9
(Cara)
Half a burrito and far too much monkey bread later (delicious, sugary, meet my new love monkey bread), we’re back in the truck, slowly bumping our way out to a grazing pasture. Garrett is finishing the other half of my burrito and steering with one hand, slowing when we crest a small hill and see a large group of cows just beyond.
He stops the truck and shifts into park, studying the herd silently. And all of a sudden it feels like we’re doing something important, I just don’t know what the hell it is. For a while I try to figure it out by watching Garrett, attempting to track his sightline to see what he sees, but his gaze doesn’t stay put, never remaining in one spot long enough for me to catch up. Also, cows. I’m sure they aren’t all the same, but their unique qualities are lost on me. It’s a sea of brownish blobs out there. Maybe a nonstop voice-over from him is too much to ask, but I’m also not out here for some bucolic getaway.
“OK, come on, Garrett. Give me something here. Tell me what we’re doing.”
He pops the last bite of the burrito in his mouth and balls up the foil wrapper, dropping it in the map pocket on his trim panel. A half turn of his head in my direction and it’s as if my question pulled him out of a pleasant trance.
Good God, he’s dreamy. That’s the perfect word, too. “Dreamy.” Cute, plus hot, plus focused, plus still a little sleepy-eyed. Thus, dreamy. If I were here for a cute little rural retreat, he’d make the best tour guide ever.
“Where should I start?”
His question means I’m forced to stop dwelling on his dreaminess. Back to work, Cara.
“I don’t know, the beginning? As if it weren’t completely obvious, I’m a novice here. I have no idea how the milk gets in the carton or the steak gets on my plate. Tell me how Kenny does all of that.”
“Well, first off, Kenny doesn’t do that. This is a cow-calf operation. Those aren’t dairy cows, they’re beef cattle, but he doesn’t put your steak on the plate. Eventually, yeah, his cows probably end up there, but that’s not his game.”
I drag my bag off the floorboard and unzip it, pulling out a notebook and a pen. Garrett watches as I flip pages until I come to a clean sheet.
“You look very serious now. Where are your glasses? I think you should put those on.”
The little quirk of his brows when he mentions my glasses tells me he’s got a thing for them. As in a take them off while you shake your hair around and unbutton your top thing.
And for a beat, I consider doing it. Endeavoring on some spectacle where I’m the coy but contrived seductress and he’s my rapt audience. What is it about this guy? He’s dreamy, yes, but this is too much. I click the end of my pen and make as if I’m all business.
“I only use those when I’m doing a lot of reading. Focus, Garrett.”
He gives a little snort and turns back toward the herd.
“A cow-calf operation is pretty much exactly how it sounds. His business is breeding cows, then selling off the stock to other operations. You can think of these guys as the backbone of the beef industry.”
I scribble down a few of his words as he continues on.
“Kenny’s setup is AI.” I give him a look that asks for more. “Artificial insemination. Cows have a nine-month gestation period, and most guys around here run spring calving, so all the AI is timed to accommodate that. February through April is calving season, but just like humans, you don’t know exactly when they’re coming. It’s an all-day-all-night proposition until every calf is on the ground, monitoring for anything that goes wrong. Taking care of sick calves, helping along the cows that are having trouble, plus keeping up with all the usual feeding and watering. Add in a snowstorm like we had last night and that throws a wrench into things.”
I think back to last night’s heavy, wet snow, apparently quite typical for spring in Colorado, and I feel a little guilty now for enjoying the view outside my bedroom window, all snuggled up under a warm blanket and sipping a hot mug of tea, knowing now that Tanner and Kenny were out here in the middle of it, worrying about whether their calves would make it through the night. This morning, most of what was left behind has turned to water. No snow piles, only puddles of mud.
“Even though it didn’t drop below freezing, it was still cold enough that any brand-new babies born last night would have needed warming up. Sounds like Kenny lost a couple last night before they could get to them.”
Garrett drops his forearm to the steering wheel and points toward the left side of the herd. “See that gal over there? The one that’s off on her own, near the big aspen tree?”
I sit up straighter and try to track his gesture but can’t quite see what he’s talking about. Garrett pats the space next to him on the bench seat. I shimmy over until I’m near enough to see—and close enough to Garrett that our legs are nearly touching. His eyes drop for a split second, then the spread of his legs widens, his thigh pressing firmly to mine. The heat there is both real and imagined, so I consider all the reasons I should move my leg, but don’t.
