Curvy Girls: Claimed By The Cowboy (The BBW and the Billionaire Rancher) (5 page)

And now her house was home to two ghosts whose presence loomed large; her late father, and the ghost of the woman her mother once was.

An aching sense of loneliness flooded her, magnified by her sharp longing for Ty.

Having sex with him had been a stupid mistake after all. Like eating the most delicious dessert in the world when she knew she’d never be able to have another bite.

She’d set her phone on vibrate when she came home, but in the silence, she could hear it every time it buzzed. And it had buzzed half a dozen times in the last half hour.

With a snarl of annoyance, she grabbed the phone from her purse, ready to yank the battery out. Stupid Ty – probably looking for another one night stand so he could get his rocks off one last time before he flew back to Wyoming.

Worry sliced through her as she realized that the number on the cell phone was actually Cheyenne – and Cheyenne had tried to call her six times in the last 15 minutes. And Betsy’s number was on there too; she’d tried to call four times in the last 15 minutes.

Was something wrong? Had something happened to one of her friends?

She tried calling Cheyenne back, but there was no answer. 

Abigail’s house was only ten minutes from the center of town. In a panic, she quickly called Goldilocks into the house, hopped in her Jeep, and rushed to the Dry Gulch Saloon, the bar on Crooked Mile Road where Cheyenne worked as a barmaid.

She screeched to a halt in front of the bar, which was located in Crooked Creek’s downtown area, where all the businesses, restaurants and the hotel were clustered. The town still looked like it did in the 1800s, with the gas lamps now converted to electric and the paint on all the buildings kept fresh and new, but historically accurate.  A boardwalk ran down both sides of the street for a quarter mile, connecting all of the buildings on each side. Most of the businesses had awnings which shielded shoppers during the frequent summer rainstorms.

The Dry Gulch saloon, in operation since 1895,  still had hitching posts out front and the original swinging double doors.

Abigail leaped from her truck and rushed into the saloon.

Ty Jackson stood in the middle of the room, spluttering in fury and drenched in beer. Next to him was a slim brunette who Abigail didn’t recognize. She definitely wasn’t anyone from town.

What a surprise.

Cheyenne stood near them, smirking. She held an empty tray; a pitcher of beer and two beer steins lay on the floor in a spreading amber puddle.  Becky stood next to Cheyenne, hands on her hips, glaring at Ty and his lady friend.  When she saw Abigail, she lifted an eyebrow.

“Ooops, my bad,” Becky said. “I bumped into Cheyenne and made her spill her tray. I am just so clumsy today.”

“She did that on purpose!” the brunette wailed. “And now I smell like
beer
!”

So. Ty’s taste hadn’t improved since high school, Abigail thought, as a surprisingly sharp lance of pain stabbed her in the heart. He still went for tiny little frou-frou girls who would cry if they broke a nail. Abigail was tough and self-reliant and could change the oil on her truck and fix a flat in five minutes; she’d never be Ty’s type.

Abigail walked over to Cheyenne, refusing to meet Ty’s eyes. “Look who’s not leaving town,” Cheyenne said to Abigail.

The brunette, not finding the sympathy she was looking for, stomped out of the bar.

Ty grabbed a handful of napkins from the bar, mopping beer off his face, and glowering at Abigail.   “You ever pick up your phone?” he snapped. He actually looked hurt. Was he faking it?

She glanced after the brunette, then back at him.  

Sure, he was hurt. So hurt that it had taken him all of five minutes to get over her and find a new place to park his privates. The thought of him pleasuring the tiny brunette with his lips, his tongue, his fingers, sent a shaft of pain through her heart like a dull knife.

“Why aren’t you back on your ranch in Wisconsin?” she asked coldly, ignoring his question.

“Crooked Creek is my home. I have a very competent ranch manager back in Wisconsin. He’s part owner of the ranch. He can run the operation without me.”

“You live here? Forever? You weren’t just here for the funeral?” Abigail’s mouth dropped open.

Ty looked at her, anger flaring in his eyes. “So, you only had sex with me because you thought I was leaving town?”

Images from Abigail’s past flashed through her mind. “Fatigail, Fatigail…you want the rest of my lunch, Fatigail?” She could hear Ty’s voice taunting her still, and her temper flared.

She looked him right in the eye. “Pretty much, yes.”

