Espino, Stacey - Midlife Ménage [Ride 'em Hard 5] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) (2 page)

Chapter Two

Jackson looked around the small room once Mrs. McCay left him alone. It was clean and basic, no less than he’d expected. A single bed, dresser, nightstand, and blanket box—all in mismatched wood and styles. The window was open, the heavy curtains parted to let the meagre breeze into the room. It was simple living, but he wasn’t one to complain.

The family seemed nice enough, and he’d been a boarder a hundred times during his travels. The McCay daughter was a beauty, with pixy-like qualities, but her mother took the prize. Her pale-blonde hair was just past her shoulders, and her feline-shaped eyes the bluest of all blue. He scolded himself for checking out her curves in those tight jeans because she was a married woman. Jackson was no home wrecker, but he still couldn’t help his immediate attraction to the country woman.

Even when he’d taken off his shirt, she didn’t bat a lash. He was used to the buckle bunnies chasing after him at events, begging for his affection. They were young with big tits and superficial smiles. He bored of fast women around the same time he began to tire of a life on the road. But he was following a great tradition of rodeo riders, and wouldn’t give up because of his weakness for craving roots. A stable life was not in the cards for him, and he expected to meet his maker in the ring like his father. A man’s death, one of honor.

After his shower, he returned to his room and lay down for a few minutes, not expecting to doze off. The next thing he knew there was a knock on the door. He sat to attention, slightly confused as he reentered the world of the waking. It seemed every time he woke up he was in a new bed, until he didn’t know if he was coming or going.

“Mister. My ma told me to fetch you for dinner.” It was the daughter. She had blemish-free skin and a thin, dainty figure. A vision of innocence, everything the women on the road weren’t. But he only saw the childish side of her looks—the soft curve of her cheeks, tight skin, and youth. He could never be attracted to someone who reminded him of a girl just off the cusp of puberty, even though he suspected she was in her twenties. But, damn, her mother had mature, sculpted features. There was history written on her skin and knowledge in her eyes. She’d be able to handle herself in difficult situations, not needing to ask a man for help. Her inner strength and outer beauty drew him to her.
Stupid.
She wasn’t his to claim or consider.

“Well, thank you for the wake-up call. I didn’t catch your name…”

“Christine McCay.”

“Jackson Taylor,” he returned. “You tell her I’ll be there in two minutes.” He smiled, but she only rushed away, reserved like her mother.

After slipping on a fresh button-up from his travel bag, he followed the smell of savory stew to the kitchen. Three women sat around an old country table, battered and dinged from age. It reminded him of the one in his childhood home. He briefly glanced around the kitchen. Herbs were hanging in bunches on hooks near the window above the sink. Cast-iron pans and steel pots hung from an extension lowered from the rafters.

“Ladies.”

“Please, have a seat, Mr. Taylor. This is my daughter, Kylie, and you’ve met her sister, Christine.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He sat at an empty seat across from Mrs. McCay. He didn’t even know her first name, but supposed it wasn’t appropriate to call her by it anyway. “Is your husband not joining us?”

The two girls froze in place, the soft tink of cutlery hitting china suddenly ceasing. “No, he won’t be. Not tonight.”

“That’s too bad. I guess I’ll meet him after my event tomorrow. I won’t be too late. This week I’m just registered in some barrel racing.” He began to eat the food served to him since nobody seemed interested in conversation. It tasted like heaven after his usual diet from greasy spoons.

The two girls resembled their mother with remarkable similarity, but age had been kind to his hostess. She didn’t look old enough to have two grown daughters. The woman had a raw sensuality to her, full lips, mature features. Her fingers were long and tapered, her breasts small and perky, and hips strong like a woman’s should be. He had to get his illicit thoughts in check because he was developing an instant crush on the beauty in front of him. She had a quiet strength about her, a guarded vulnerability that he was tempted to discover.

They finished dinner in silence, and then he excused himself. He wandered around the back of the house, enjoying the twilight and symphony of insects around him. Out on the prairies night was night. As soon as the last remnants of color in the sky faded, he wouldn’t be able to see his hand in front of his face. Jackson dug in his back pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lit up after striking his match several times. He exhaled, the drag calming him further, and cloud of smoke mingling with the moonlit shadows.

“Don’t mind our mother,” said the female voice. He searched the dimness along the rear of the house and found Kylie standing there, a shawl around her shoulders. “She’s not exactly Martha Stewart when it comes to guests, but she means well.”

“She’s been perfect,” he said. He prayed to God the youngest daughter wasn’t out here to hit on him. It would make a mess of the living situation, and he’d likely feel obligated to leave.

“You don’t have to lie.” She chuckled to herself. “She’s bitter about a lot of things, especially men.”

“Oh?” He took another drag before giving the girl his full attention.

“She’s a widow, has been nearly all my life. It’s what we all wanted growing up. You know…not having to worry about a new man taking our father’s place. I can’t even remember him because I was only a baby when he passed, but it was the point. But now that we’re older I hate the thought of her being all alone in this big, old house. There’re just the two of us left, and even that’s temporary.”