“Her tail flicking around, the way she wants to be alone—those are good signs that she’s getting ready to deliver.” One of his fingers swirls in the air, pointing toward the cow’s hind end. “See that white thing hanging out?”
I force myself to focus on what he’s pointing out, even when my instincts say to look away.
“That’s the water bag. Probably see a couple of little hooves next, as long as everything goes well.”
Oh Jesus. Hooves. I take a deep breath.
“Do we go help her? Are we, like, her midwife?”
Garrett chuckles and pushes up a sleeve on his hoodie, checking his watch.
“Not unless we have to. Best to let her be. We’ll check in after a few hours and if she’s having trouble, we might have to pull it.”
“Pull it?”
Garrett gives the steering wheel an amused look I’m guessing is not intended for the steering wheel, since it’s an inanimate object and I’m the woman who just posed that last question with a mixture of horror and fascination.
“Just like it sounds. Pull the calf out.” He starts the truck and begins to back out of the pasture slowly. The cow in question pops her head up and locks her gaze our way, then gets up and moves to another spot farther away.
I send a silent prayer out for mama. And another for me.
Because this city girl isn’t ready for all that.
Another pasture, another herd of cows. While it goes without saying that I can’t tell the difference, Garrett explains that this group is all first-calf heifers, as in first-time moms. Given that, they’re kept separate from the other cows, graze on the best-quality pasture, and get a little extra attention—and a few bonus calories.
Garrett is ambling through the herd, carrying a tub filled with feed pellets. Evidently, these protein-packed bits are the bovine equivalent of a Twinkie to a pothead. Because the moment they figure out what he has, they come running—well, not running, as much as clomping and plodding. But with a slobbering, unwavering gait and a penetrating gleam in their big cow eyes. It’s hilarious and terrifying at the same time.
Garrett, however, isn’t the least bit scared, and is able to avoid losing a hand or a finger to the more overzealous gals of the group. I can see his mouth moving, but with all the mooing and the fact I’ve stayed back by the truck while he works, I can’t hear what he’s saying. Chances are it’s the cow translation of flirting. Because Garrett.
At the edge of the herd, he manages to turn my way and lifts the tub high in the air. “Cara! Bring me that other tub of pellets, will you? The girls are hungry.”
Oh, time to be helpful. Watch this city girl slay. I push off the dropped tailgate of his truck and haul forward the second pail sitting in the bed, but it’s heavier than expected, so I have to brace my hips and use both hands. Once I swing it down, I start Garrett’s way while avoiding the largest mud puddles. Garrett meets me halfway and immediately swoops in to take the pail. I turn around to head back to the truck, but I’m in the middle of the herd now, gazing out into a sea of bobbing cow heads. I try to stay cool and collected, even when I now have a close-up view to the size of their mouths and the bottom row of big, flat teeth working away inside those mouths—while knowing the only tool available for swatting or shooing is my scotch cap.
Speaking of swatting, my body goes rigid when I feel a nudge of something against my lower back. I can’t quite identify what’s at play here, but whatever it is starts to move southward.
Is that . . . ? No. Can’t be.
This gentle pressure, now squarely centered on the back pocket of my jeans, cannot be Garrett. He is not copping a feel. Not here, not now. Not absent of any attempt at seduction. Like, by way of dinner and a movie, some excuse to end up on the couch together when he drives me home, then using that to lean in for a kiss. Only after that would he go for the ass grab, right? He’s a raised-right country guy. Those rural roots alone must trend toward slower courtships.
And slow courtships would not involve descending his touch from my jean pockets to a place lower and more . . . between my legs.
Must. Set. Boundaries.
That’s what I need to do. Quickly. I don’t care if he does bring about lust-itis symptoms I can’t quite keep in check. This is not my speed—the fast-forward, skip-a-few-chapters, here’s-the-money-shot speed. I take a deep breath and turn, fully prepared to lock eyes with Garrett and spell out my boundaries. Clearly and firmly.
Except Garrett isn’t next to me. I spot him fifteen feet away, carrying on another one-sided conversation with the cows. Most important, his hands are occupied—one gripping the pail handle and the other scooping out pellets.
