Montana Cowboy (Big Sky Mavericks Book 2) (5 page)

Betty had been in the breeding group when she developed the runs. Now, Serena would have to watch her a few days to make sure her stomach problems were cleared up before introducing Betty to Shakespeare, Serena's favorite herd sire.

Shake was a favorite with the girls—nine years old, a seasoned pro. Plus, the crimp in his fine, dense fleece was unmatched. She had high hopes for several upcoming shows if—a big word—she could find a reliable helper.

She knew good help was nearly as difficult to find as a good lover. Two serious boyfriends and a handful of really bad dates in thirty-five years on this planet did not make her an expert—especially considering both relationships ended with a bored, slightly relieved sigh rather than any true angst. She'd been called a genius—okay, by her mother—when it came to matching alpaca mates, but her own future looked decidedly unromantic and barren.

Unfortunately, Serena liked sex. Coitus was fun while it lasted, but all the after-stuff got tricky—commitments, making someone else happy, blending his ways with her ways. Unpacking gobs of messy baggage that might include hideous things like stalkers and underlying abandonment issues. 

I should have been a man
. She closed the gate on her breeders.
Love 'em and leave 'em. I could do that.

She wondered if Austen Zabrinski was on the market. He didn't wear a wedding band. She thought she'd detected a sparkle of interest in his eyes when he looked at her. She might be inexperienced where long-term relationships were concerned but she wasn't blind. And the zing she'd felt the minute he hopped her fence hadn't dissipated the entire time they were in each other's company.

Thinking about him, naked, in her shower, made her panties damp. If she were male, she'd be a horny-as-hell man with an itch that needed scratching. Badly.

She grabbed the top rail of the fence, poised to vault over and dash across the staging area between house and barn. So what if she'd never done anything as impulsive and out of character? She lived in freaking Montana now. She was reinventing herself. Maybe the new Serena James was going to be easy.

"Yep. Crazy," she muttered, turning to grab both handles of the loaded wheelbarrow, instead.

The man was gorgeous. He undoubtedly had the best butt she'd ever seen. But she'd never initiated a seduction in her life. She'd probably show up naked in the shower and find him jacking off.

Not that she blamed him. She could picture his long, lean torso. Wet and soapy. Chest hair? Yes. Some, but not a rug. An arrow of hair from his bellybutton pointing downward? Yes. She loved those arrows.

And where the arrow hit the bull's eye...

Her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes. His phallus would be magnificent. Bigger than either Patrick or Todd, her two previous lovers. Long. Thick. Unapologetic.

She licked her lips and opened her eyes.

Five alpacas were staring at her.

She wiped the bead of sweat from her upper lip using the back of her glove then pushed the wheelbarrow. "Don't mind me, girls. I'm a horny non-boy with a vivid imagination. Stupid hormones."

She'd just finished dumping her load in the distant compost pile when her phone buzzed in her hip pocket. Her heart rate spiked and her armpits tingled until she spotted the caller ID.

"Peyton. This is a surprise. Mom said you and Macklin were going to Majorca."

"Next week. We just got back from interviewing a new dog-sitter. Hildie is very picky about who looks after her when we're gone. Her auntie Serena has spoiled her for other sitters."

Hildie—short for Brunhilda—was an apricot standard poodle-slash-diva, who undoubtedly deserved the title 'Most Spoiled Dog on the Planet'. But Hildie and Beau were madly in love, despite the fact they were both fixed, and when Serena lived in Shasta, and her brother lived in Medford, Oregon, pet-sitting was a given.

"Give Hildie a hug for me. Beau moped for a week after your cruise." She clamped the phone under her ear and pushed the empty wheelbarrow back toward the barn. "Sorry we can't help you out."

A short but telling pause made her brace for the inquisition. Thankfully, she was down to one call a week from her well-meaning family who worried that she'd jumped out of the proverbial frying pan into an old west cauldron of boiling body parts.

"So... how’s it going? Are you okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You're in God-awful Montana, for one thing. Alone. With a flock of fuzzies and no support system."

She chuckled. "Well, there's that. But, you know me—I roll with the punches. It was a bit disconcerting—" Her euphemism for total gut-punched disappointment. "When the house loan fell through, but this rental isn't bad. I still have a boatload more fencing to do and a couple of shelters to build before winter, but the 'pacas are adjusting."
Better than me, actually.
"I have Beau to keep me from being too lonely. I'll make friends once I start work."

"And no more blogging, right? Picturing you in the middle of nowhere with a stalker on your heels keeps me up at night."

She was touched. "Lucky Macklin."

His laugh made her miss him all the more. Growing up, they hadn't been as close as she would have liked—especially given the fact they were only eight months apart in age.

Her parents admitted they hadn't planned a second adoption so quickly after their first, but Peyton had been special. His junkie mother used right up to the minute she went into labor—a fact that probably factored into her stroke. Her heart didn't stop but her brain function did.

Doctors successfully delivered Peyton, a premature addict who struggled with challenges—both physical and emotional—his entire life. Until he met Macklin, a man nine years his senior who embodied love, acceptance, and compassion.

Mack's grounded nature had worked magic with Peyton. Ironically, Pey's personal growth couldn't have come at a worse time for Serena. As he came out of his shell, she was diving for cover to avoid an online stalker.

"I changed my email. Stopped my blog. I'm not on any social media sites. I still need to use the Internet to do alpaca business, but I took out a business license in Crawford County using Mom's maiden name. And my new website once I get it set up won't have any photos of me or this place—only alpacas."

He sighed weightily. "I guess that will work. But you'll call me or Mack if you feel the least bit uneasy, right?"

Macklin had been an MP in the Marines and was the most well-armed gay man she'd ever met.

