the paddock to the other.

Grant stiffens but remains silent. When I swing my gaze away from the colt we lock eyes and Grant speaks without emotion. “Price of beef’s down, not likely to go up anytime soon. Cattle don't pay all the bills these days. The borders fill in the gaps.” 

“It's a good idea,” I acknowledge. “What does the old man say?” 

Grants always ready grin flashes again. “That the Hawk MC runs cattle.” 

My bark of laughter startles the colt, who expresses his displeasure with flattened ears and sharp teeth. 

“By the way, your delivery arrived earlier,” says Grant. “The lumber is stacked by the barn.” 

I shrug and look away. “I took care of a few needs. Some of the wood on the back barn is rotten, needs seeing to. I figure I'll make myself useful.” I swing my gaze back to meet my brothers. “I found out we apparently don't use Dr. Jones anymore when I tried to order cattle vaccines.”

Grant lowers his eyes, staring at the ground. He kicks at a pebble with a well-worn boot. “We use the services of Dr. Beck up in Jackson.” 

“Jackson?” I was genuinely surprised. “Why so far away?”

Grant lifts a shoulder. “He is the closest vet who has no ties with Robert McKay.”

Robert McKay.

The name turns my stomach as I struggle to recall what connection the McKay family has with Dr. Jones, frowning when I come up blank. 

“Jones Junior married some cousin of McKay's,” supplies Grant. “Anyway, Beck's good. Really good. He stopped an outbreak of what we thought was scours last spring before we lost too many calves.”

What? With a jerk, I pull my head out of my musing and focus on my brother. “We had scours?” Left untreated the dehydrating illness could wipe out an entire year worth of calves in a heartbeat. 

Grant kicks at the pebble again this time connecting and sending the stone flying across the drive. “Yeah, well. Turns out it wasn't really scours. There was some kind of toxin on the grass in the south pasture. The cows were handling it okay but the calves were sensitive.”

“What kind of toxin?” 

“Never determined conclusively. Spring rains washed it away.”

A sense of apprehension churns in my gut. “We ever have problems with that pasture before?” 

“Nope.” he shakes his head. “State tested the soil and found nothing, but we haven't used the pasture since.” He shrugs. “I prefer to keep things a little closer to home.”

It didn't make sense. How would a short-lived toxin make it to one of our distant pastures? Before I could press the matter, Grants cell phone chirps. Judging from the grin on his face, the call was from someone of the feminine persuasion. Someone important. Pushing off the fence, I head back to my chores. I make it to the barn door when Grant yells for me.

“Hey, Trav!”

I pause and shoot a glance over my shoulder. 

Sunlight glints off Grant's cell phone, still pressed against his ear. He flashes a grin. “It's good having you home.”

With one finger, I push my hat toward the back of my head and survey my brother, the rancher. “Thanks. Feels good to be here.” 

But I don't know if it feels right.

As I work, I give some thought to my other life. It wouldn't be hard to leave it behind, except for her. My search has been a priority for so long it has become a part of me. Maybe it's time to let her go, take my life back. How long was long enough to look for someone who obviously didn't want to be found? I'm pretty sure I passed that mark a long time ago.

With the last of the stalls mucked, my aching muscles demand a hot shower. Grant is going to give me grief about my stamina for ranch work if I don't get my act together. Hoping to avoid my brother, I tramp along the side of the stable, stopping short when a feminine laugh from the direction of the main house draws my attention.

A rusty green pickup is parked on the circular drive in front of the house. Propped against the driver side door, with one foot bent backward to rest on the fender, stands Miss Bluebell eyes herself. Grant leans forward, saying something to her and causes her to throw back her head. Her melodic laugh echoes across the yard, spreading over me like honey and heating my blood to one notch above simmer. I linger in the shadow of the stable and watch.

She sashays away from the fender and mock punches Grant’s arm. Then she reaches for the door handle, but Grant says something else. With another laugh and a toss of her long chocolate colored hair, she climbs into the truck. After she tosses a careless wave in Grants direction, the trucks engine grumbles to life and leaves the ranch in the trail of dust.

