Curvy Girls: Claimed By The Cowboy (The BBW and the Billionaire Rancher) (11 page)

“…That Franklin was talking to Barbara Painted Horse about having an engagement ring custom designed. Specifically, an engagement ring. Not just any ring.”

Barbara was a renowned local jewelry artist whose work had been featured in bridal magazines all over the country.

She looked around again, furtively. “But don’t say anything to him, when he pops the question I’m going to act surprised.” Then her face grew serious. “If he wants us to settle down in Connecticut, don’t worry, I’ll come visit every summer.”

She glanced at Carlotta. “I know Lorenzo was just trying to be helpful. But whatever he thought he heard Franklin saying, he heard wrong. Franklin’s all over me these days. He can’t get enough of me.”

“Lorenzo is not wrong. He heard what he heard.”

Cheyenne’s expression turned dark. “No, he didn’t.”

“Tell yourself whatever you want,” Carlotta shrugged. 

“You know what your problem is? You’re jealous. You’re going to be stuck here in this stupid small town forever, married to a hick cop, and I’m going to be married to a millionaire and wearing designer gowns to society balls,” Cheyenne snapped.

Carlotta shot to her feet and tossed her pecan pie into a trash can. “Insult my husband again,” she said, fists clenched and eyes blazing. “Go on.”

“Cheyenne! Carlotta!” Abigail leaped in between the two of them. “Cut it out! This is ridiculous! You’ve been best friends since you both were twelve! Cheyenne, Carlotta’s had your back every time anyone at school ever said a bad thing about you, and you know it. She’s rolled in the dirt more than once when people made cracks about you.”

A tour bus parked in front of the Dry Gulch saloon, and dozens of tourists began descending onto the bright, sunny street.

Cheyenne glanced at them, then turned back to glare at Abigail.

“Yeah, well now my former best friend would rather believe her husband’s lies then be happy for me that I finally found the right guy. I don’t want to speak to you again until you admit Lorenzo was lying,” Cheyenne snapped at Carlotta.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell,” Carlotta said angrily. “The same day that Franklin proposes to you.”

 Cheyenne shot her the middle finger and stomped off down the sidewalk, rushing through the front doors of the saloon.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Abigail sighed. “I don’t know, Carlotta. Is there any possibility we’re wrong about Franklin?”

Carlotta sighed impatiently and shook her head. “Does he ever take her out to dinner? The movies? Buy her presents? Do they do anything but screw each other all night long?  No. And Lorenzo wasn’t wrong about what he overheard.”

“Maybe he changed his mind since he said that? Maybe he’s just not particularly romantic?” Abigail suggested hopefully.

“Sure,” Carlotta shrugged.  She didn’t look convinced.

Becky looked across the street. “Who is that? She looks like she should be on a movie set.”

“Isn’t that your sister-in-law, Cuntzilla?” Carlotta asked.

 “Carlotta! Seriously!” Becky gasped, smacking Carlotta’s hand. “Your children will come out of the womb cursing!”

“Oh my God, that would make an awesome Youtube video! It would totally go viral!” Carlotta smiled at the thought.

“Doesn’t it bother your husband that you swear like a sailor?”

“He calls me up while he’s out on the road and tells me to talk dirty to him so he can spank the monkey in the middle of his shift.  Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, but it raises another question. Where did the expression spank the monkey even come from? How exactly is spanking a monkey related to masturbation?” Becky’s forehead wrinkled in thought.

“Word nerd,” Carlotta snorted.

“Sewer mouth,” Becky said, with no real animosity.

Abigail glanced across the street at Ludmilla, who was wearing a figure-hugging red halter dress and red espadrilles. She stood out among the tourist families like a strange exotic beast, gliding gracefully down the boardwalk.

Ludmilla glanced at a woman walking by holding her little girl’s hand, with an odd expression on her face, staring after them as they went into a clothing store.

“I bet she hates kids,” Betsy said.

“Can you imagine her ruining that figure getting pregnant? Ha,” Carlotta snorted.

Ludmilla looked around cautiously, then disappeared down a narrow alleyway between two buildings.

Curious, Abigail stood up. “What is she up to? I’ll be right back.”

She crossed the street quickly, only to see Ludmilla stuffing her cell phone in her purse and striding back out of the alley, blinking back tears.