“I didn’t know. She never even told me she was a widow.”

“She thinks it’s best if you believe there’s a man around somewhere. That woman thinks the worst of everyone.”

He shrugged. An easy life didn’t make hardened women like Mrs. McCay. He wouldn’t dare judge her, knowing she single-handedly raised her children and maintained a sizable farm. “I’m sure she’s just looking out for you and your sister.”

A screen door whined in the near distance. Kylie whispered, “See you around.” Then she snuck off around the other side of the house as quiet as a mouse.

Jackson stomped out his cigarette, looked up at the moon, and then closed his eyes briefly. That celestial icon in the sky was the only thing of stability in his life, the only thing he could count on besides himself.

“Nice evening.” That voice. It was feminine with a sexy, husky quality. At first he chided himself for his instant attraction, until he recalled her daughter’s words. Mrs. McCay was a widow, and very much on the market should he decide to make an advance. He’d never been attracted to older women. Most of his past girlfriends had been around his age, but never anything serious. He avoided stability like the plague, terrified to leave a woman in despair if anything happened to him in the ring. Jackson still remembered the years of suffering his mother endured after his father’s untimely death. Did Mrs. McCay remind him of his mother? Did he crave to be dominated by a woman? Or was it simple attraction, maybe even love at first sight?

“It certainly is lovely.”

She stepped closer, spotting the dying embers of his cigarette on the dry grass near his foot. “You shouldn’t smoke,” she said, grinding her boot into the butt. “Not only is it bad for your health, it’s downright dangerous in a drought like this. I know of less things to spark a prairie fire.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

The moonlight reflected off the whites of her eyes and natural highlights in her hair. Her skin was flawless in this lighting, like a porcelain doll. But even in the light of day with faint lines around her eyes, and freckles spattering the bridge of her nose, she was a welcome sight.

“I don’t know where you’re from, but around here, we haven’t had rain for weeks. When you add record high temperatures, it makes life downright difficult for those who depend on the land. Sometimes being a farmer is a curse. I can imagine hell being similar to this—the heat, the stress, the despair.”

He could hear the worry in her voice even though she tried to speak flatly as if telling a story unrelated to her.

“So who helps you run things around here, besides your…husband?”

Would she ever offer up the truth to him? He’d just arrived, so couldn’t expect her to trust him. There were plenty of no-good cowboys traveling the circuit, but Jackson liked to think he wasn’t one of them. He believed in the morals his parents taught him, a cowboy code of honor. Never raise a hand to a woman, never steal, and your word was better than gold.

“Kylie’s starting college in September, then it’ll be just me and Christine…and my husband.”

He nodded, holding back his smile at her near slip. “While I’m here, I’ll do my best to help out. I know my way around a working ranch.”

“No need. I’ve managed this long without any help.” She started to return to the house, calling back over her shoulder. “Will you be here for breakfast?”

“Don’t bother getting up for me. I’ll be leaving at seven.”

She chuckled, a sound he didn’t think she was capable of. “This ain’t the city, Mr. Taylor. Breakfast is at five.” Then she continued on her way, becoming consumed by shadows.

Jackson laughed quietly to himself. Mrs. McCay was a real country woman if ever he met one. She wouldn’t need a man to open her pickle jar. But he liked that about her. His self-esteem wasn’t low enough that he needed to dominate in a relationship. Of course a romantic bond for a drifter was unrealistic. He kicked at the burnt grass where he’d tossed his cigarette, wishing he could take one more drag to help vanquish the inevitability of his love life.

* * * *

Wendy had served the boarder breakfast at first light, then she was off to do her list of duties around the farm. There was no time to be sitting around chatting, no matter how polite and friendly the young cowboy appeared to be. She had to slaughter three chickens for dinner so Christine could get the soup prepared when she got home from school. Then she had to head off to the feedstore.

Money was always tight. She couldn’t remember a year prosperous enough where she didn’t have to count her pennies. Some days she was tempted to throw in the towel, fantasizing of her knight in shining armor coming to take her to a life a peace and security. That fictitious knight was never her dead husband, and that alone bothered her.

Dust billowed around her truck as she navigated the dirt back roads. Everything was burning up under the dry heat with no reprieve in sight thanks to another cloudless day. She’d seen Jackson head out before she left. If she hadn’t, she knew she’d worry about him stealing something from her, not that she had anything much of value. Trust had to be earned, no matter how deceptively innocent a man appeared.

Wendy pulled into the parking lot of the feedstore. She needed enough supplies to get her through the next couple weeks. With only chickens, a cow, and a few horses, she didn’t need much, but costs had risen on everything. Wendy had succumbed to making her own soap, finances were so tight. She pushed open the glass door, the familiar rustic scent hitting her as she entered.

“Mornin’, Wendy. What can I get for you?” asked Phil, the owner of the store. He’d known her since her husband was alive. His parents handed the business over to him years ago after they retired. She’d much rather give business to the small family businesses rather than the big feed distribution centers, even if they cost slightly more. Some things were more important than money, like loyalty.