A snort emerges from behind me, followed by my mind freight-training through the essentials of what’s happening right now.
Garrett is way over there.
I’m in the middle of a herd of cows.
And something is touching me in a far-too-familiar way.
All this is followed by a not-so-subtle poke in the ass—by a cow that either really likes me or really doesn’t.
Followed by me screaming.
My screaming does two things: elicits a very wet-sounding grunt from my cow paramour and prompts Garrett to whip his head our direction. He freezes, all except for his jaw dropping open.
Another poke in the butt and I’m off, with only one objective in mind: to make it back to the truck so I can barricade myself inside. Whether cows lack opposable thumbs or not and locking the doors might be unnecessary, I don’t care.
I barely register the mud bogs in my path because my feet are working at a squirrelly Flintstones pace, so what happens next is pretty much inevitable. Because when I plop a foot down in what looks like another shallow puddle, I find it’s actually a gully. A swamp-sized bog. A quagmire of epic proportions. Large enough to obscure the rock lying in wait to turn my ankle and fling me face-first into a pond of mud.
The fall and the cold and the mud take my breath away. Wet dirt seeps between my splayed fingers, splashes onto my face, and begins to soak the front of my clothes. And it doesn’t smell as if it’s composed entirely of dirt. Other stuff is mixed up in here. Other, more odorous stuff.
Garrett appears, sweeping to a stop in front of me before crouching down.
Then he poses an obvious question. The inevitable, stupid, rhetorical question nearly anyone would feel compelled to ask in this situation. And he asks it with a look on his face like he’s dying to burst out laughing, but knows that wouldn’t be wise on his part, which makes the whole thing even worse.
“City. Whoa there. Are you OK?”
Point proven. The obvious answer to this obvious question would be to claim that I’m fine.
But I’m not.
My clothes are soaked through with sludge, my already tiny chest feels as if the impact may send me back into a training bra, and my face—where it isn’t covered in mud—is hot from humiliation.
I push myself up and onto my knees. After a deep, shuddering breath, I stand up, take two steps to the right, where drier ground lies, then give my form a once-over to assess the situation.
Verdict is in. The situation sucks.
“Cara, answer me. Are you OK?”
I flick my gaze over to him and pin it there, biting my tongue both literally and figuratively, hard enough that tears are welling in my eyes. Garrett’s face falls, all traces of his stifled laughter having temporarily dissipated. He puts his hands to my upper arms, grips them gently.
“Fuck. Don’t cry, OK? Don’t cry, don’t cry. Just nod so I know you aren’t hurt.”
Just nod. This fucking guy. Mr. Rational Instructions Guy. Dreamy or not, he’s within striking distance, and I’m pissed at everything.
I take another deep breath and lay it on him good. “No! Of course I’m not OK! I’m covered in mud and cow shit!” I jab a finger in the air toward him. “And you’re trying not to laugh, I know it. Just laugh; you know you want to.”
Then I stamp my foot. Because I’m mature like that. More mud sloshes and lands on the backs of my hands.
And that’s all it takes. Garrett starts to howl, laughing so hard he doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees—and he doesn’t even have the decency to hold back his cackling, just lets it all out for what feels like a good ten minutes. When he’s finally able to breathe and stand upright again, his still annoyingly pretty hazel eyes are watering with gleeful tears. He wipes them away with the heel of one hand.
Garrett cups my face with his hands. “You’re fucking adorable.”
“You’re not,” I huff.
He tugs his hoodie sleeves down over his hands and starts to wipe the mud off of my face.
“If it makes you feel better, you wouldn’t believe how jealous I was of that heifer. That was a bold move she pulled. Knew what she wanted and went for it. Not the girl-on-girl action I usually go for, but still.”
He grins, a few residual laughs escaping him, and I groan. Garrett scans the front of my body, then takes my hand, leading us to the truck. After rustling around in the back, he extracts a stack of clothing from under the driver seat. Garrett holds up a pair of jeans, swinging a look between me and the pants. He drapes them over his forearm, tosses a T-shirt and a hooded camo sweatshirt onto the pile, and extends it my way.
“Redneck shenanigans often involve mud. This means always being prepared with a change of clothes. Come on, we’ll find a place for you to change.”
