The Ranch Hand
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The Ranch Hand
Hannah Skye
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
The Ranch Hand
Copyright © 2014 by Hannah Skye
ISBN: 978-1-941692-15-8
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: August 2014
~ Dedication ~
To Jo and her horse
Chapter One
She found it hard not to stare at the cowboy.
Harlan Lee was a sight worthy of a double-take at any time of day, but Carol loved watching him best right as the sun went down. The sunset painted him in reds and purples as he drove the small herd of a hundred or so cattle to the pens. Snowbrook Ranch spread in the shadows of the Rockies, just below the foothills and on the eastern side of the great mountain range. Peaceful. Beautiful. The clouds overhead held the rich colors for a while, even after the sun dropped behind the mountains. She sat on the corral fence and admired it all.
But mostly she admired Harlan.
Too bad he didn’t feel the same way about her. Too bad there wasn’t enough time left to change that. She sighed out a long breath and tucked a strand of hair away from her face, back under her cowboy hat where it couldn’t tickle her cheek. Now if only all her other problems could be handled as easily as a stray lock of hair.
Nope. She wasn’t going to brood over the disappointments—no, the
challenges
in her life. She was going to sit here and watch a cowboy doing what he did best and she was going to darn well enjoy it. She had to admit that the man seemed born to the saddle. He rode with an easy confident grace, almost as if his horse Pike—a beautiful sorrel American Quarter Horse—was a part of him that he guided as effortlessly as he might walk across the paddock. Carol had grown up here on her uncle’s ranch. She’d helped drive the cattle home from grazing enough times that she could appreciate how good he was at the work, never letting the cattle split down the middle, knowing their flight zones, applying pressure from the outside edge of the herd, keeping them moving without spooking them. True, the man had skills…but she’d made a promise to her uncle that she wouldn’t headhunt any of Snowbrook’s hired hands when she left. She never went back on a promise.
Harlan not only had skill, but the ranch hand was easy on the eyes as well. She smiled to herself, feeling heat on the back of her neck, and this late in the day she couldn’t blame it on the sun. He wore a brown cowboy hat over his dark hair, setting the hat low to keep the sun out of his eyes. He had the broad chest and shoulders and thick, strong arms that came from hard ranch work, hauling bales of hay, lifting tack, moving feed. Maybe a year or two older than she was, twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, although she’d never asked. He was too far away to admire his eyes, but she remembered them easily enough. They were a blue-ish gray that brought to mind the Colorado winter sky on a day that threatened a snowstorm.
Did she ever adore those eyes. Sometimes she saw them in her dreams. And a herd of wild horses couldn’t have dragged that admission out of her.
Carol closed her own eyes and concentrated on the cool autumn wind on her cheeks, trying to calm herself from all this pointless fantasy. Harlan had worked here for two years and had never been anything but focused on his job. Friendly enough, and sometimes she’d thought…no, she’d been
sure
he felt some attraction to her. But he’d always kept his distance—
Horse hooves thudded close, startling her from her musings. Her eyelids flew open in time to see Harlan ride past. She had to quickly catch her balance to keep from falling off the corral fence.
He grinned at her. “You going to grab that gate, Carol? Or you going to keep on sleeping up there, perched like a hawk?”
She smiled back, hoping to cover how flustered she was to be caught thinking of him and nearly toppling onto her rear. He had no clue as to how prominently he figured in her fantasies. Like the one where he used that lasso and caught her, drew her in, firm but gentle, and did all kinds of wicked things to her.
She shifted on the gate. Nope. This
really
wasn’t the time for that kind of thinking.
“How many head of cattle we lose to rustlers this time?” she called to him, grinning wider, shaking off her disappointed daydreams.
Harlan tipped his hat and then shook his reins. Pike snorted and started forward again. “None, today.” He slipped into an exaggerated western accent. “They saw me riding tall in the saddle and those varmints skedaddled.”
“Skedaddled?”
“Like running, only more cowardly like.”