“Fine, then. If that’s the way you want it.” He bit out the words, and then turned and walked to the bar, where he stood with his back to Abigail, stiff and angry. 

“I’ll have a shot of Jim Beam. Straight up,” he said to the bartender.

Abigail took a deep breath, feeling a sharp blade of hurt and anger twisting inside her. She turned and walked outside, into the bright sunlight which bathed her in white hot light, momentarily blinding her.

Cheyenne followed her out into the street.

“You okay?” she asked Abigail.

“I’ll be fine,” Abigail said, not sure if she meant it.  “Did you get in trouble for dumping that tray?’

“Hell no. I dump a tray on somebody at least once a week. Usually because they got drunk and tried to cop a feel. They just take it out of my salary.”

“Send me the bill.” Abigail managed to crack a smile.

“This one’s on me, darlin’. Fuck him, and his snotty little girlfriend too. Nobody messes with my friends,” Cheyenne said. “You know, I could fix you up with any of my ex-boyfriends, any time you want.  Take your mind off ole whatsisface.”

“Thanks, one meaningless roll in the hay was plenty for me. I find them depressing. I’m going to go back to work now and drown my sorrows in bad coffee and stale donuts.”

“Sounds like a winner. Not really. Call me later, we’ll drink and bitch about what assholes men are.”

“You got it,” Abigail said gloomily, and climbing into her truck, where she leaned her head on the steering wheel for a good 30 seconds before she finally straightened up and turned on the ignition.

Inside the bar, Ty downed his Jim Beam, slammed it down on the bar, and said “Fill ‘er up.”

Edna Vale, president of the Cottonwood Lane Wednesday Night Bingo Players group, walked by him, giving him an appraising look. Ty did a double take.  Had Edna actually just stared at his crotch, and then turned and whispered something to her muu-muu wearing friend with the beehive hairdo? Those women had to be 70 if they were a day.

Clearly he was imagining things.

He shook his head and turned back to the bartender. “Make it a double,” he said.

Chapter Six

“We’re almost there,” Cheyenne grinned.

“I can’t wait. What is this natural wonder you’re promising to show me?” Franklin was out of breath trying to keep up with Cheyenne as they hiked through the woods.

“Spoilers. Can’t tell you until we get there.” Cheyenne had lived in Crooked Creek since she was twelve, and she knew the countryside like the back of her hands. Many times, as a teenager, she’d roamed through these woods by herself, sometimes camping out for days.

She was leading Franklin to one of her favorite places in the world – a place she’d visited with many an eager young man from Crooked Creek. 

There was one other spot, even prettier than this one, that she might take Franklin to one day, but not yet…that was a special spot.  She’d never been there with a man; she was saving it for someone special.

Up ahead, they broke through the treeline to reach an open grove.

Franklin pushed ahead.  Shafts of sunlight pierced the tree canopy and lit the forest floor, which was strewn with fragrant pine needles. Overhead, pine trees loomed fifty feet high, and a chorus of birdsong serenaded them.

“This is amazing. Look at the height of these trees. They’re hundreds of years old.” Franklin spoke with hushed reverence. “They were here before the first settlers came through. Is this the natural wonder you wanted to show me?”

He turned and got his answer.

Cheyenne had stripped off her clothing with miraculous speed, and spread out a plaid flannel banket on the ground. Slim, with a golden waterfall of hair falling halfway down her back, and perfectly round breasts the size and shape of apples, her beauty rivaled that of the landscape around them.

Franklin’s face lit up, and he sank his teeth into his lower lip as he looked her up and down. Cheyenne grinned saucily at him.   He was classically handsome, like a hero from a Byronic poem, with wavy hair the color of wheat on a summer day and an upper lip shaped like a cupid’s bow.

Carlotta had told Cheyenne that she should marry Franklin because the two of them would have the prettiest babies ever. But that was stupid talk, born of a brain fogged by pregnancy hormones. Wasn’t it?

All her life Cheyenne had shied away from relationships and commitment like a horse shying from a snake on the trail. It was in her blood, she thought, born of a mother who couldn’t commit to any man, couldn’t even commit to raising her own little girl.

But here she was at aged 26, wondering if maybe it was time to consider settling down. Franklin was so handsome that looking at him was like staring into the face of the sun, and he was incredible in bed, and he always opened doors for her. And he came from a family of millionaires back East. What more could a girl ask for?