A storage closet becomes a changing room back in the building where we met Kenny. I strip off my boots, jeans, and coat, kicking them into a pile in the corner. Garrett’s jeans are too big, but I make it work by cinching my belt to the last hole, then rolling up the bottom hems to keep them from dragging on the floor. The thermal shirt I had on under my jacket survived unscathed, so I don’t need the T-shirt Garrett provided, but I tug the sweatshirt on to make up for my now lack of a coat. And, when I do, the moment is a bit like when he put his jacket over my shoulders the first day we met. Since I’m alone, I give in and do exactly what I want to. I bunch up some of the material right under my nose and breathe in until I’ve had my fill.
Seriously, someone needs to bottle this.
After tossing my dirty clothes into a plastic bag, I step out of the closet and peek around for Garrett. When I hear his murmuring voice, I follow the sound.
“. . . that’s it, sweetheart. Such a good girl. Yes, there you go. . . .”
I find him in one of the makeshift stalls, sitting down in a pile of hay, legs outstretched and his back resting against the wall, with a baby calf nestled in his lap, her muzzle upturned to suckle from the bottle he has in one hand. A few more sweet nothings before he looks up and sees me.
“Well, look at you, City.” Garrett runs his tongue over his lips while scanning me from head to toe. “Who knew you’d look so good dressed like a country girl?”
It’s a good thing I’m not interested in tangling with another cow today. Because while the calf is adorable on her own, when Garrett’s eyes meet mine, doing that sleepy-sexy thing so well, I have to tuck my hands into the center pocket on the hoodie, just to keep from walking over there and using them to shoo that calf out of the way—all to make room for me.
By the time Garrett drops me off at the farmhouse, the sun is setting behind the mesas in the distance. I’m starving and beat, more than ready for a shower and a hot meal. After my costume change, I stood by while Kenny and Garrett pulled a calf and later worked some voodoo to help an abandoned calf secure a new adoptive mom. Unlike human adoptions, this involved sprinkling some sort of powder on the calf to entice a prospective cow mom. Which is nothing compared to the alternative, a technique that was described to me as taking the skin of a calf that didn’t make it, then draping it over the orphaned calf, effectively duping the cow into taking him on. Even so, they still sometimes have to tether the new adoptive mom cow’s leg so she won’t kick the calf when it tries to nurse.
And I thought my mom was difficult to please. Turns out she’s no competition for nature.
When Garrett follows me up to the front door, he plants one shoulder to the house siding as I unlock the deadbolt. If my brain weren’t so fuzzy from fatigue, I might figure out a way to invite him in without it sounding like I’m planning to return his clothes by stripping them off in front of him. Fortunately or not, I’m too tired to try.
Garrett lazily rests his head on the siding. “Did you at least get something worthwhile out of today? Aside from playing in the mud and the randy advances of that heifer?”
The key finally turns in the lock. “I did. I got some good notes and a better understanding of how the family dynamic works for these guys inside of their business. And Kenny said I could buy him breakfast this week, pick his brain some more. Thank you for taking me.”
Garrett nods and shoves his hands into his pockets, drops his gaze to his boots.
“I was thinking, there’s a young couple that’s farming a small section over near Delta—Corey and Brooke Winsor. I know they’ll be in the store this week to pick up some seed they ordered, and if you wanted, I could see about setting up a visit to their place next Monday. Might be nice for you to talk to some farmers. Different industry, different challenges. Either that, or we could go see Whitney and Cooper over at the orchard.”
He absentmindedly scratches his jaw with two fingers across a clean-shaven face, and I find myself wondering what he looks like after a few lazy days, whether his scruff grows in quickly or if it takes a bit.
I decide it takes a few days, but when it shows, it probably looks good. And feels good. Not too skritchy, but coarse enough to always remind you that he’s a guy—a guy’s guy who looks good, a little too good, in the low light glowing behind him and is a little too close for my hormones to deal with. He tips up one side of his mouth in an easy smile, no pressure or production about it, just his very good mouth suddenly becoming impossible to ignore.
All the arguments I might make if I were less tired elude me at the moment, hijacked by pure curiosity and trumped by my ongoing fascination with Garrett’s very good mouth. So I do the only thing I can think of.
I kiss him.