Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84377 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 422(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
I don’t even know her.
Except every breath in my body demands that I do.
Reaching toward her face, I carefully sweep the soft curls away from her cheek. The simple touch comes with startling realization.
I want to take care of her. It’s not just a desire. It’s instinct. Whether I’ve earned that right is negligible. She’s my responsibility.
I don’t know what that means exactly, but it feels like I could run forever, search forever, and end up right back where I’m at.
I’m destined for this, whatever this is.
The third week of every June is our date of brand. The next six days consist of long, miserably hot, back-breaking hours of sorting, branding, vaccinating, and castrating cattle on little sleep. It’s also an excuse to blare music, barbecue meat, and talk a ton of trash.
We have to bring in extra guys, and they haul in their horses and trailers. Everyone has their own job—a gate, corral, chute, panel, electric prod. Each person knows to stay in position to keep things running smoothly.
Except Maybe.
“Why are they screaming like that?” She shouts above the bellowing cows and chases my boot heels around the corral.
“Cattle are smarter than they look. They know they’re going to get shots and be separated from their calves, and they’re fightin’ mad about it.” I scale the railing of a steel pen and grip her arm, stopping her from following me over. “Where are you supposed to be?”
A scowl mars her pretty face, and she points at the chute behind her.
“Get there and stay put.” I turn away, focused on the next task, but her tiny hand catches the back of my shirt.
“Where’s Chicken?” Her wide eyes scour the pens filled with calves.
One of the older guys ambles by and tilts his hat at her. “Ma’am.”
Her gaze snags on the branding iron in his hand, and she gasps. “Oh my God, Jarret. You can’t—”
“I put Chicken in the stable this morning. No reason to brand her.”
“Why do you have to brand any of them?” She presses a hand to her forehead and spins around. “It’s barbaric and cruel and—
“It’s necessary.”
“Jarret!” Jake calls from the other side of the pen. “Did you get a head count yet?”
I hold up a finger and return to Maybe. “The brand inspectors at the sale barns won’t let us sell the critters without our brand. That’s just the way it is, darlin’. If you can’t stomach it, sit this one out.”
Sadness brightens her eyes as she scans the restless, bellowing calves. I half-expect her to do something irrational, like open the gates and try to free the herd.
But she’s an intelligent woman. And tough. If she can rope a terrified hundred-pound calf in a creek and psyche herself up to shove her arm in a heifer’s ass, she can handle the stench of burning cow hair or the sight of a calf losing its manhood to a dull Buck knife.
“What’s it gonna be?” I nudge up my Stetson and wipe the sweat from my brow.
A decision settles in her expression and seems to take over her entire demeanor. My God, it’s a beautiful thing to watch. She shoves her shoulders back and lifts that chin, exposing the graceful lines of her neck. Strong posture, strong jaw, and even stronger eye contact, she moves into my personal space and grips the railing between us.
“Stop gawking and get to work, cowboy.” Her lips hover a kiss away.
“Jarret, goddammit!” Jake shouts behind me. “Hurry up.”
The cows bellow louder, and somewhere nearby, a pickup truck blasts Get Along by Kenny Chesney through crackling speakers.
The chaos fades around me as I lean in. Or maybe she leans in. I’m not sure who moves first, but the caress of her warm mouth against mine sets my brain on fire and spreads warmth from my lips to my boots.
It’s a long-lasting kiss, not in duration but in memory. It becomes my salvation and my torment over the next week as I replay it through the endless cycle of shots, castrations, and brands.
When each day ends—eight, nine, ten o’clock at night—we eat in exhausted silence and sleep like the dead, only to wake before dawn, rinse, and repeat.
Since the ranch stretches twenty miles, we use the trailers to haul the cattle to and from the pastures. From round-up to finish, the work is nonstop and physically taxing. As much as I want to pick up where I left off with Maybe, I barely have the energy to carry her to bed. Which I do, every night, when she falls asleep during dinner.
At the end of the week, I wake with a start and find myself sprawled on the living room sofa. Rubbing a hand down my face, I stare into the blue eyes of an angel. She floats above me, her thin frame engulfed in one of my t-shirts.