Odd.

“Who were you calling?” Abigail asked.

Ludmilla started, then backed away from her. “I wasn’t calling anyone.”

“Oh. Okay.” Abigail paused for a minute. “Just for the record, if you have a lover, if you’re cheating on Clayton...nobody on the planet would blame you.”

Ludmilla stared at her for a second,  her beautiful face a mask of misery, and then turned and walked away without saying a word.

After lunch, Abigail limped back to the newspaper to work on her column.

“What exactly happened to you?” Dylan asked.

“I tripped over a gopher hole and turned my ankle,” Abigail said with dignity.  Becky, whose cubicle was spitting distance from them, swallowed her coffee wrong and had a coughing fit which sounded suspiciously like hysterical laughter, and Abigail shot her a dirty look and turned back to her computer so she could finish editing the pictures she’d taken of the hot sulphur springs on the Jackson ranch.

The Jackson ranch. But she was a Jackson now. So it was her ranch too.

No matter how hard she tried, it was a real struggle for her to think of herself as Ty’s wife. She frequently felt like she was living in a dream world, and she’d wake up back in the house she’d grown up in,  with no-one by her side.

“Hey, I’m supposed to ask you…any news on the trustees decision?”Becky called out when she stopped wheezing.

“No, but I think that it’s got to be pretty obvious to Winston that Ty and I are legitimately married.” She hoped that was the case, anyway. She did her best to be as physically affectionate with Ty as possible whenever Winston was around, and if there was one thing that she knew that neither she nor Ty were faking, it was their intense attraction to each other.

As for Ty’s feelings for her, and her feelings for him…she was still struggling with that. Struggling to find the truth, to trust him. And herself.

“Developers are still sniffing around, talking to the building inspector. They seem to think they’re going to get the go-ahead.”

“No way, Jose,” Abigail said firmly.

She turned back to Dylan. “Everything okay with you? You’re awfully quiet these days.”

He shrugged, concentrating on the screen in front of him. “I’m fine. Cheyenne and I decided to hang out just as friends.  Movie buddies. Coffeeshop buddies. That kind of thing.  We go on hikes.  She knows a lot of good spots for taking bird pictures.”

“So, how’s that working out?”

“Sucks. But what can you do? I guess she’s going to marry Franklin and move to Connecticut with him,” Dylan said glumly.

“I’m sorry.  She’s picking the wrong guy.”

“Is she?” Dylan sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s hard to compete with an Ivy League trust fund brat with a classic Porsche.”

“Which he hardly ever takes her anywhere in. I don’t like him.”

“Me either. And all of my pictures suck,” Dylan grumbled, turning off the computer. “I’m going to go take a walk. Want to join me?”

Abigail considered her sore, throbbing butt. “Maybe some other time,” she said, and hearing Becky choke back a laugh, shot her friend another dirty look before adding “But let’s get some good bird shots this Saturday. I know a spot where you can get the best view of a bald eagle nest.   You can come out to the ranch for lunch and we’ll go riding.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sergio Graniti sat on the back porch with Clayton and Ludmilla and Winston, leaning back on his rocking chair and admiring the stunning tableau of nature in front of him. Cowboys on horses trotting across endless miles of rolling green hills, a sky as blue and clear as the ocean, and not a cell phone tower or utility pole in sight.

He’d flown out to get a first hand look at the ranch, and to find out what was holding up the plans for development.  Clayton was boiling with frustration;  Ty’s attempts to get in his way were ridiculous. And so was the notion that he actually really cared about Abigail…even if he was putting on a good act for Winston.

Sergio was a big man, an Italian from New York with rumored mob connections. He wore a pin-striped suit with a folded silk handkerchief in the pocket, and a Rolex watch on this thick wrist. His wavy black hair, shot through with gray, was carefully gelled into place.

“Look at that view,” Sergio said, shaking his head in admiration.  “You don’t get views like that in New York.”

Yes, because it’s New York, you idiot, Clayton thought irritably, but kept his thoughts to himself. He needed Graniti on his side.

“It sure would be a shame to ruin that view with buildings and electric poles and asphalt, wouldn’t it?”

Clayton started. Abigail had walked up behind him, carrying plates of hot apple pie with scoops of ice cream sprinkled with cinnamon.