No sign of a goodbye kiss.

Good.

I count to ten after her departure. Then affecting a relaxed attitude, I don't particularly feel, I saunter across the yard to the house. It's been a long time since my interest has been piqued by a woman. I didn't realize how lonely I’d become until just that moment. 

“Who was that?” I ask. Good move, just keep it casual.

Grants eyebrows inch higher and one corner of his mouth pulls upward. “That would be Christine, our best boarding customer. Cloud's owner.” 

“You two look friendly.”

“Yeah, I like her.” Grant settles his hat back further on his head. You want to meet her? She'll be at Valentine's tonight.” 

It takes me less than a second to accept invitation.

* * *

“Bar’s expanded some.” I scan the parking lot, jammed to overflowing. “Always this busy?”

“Usually on a Friday and Saturday.” Grant maneuvers his pickup into a tight space between another pickup and a compact car. “Does a fair business the rest of the week but Friday and Saturday, there’s a live band.”

The marquee in front of Valentine’s Bar and Grill advertised a band called Cowboy Blue featuring Ray Dan Beckley. The sound of lively music thumped across the parking lot.

The last time I had been to the bar, the music had consisted of a broken-down jukebox and good-natured arguments over which twenty-year-old songs to play.

I continue to scan the parking lot without realizing I am looking for anything. Suddenly a jolt of pleasure races through me at the sight of the beat-up green pickup near the side entrance. A smile of anticipation tugs at the corners of my mouth as I opened the door to go inside.

The color scheme is the same green, gold, and dark wood I remembered, but it had a richer feel. On walls that had once been Spartan, now hung photographs of the town, the plains, the mountains. The expansions had been well thought out, with good use of space. An annex had been added, with a pool table and a row of electronic arcade games. A stage occupied one end of the main barroom and a huge plasma screen TV dominated the wall behind the bar.

Make that expanded a lot.

My smile widens in approval when I note the ancient oak bar remains. I am momentarily warmed by some fine memories made at the far end of that scarred wood counter with the bar owner’s somewhat more experienced daughter. But when I spot dark hair and bluebell eyes on the woman tending that same bar, my blood zips from warm to hot.

Her hair is piled into a riotous dark mass on top of her head, looking deliciously bedroom-tousled. I mentally calculated how quickly I could take it down and run my fingers through it.

Whoa, where the heck did that come from? Slow down, man. Slow down. No races here.

With the exception of glossy red lipstick coating what looked like very kissable lips, she wasn’t wearing heavy makeup, giving her a classy natural look. The picture of a small town barmaid is completed by large gold hoops dangling from exquisitely shaped earlobes.

Then she glances up. Across thirty feet of crowded room, bluebell eyes met mine, holding me with a look that sets off an immediate conflagration in my blood. The indignation of the previous night has been replaced by sparks of interest. I acknowledge her with a slow nod, somehow managing to stay upright as I follow Grant. Her very presence is unsettling, in ways I wasn’t certain I’d ever understand.

As Grant cuts a path to the bar, the band stops playing and the lead singer begins speaking to the patrons. “What do you think? Can we get our Friday night favorite up here?”

An approving roar goes up from the crowd, loud enough to give a city rock concert venue a run for their money. The lone spotlight rolls over the crowd, which is chanting a name: “Christine! Christine! Christine!” Finally, the light settles on Bluebell, still standing behind the bar. She shakes her head and laughs good-naturedly, pointing to her watch and then back at the band.

The chanting continues, growing to a raucous level, and finally with a smile, Bluebell surrenders and hands the cleaning rag she’d been holding to a pretty young girl with sleek blond hair. Something about her called for a second look. “Whoa! Is that little Sissy Brown?”

Grant nods, an eager grin splitting his face. So, that’s how it rolled.

I whistle appreciatively. “She sure grew up well.” The poke in the ribs confirms my suspicions and goes a long way toward reinstating my status as big brother. I turn my attention back to the bartender as she saunters across the room.