“You…you don’t think anyone will see us?” Franklin asked, glancing around cautiously.

“Why? You ashamed to be seen with me?” she teased.

Franklin turned back to her and dazzled her with that beautiful smile. “Hell no. I just want to keep you all to myself.  Your body is my special little secret.”

Honey, that secret’s out, Cheyenne thought, watching him quickly pull his polo shirt over his head.

She sank down on her knees in front of him, reached up, and unzipped his pants as he quickly undid his belt.

“Oh, God, Cheyenne. You’re incredible,” he moaned as she freed his erect cock from his navy blue briefs and yanked his pants down to his ankles.

Overhead, Western scrub jays sawed a chorus of
chek, chek, cheks
, and the sun broke through the trees and bathed Franklin and Cheyenne in a golden spotlight, and a warm breeze ruffled Cheyenne’s hair. Franklin guided her head to his cock and she parted her perfect pink lips, and he slid into her mouth with a groan of pure pleasure.

She pulled back, running her tongue over the thick, purplish head, sucking up the pearly drop that glistened on the tip. With one hand, she firmly grasped the base of his cock, and then parted her lips wide as he thrust into her mouth again. With her other hand, she cradled the sack of his testicles and lightly scraped it with her fingernails, drawing forth a sharp gasp of pleasure from Franklin.

She sucked hard as he thrust into her, cheeks hollowing out, sinking deep down her throat, until she’d swallowed every inch of him. Moaning, he held her head steady and pumped into her warm, wet mouth, his breathing growing faster and harsher, until finally he exploded, and his sweet, salty cum flooded her mouth and ran down her throat. She swallowed every drop before slowly pulling away and looking up at him with a lazy, satisfied smile.

“My God, are you amazing. Lie down on that blanket,” Franklin grinned.

Cheyenne obliged, her legs spreading open in anticipation, and he knelt down, kissing her taut, flat stomach, and then running his fingers over her gleaming pink, shaved sex.

Cheyenne squirmed underneath the teasing caress of his fingers, and then moaned as he bent down to take her clit in his mouth.

I could get used to this, yes indeedy, she thought, and then his tongue was inside her and she wailed in pleasure and all rational thought fled.

*  * *

“Men
suck
,” Cheyenne pronounced, and drank another tequila shot. It was her second, and it was only noon, but who was counting? Besides, she’d ridden her horse into town and tethered her to a hitching post outside the Dry Gulch Saloon.  She might get hammered, but she wouldn’t be drinking and driving.

“True. We are official members of the we-hate-men club,” Abigail agreed, and Becky nodded.

It was a slow news day at the Telegraph. They were all gathered at the saloon for lunch and a healthy heaping of man-bashing.

Becky was annoyed with men because, ever since she’d mysteriously broken off her engagement three months ago, she hadn’t been on a date with one.  Carlotta was annoyed with men because she and her hubby were having a mild tiff over the twins’ middle names. Cheyenne was crabby because Franklin was going camping for the weekend so he could observe the pronghorn antelope rutting in the wild, instead of staying at his rented cabin to rut with her.

Dylan held up a tentative hand. “Uh…hello. I’m right here.”

“Not you. You don’t count. You’re a virgin,” Becky said gloomily, and they all swiveled to look at him, and his cheeks flushed bright red.

“Becky!” He hissed, mortified.  “That was supposed to be a secret!”

“Really, Dylan,” Carlotta shook her head pityingly.  “You’ve been here three months and you still haven’t figured it out? This is Crooked Creel.  NOTHING is a secret here.”

Cheyenne looked at him with interest. “So, how far did you get, exactly? Second base? Third base?”

“I thought third base was sex,” Becky protested.

“Third base is oral sex. Home run is sex sex,” Cheyenne pronounced, and everyone had to agree that when it came to sex, she was the expert.

“I’m going back to work.” Dylan pushed his untouched plate of grilled cheese and fries away from him and stood up. He glanced over at Carlotta “And by the way, the solution to your argument is to give your twins more than one middle name. You get to pick the first middle name for one of your sons, and Lorenzo gets to pick for the other one.”

And he turned and walked out of the restaurant, letting the screen door slam shut.

“Huh. That’s actually a very good idea,” Carlotta said.