“My mother made this,” she added, setting a plate on the round wooden table by Clayton and Graniti and Winston. “Ice cream’s homemade, too.” 

She didn’t bother offering any to Ludmilla, who was ignoring the small bowl of apple slices next to her, and taking small, delicate sips of mineral water with an expression of bored indifference.

Sergio’s face lit up and he grabbed the plate.

“Homemade apple pie and ice cream? Now there’s some good old fashioned Western hospitality, eh, Clayton?” His New York accent was thick enough to slice with a knife.

“What did you do, season it with cyanide?” Clayton asked Abigail sullenly. No matter how much he and Ludmilla tried to needle her, she refused to take the bait, and it was really starting to piss him off.

“You don’t want yours? I’ll take it,” Graniti said, pulling Clayton’s plate closer to him. “You got some coffee to go with that?”

“Of course. I forgot my manners,” Abigail smiled winningly.  “Cream and sugar?”

“That’d be great, thanks,” Graniti said, digging in enthusiastically. 

“I’ll help you carry it. That’s some good ice cream; your mother should open a franchise,” Winston said, pushing his chair back. His lean frame was starting to fill out, Abigail realized. Her mother’s cooking would do that to anybody.

Graniti watched Abigail walk away, his gaze sweeping approvingly over her full figure. “Now there’s a real woman. She’s got child-bearing hips.  Knows how to cook. Not all skin and bones. Too bad she’s already spoken for. My ma would love her.”

“She’s not already taken. I told you, it’s a fake marriage, and I’m going to prove it,” Clayton snapped.

“Naaahhh.” Graniti and Clayton watched as Ty walked through the kitchen, flung his arms around Abigail, and planted a passionate, lingering kiss on her mouth. When Abigail walked away, he swatted her generously-sized rear end affectionately.

“There’s no fakin’ that,” Graniti said, a note of real envy in his voice.

Clayton leaned back in his chair and groaned quietly. Whose side was Graniti on, anyway?  

Ludmilla shot him a look of sympathy, but he ignored her, turning his chair to face Graniti, and forced a smile on his face.

“Let’s go over those plans again,” he said, through clenched teeth.

* * *

Two weeks later…

Cheyenne was getting antsy about when Franklin would pop the question but she thought maybe he was waiting until the ring was designed. That had to be it.

She and Carlotta still weren’t speaking. Betsy was trying to play peacemaker between the two of them, with no luck.

Dylan was depressed and moping around the office, but hanging in there and playing the part of a good friend to Cheyenne.

Ruby was up and around on crutches, and they were in an apple orchard near the house, gathering apples.

It was 90 degrees out, and Ty had taken a break to meet them at the apple orchard. He’d had spent the last several days working with the ranch hands, mending fences, tuning up the hay baling and swathing equipment, getting ready for the first cut of hay. He came back to the house every night dirty and tired and sweaty, and Abigail had never seen him happier. He was exactly where he belonged, and so was she.

Graniti, tired of waiting for a decision on the development project, had flown back to New York and taken his team with him.  Clayton and Ludmilla spent most of their days in town, or taking day trips to Denver and returning with shopping bags full of clothing and shoes and purses. They ate dinner separately from Abigail and Ty and did everything possible to ignore them.

Abigail turned to Winston, who was holding a half filled basket of apples. “Winston, you said you were going to report back to the trustees in a few weeks. I think it’s pretty clear now that Ty and I are legitimately married, and there’s no question that we married first. A lot of people in town keep asking about the development, and I’d like to be able to put their mind at rest.”

“Oh,” Winston said, surprised, wiping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his arm. “You’re right. Fair enough. I’ve known pretty early on that you and Ty were the real thing; I guess I just liked being here. Gets lonely on the farm by myself, you know.” His eyes strayed to Ruby, holding an apple up in the sunlight, inspecting it critically, and then setting it in her basket.

“You like what here, exactly?” Abigail asked, the light suddenly dawning. Her mother had actually looked happy in recent days. Peaceful. The haunted look that glazed her eyes since the death of Abigail’s father was gone. She smiled easily and laughed freely, usually at something that Winston had said to her.

“You know, my wife made the best apple pies,” Winston said, a faraway look in his eyes. “When she died, I never thought I’d enjoy a homemade apple pie again.”