"Yes. I promise. Go. Travel. Live my dream life while I scoop 'paca poop and give my neighbor a ride home."

"Your neighbor? A grizzled cowboy with leathery skin and a permanent squint?"

She pictured Austen Zabrinski. "Not even close." The distinctive banging sound of her back door made her drop the wheelbarrow handles and start toward the house. "Speaking of the devil...I have to go. Thanks for calling and thinking of me. Love you."

She pocketed her phone and jogged across the open turn-around, her boots making a shish-shish sound on the hard ground. Her truck was parked under the sprawling cottonwood.

Three things struck her straight off. Ugly green wasn't ugly on him. Borrowed jeans couldn't hide his great butt. And he'd left his filthy jeans and shirt on the table as she'd asked. The small concession made her happy—even if it meant washing stinky, 'paca poop pants.

She might have claimed environmental responsibility but the best part of washing Austen Zabrinski's pants was being able to return them in person at some later date.

"Ready to go?"

He nodded. The cloudless sunshine made what she'd assumed were artful highlights in his hair look like the real deal. Damn, the man got more gorgeous every time she looked.

"My foreman should be getting back from Livingston any minute. When he sees my horse, he'll call my cell. When I don't answer, he'll probably send out a search party."

She motioned for him to follow. "Not memorizing phone numbers has to be the worst part of becoming dependent on cell phones."

"Agreed. That and spending way too much time staring at a tiny screen. Believe me, it's tempting not to replace the damn thing."

She thought she detected an odd hint of defeat in his statement.
What's his story?

Since they'd practically had sex—in her mind—she decided to ask.

Once he was seated with his safety belt snug across his flat belly, she turned the key in the ignition and put the truck in gear.

"So, fill me in. You own a ranch your brother called a tax write-off. You've as much as admitted you're nobody's cowboy. You wear three-hundred-dollar jeans. I don't see a wedding ring. Your nose is sunburned. So I take that to mean you don't have a wife or live-in girlfriend to remind you to put on sunscreen."

He let out a gruff cough. "Very observant. The jeans are two years old."

"But look brand new."

"I don't—didn't—come to the ranch very often in the past."

She waited.

"No wife. Never married. My last...friend-with-benefits wanted more than I'm in a position to give at the moment. I'm not sure we're still friends. But I'm positive the benefits have been canceled."

She'd always been a sucker for smart men with a sense of humor. The leftover dewy feeling in her crotch—and the fact she was a stranger in a strange land—made her bold. "So, if someone new to the area was interested in that sort of position—friends-with-benefits-no-strings-attached—how would one apply? Online? Or in person?"

He tossed back his head and gave a deep, masculine laugh that sent a stream of shivers down her spine, pooling conveniently in her already primed lady parts. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Since they'd reached the end of her driveway and had no traffic behind her, she threw the shifter into park and turned to face him.

Before she could offer any slightly embarrassed disclaimer for such an obvious come on, he released the latch on his safety belt and moved closer.

"In person. I go with my gut. Usually one kiss will do. Either there's chemistry or there's not."

"Chemistry. Crap. My least favorite subject in school. But I do like kissing."

She leaned in, too.

A
usten could have come up with a dozen—make that a trillion—reasons not to kiss this beautiful stranger. But, for all his reputed logic and claims he was a rule maker, not a rule breaker, he was lonely. And...as much as it killed him to admit the fact, he' had reached a point where he was unsure of what to do next. Him. Rudderless. Now, living in the moment seemed like the only rational choice he had.

Besides...she offered. It wouldn't be neighborly to turn her down. Right?

He caught her lips, which were softer than he'd imagined. A perfect match to his. Her eyes remained opened...for their initial contact, then her lids lowered in a sultry, utterly into it way that made him give a low, unplanned growl. What was it about that moment of surrender that brought out the beast in him?

When her perfect lips parted to invite him in, he closed his eyes, too. She tasted good. Mint gum? Maybe just leftover toothpaste. But there was sweetness, as well. A hint of honey. And he wanted more.

While his mouth plundered, his hands moved down her back to pull her closer.

"Um, oh...no. Seatbelt," she murmured.

He pulled back and looked down. "Oh. Duh."

He stabbed the release button so she could slip free of it.

They stalled...for half a second before she grinned and plastered herself against him. "Um. You're a good kisser. Very good. But I want you to be sure. No doubts."

She wasn't aggressive, just methodical. As if she were hitting all the bullet points in a textbook called Rules of Kissing. Austen could have stopped her at any point and said, "You're hired." But a part of him couldn't wait to be taken to school.

She nibbled and teased. Her tongue engaged his in a clever, nonverbal debate. A first for him. Kissing had always been a mere step on the road to the big show. With Serena, a stranger, the playful exploration was fun.

What would sex be like with her?

Would? Hell, no. Will. What will sex with Serena be like?

He wrapped his arms around her possessively. He had to find out. Now. Right now.

Honk. Honk.

The rumble of an engine outside the purr of Serena's truck burst the bubble of sexual euphoria that enveloped them. Serena gave a peep not unlike the sound the little alpaca made when she realized a strange man was holding her much too closely. Like Betty, Serena reared back. "Oh, shit. It's Jason."

Flustered and red-faced, she backed up, swerving to the side like a real pro, to give the lifted four-wheel drive truck space to pull in. She lowered the driver's side window.

"You're late."

The kid, who looked vaguely familiar to Austen, tried to fake a sheepish expression. "My truck wouldn't start."

"Not my problem. I told you ten. It's nearly noon. If that's your idea of a work ethic, you won't work for me."

Serena's fierce reprimand wiped the smirk off the kid's face. "Sorry, Ms. James. I didn't know you meant early. You just said Saturday morning."