The lead singer holds out his hand to give Christine a boost onto the stage just as the band shoots into a sultry opening with a heavy beat. Her foot, strapped into a gold sandal with an impossibly high heel, begins to tap and she closes her eyes, as though feeling out the rhythm. When she pops them open again and her hips swung into the beat, an explosion of lust swamps my system and my libido kicks itself into overdrive.

Her voice is throaty and full. Sexy as fire. Interested in spite of myself, I unashamedly run my eyes over the whole package, in the same way as probably every other man in the place and maybe a few of the women.

She wore a scrap of lavender silk, which slid over her body with the smallest of movements, taking a path his hands ached to travel. Faded blue jeans looked like they’d been painted on over nicely rounded hips and what details I couldn’t make out, my mind had no trouble filling in. An amber-colored gem in her bellybutton played peek-a-boo, whenever the lavender silk slipped upward. But when my gaze moved to her face, it was her eyes that held my fascination.

She sang in graphic detail about the destruction of a cheating lover’s four-wheel drive, miming each action as she sang the words. Her hips rocking in time, she glides across the stage, openly flirting with everyone close enough to make eye contact. Every man there is probably considering the prospects of getting lucky that night, and about half of them will want to run out and check on their rides when she finishes singing.

“Wow!” wheezes the overweight, balding gentleman seated next to me. One look at his excitement-reddened face had me recalling the steps for emergency treatment of a stroke from my memory. The guy was breathing so heavily he could barely speak. “Wouldn’t want to get caught cheating on that one.”

I mumble something I hoped sounds halfway coherent and sip the beer Sissy sets in front of me. Bluebell moves into another high-energy number with a heavier, even sexier beat. I didn’t think cheating on her would be a problem. At least I couldn’t imagine myself ever wanting to cheat on her, if we were together.

She leaves the stage and works the crowd, moving among them, touching arms and hands and faces, openly flirting with a few of the men as she sings about loving a good-time cowboy. The sexual energy in the room becomes even more tangible, yet somehow the atmosphere doesn’t flash over to raunchy.

Her eyes lock with mine and I lose the ability to think. Unexpectedly, she has become predator, and I, very much the prey in her sights. Without taking her eyes from mine, she approaches with a sultry cat-like walk, the embodiment of temptation. Stopping mere inches away, her body heat assaults me like a five-alarm blaze.

While she rocks in rhythm with the thumping music and sings about a devil in disguise, I force myself to remain completely still. Sending me a cheeky grin of appreciation, the sexy singer reaches up, plucks the hat off my head, and sets it on her own. My gaze is imprisoned by luscious red lips singing about being addicted to love. Breath backed up in my lungs when she walks two red-tipped fingers in tempo from my belly up to my throat. All sense of my surroundings become lost in the steamy regard of those bluebell-colored eyes.

She runs the tip of her tongue along her upper lip in slow motion. Then with a wink, she whirls around and presents her back to me while she flirts outrageously with Grant. Feeling needy, with a distinct sense of unfinished business, I content myself with watching the rhythmic sway of her behind. She’s so close I jam my hands in my pockets to restrain myself from doing anything to earn a boot of my sorry tail out into the parking lot.

I keep ravenous eyes glued to the sexy bartender-turned-singer when she gets back on stage, performing another number with the band’s lead singer. When they sing a slow duet about being alone and needing someone, my heart gives a tug. Before I can figure out exactly why the song is having such an effect on me, they move into another high-energy number. This time instead of working in the crowd, Bluebell plays off the band’s lead singer, but she gets the crowd involved with dancing and shining cell phones. She finishes amid a roar of good-natured hoots and cheers, a couple of men near the stage give her a hand down, and I find myself tempering unexpected jealousy.

But then she is on her way in my direction again, bluebell eyes holding me captive once more. Just watching her walk is seducing. Her face is flushed, probably with the exertion of her performance, but I recognize the bold glint in her eyes as purely sensual. The hungry flame first ignited on the road in the mountains kicks itself up several levels, and at the moment, I can’t think of any reason to bank that particular fire.