“I know what it means, Tex.” She laughed and jumped down as he herded the last of the cattle into the corral. She swung the heavy gate closed. The hinges groaned a little, but the gate moved easily enough. The chain rattled as she looped it and snapped the carabiner in place.
Harlan took off his hat and rubbed his jaw. His hand rasped against the dark stubble there, and that rough sound send a zing of desire racing from between her legs to her brain and back again.
“I’m a Colorado cowboy,” Harlan said slowly, his face dead serious. “Never been to Texas. I hear rumors it’s big.” He looked at the mountains that ran along the western horizon. “Then again, they don’t have the Rockies, now do they?”
“No, they don’t.” Carol walked over to his horse. Pike nickered and Carol rubbed her hand along the horse’s neck, loving the smooth, fine feel. Pike nuzzled her until Carol laughed and slipped her a carrot.
“You wouldn’t be indulging my horse’s gluttony when I’m not looking, would you, ma’am?” This close, Harlan was even more imposing, his face full of hard granite angles. A face she would’ve guessed incapable of smiling, though he continually proved her wrong.
“Of course I am.”
He patted his horse’s neck, his leather-gloved hand moving very close to hers. She wondered what he’d do if she reached out and grabbed his hand, maybe even pulled herself up to share the saddle with him. The imagined feel of him pressed right up against her made her heart beat faster… She didn’t follow through on her little daydream wish, but oh how she wanted to.
Instead, she let her hand fall back to her side, disappointed in herself. Where had all her can-do spirit gone? True, surprise hand-grabbing might come off as…as what? Unexpected? Maybe even a bit crazy? Sharing a saddle with him though…the feel of him behind her, strong, a steady seat, with her ass right up against his crotch, and the rocking motion as they rode—
She shook her head, trying to diffuse the cloud of foolishness plaguing her brain. She glanced at him and discovered he was watching her. Her heart started to beat even fast and her mouth went dry.
Harlan cleared his throat. “I’d better get Pike brushed down and watered, see to the saddle…” He paused, a boyish troublemaker grin spreading on his face. “We’ll talk about your bad influence on my horse again at supper.”
She didn’t tell him that she had less than three weeks left at Snowbrook. She didn’t tell him that she’d purchased twenty-five acres from her uncle, that she was ready to set down stakes and build her own ranch. Or how she might be mortgaged to the hilt, but she still needed a good hand to help things run smooth. She even had a camper trailer out there already, hooked up to a generator, just waiting for her.
But she didn’t tell him any of that.
Instead she nodded and watched as he rode off toward the stables. The air smelled of manure and hay, the sharp smells of pine and the metal of the cattle corrals. She could taste the dust, feel the grit in her mouth. She took off her hat and spat. A great big wad of spit flew through the air and hit a post only an inch below where she’d aimed. Her uncle liked to tell her she could spit like a man. Probably better than Harlan even. So what if Harlan wasn’t attracted to her? What cowgirl needed a man who couldn’t out-spit her?
Not her.
And yet, on the way back to the house, he was all she could think about. His voice. His easy humor. How he looked in the setting sun. And all the reasons why she couldn’t lure him away to be hers forever.
* * *
Harlan was fond of twilight, always had been. Around twilight he could enjoy how things were winding down, settling in. He could take pride in a hard day’s work done, and done well. As he brushed down Pike, he focused on the peace and solitude, just him and his horse. No distractions. Little noise. It settled him some, and he needed it after running into Carol. She’d looked so beautiful sitting there with her hat tipped back, dust on a pair of jeans that did nothing to hide her curves, the colors of sunset on her skin. So sexy it left him aching. So perfect that being close to her and unable to touch her, unable to tell her how he felt, was nothing more than a punch to the gut. Over and over again.
Yep, he definitely needed the solitude. Maybe a cold shower.
Pike nuzzled him and gave a low neigh. She turned her head and looked at him beseechingly.
“No more carrots for you,” he said, patting her. “Carol already gave you one, remember?”
The horse snorted and shook her mane.
Harlan led her back to her stall and checked the floor. Freshly raked. New hay, clean water. He gave Pike one last pat on the neck…and slipped her a carrot. “Goodnight, girl.”