Christine Wenger - Not Your Average Cowboy

On her way to the kitchen, Merry stopped, startled by the sound of soft snoring. As her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the massive form of Buck sleeping on the couch in the living room. His chest was bare and broad with just a hint of black hair. A blanket was draped—barely—across his middle and over one leg, but his other leg was exposed from his thigh on down.

Her fingers itched to touch the hard muscles of his chest and arms. She wanted to trace a path with the palm of her hand down his tight stomach and let it linger. Instead, she tucked her hands into the satin-lined pockets of her khaki pants and forced herself to steady her breathing, then she hurried to the kitchen.

The kitchen had always been her sanctuary.

She paused for a minute as she flipped on the light switch, wondering why Buck was intruding on her waking moments as well as her dreams.

It was more than a little unsettling to be so attracted to Buck. He wasn’t her type at all.

But who was her type? George and his kiss-and-telling to the tabloids had hurt her to the core. Before George, it’d been her assistant director, Mick.

Mick had charmed her in the hope that she’d make him director. After she’d given him her heart and soul, she’d come close to doing just that. Luckily, or unluckily, she’d caught him in a lip-lock with the studio’s receptionist.

She’d finally learned her lesson with George. She was going to be more careful than ever. In fact, she might forget about romance altogether.

Merry pushed all that to the back of her mind and flipped the switch to start the coffeemaker. She admired the bright Mexican tiles, and wondered if Karen’s mother had a hand in designing those, too. It was a great kitchen with yards of counter space and gleaming appliances.

Everything about the rambling ranch house was homey and comfortable. It had the feel of a close-knit loving family.

It was a shame to turn it into a dude ranch. This was a house meant for a family. Oh, sure, guests would feel warm and welcome, but the house wouldn’t speak to them like it spoke to her. It represented everything she’d never had growing up.

Cranking open the windows above the sink, she took in a deep breath of the cool morning air. Instead of the smell of Boston Harbor, Arizona had the scent of horses and something else…mesquite maybe, or sage.

Morning was her favorite time of the day. She loved to sit with a cup of coffee and watch as the world around her came to life.

She noticed that distant mountains looked like a lacy silhouette against the orange glow of the sky. At the base was a smoky layer of clouds that made the mountains look like they were floating. She knew that it was going to be hot soon.

As Buck kept reminding her, it was the desert.

The chirping of the birds surprised her. Back home, the squawking of the seagulls drowned out any other birds that might be nearby, but here in the desert, the birds were singing in several-part harmonies. It was all a glorious cacophony of sound, and right now it sounded better to her than the Boston Symphony.

She peeked into the refrigerator, looking forward to the prospect of cooking a big breakfast for Buck and Cait and maybe even the ranch hands. Instead of the pressure of testing recipes for her show and making sure everything was just perfect, she could cook for the fun of it, just like she had once upon a time. Before cooking became her gold mine, then her albatross.

As her eyes skimmed the contents of the refrigerator, her mind quickly sorted everything into various combinations of dishes. She could make several different quiches, or omelets, or even her ham-and-cheese scones.

Depending on when everyone usually ate, she might even have time to make her maple biscuits.

She wondered what Buck would want for breakfast. She figured him for the meat-and-potatoes type, nothing fancy, so he’d probably like eggs like rubber and bread that was carbonized. He’d want potatoes swimming in grease and onions and a hunk of artery-clogging meat. She could do that.

She glanced in the direction of the living room where Buck slept and wondered what, if anything, he had on under that blanket. She wanted another peak at him lying on the couch.

As if by magic, the door opened and Buck materialized. “G’morning.” He rubbed his closed eyes with the tips of his fingers. “I checked on Cait. She’s still sleeping.”

He ran his hands over his chest as if he was rubbing himself awake, and Merry couldn’t turn her eyes away. He wore only jeans, but a white, long-sleeved shirt hung around his neck, the same shirt he’d been wearing last night. He clearly wasn’t a morning person in the least, but he looked very male, from the top of his disheveled black hair to the bottom of his bare feet.

He yawned, then sniffed the air, his eyes still at half mast. “Coffee?”

“It’s not quite ready yet,” Merry answered. “Can I make you breakfast?”

The second his eyes focused on her, he froze and blurted, “I thought you were Karen.”

“Hospital.”

“Right.”

“How about breakfast?”

“Uh, no. I have to take care of the horses.” He crossed the room, bent over to grab his boots, then he hurried out the door.

Looking out the window, she saw Buck hopping as he pulled on his boots. He shrugged into his shirt and continued walking as he buttoned it. He let out a low whistle, and several horses that were in the corral moved toward the fence and hung their heads over it. Laughing, he petted their noses.

“I overslept, ladies and gents, but I’ll feed you now,” she heard him say.

The coffeemaker gave a final chug, and she decided to deliver Buck’s coffee to him at the barn and watch him feed the horses. Since she didn’t know how he took his coffee, she found a silver tray, draped a yellow-checked napkin over it, and set a creamer and sugar bowl on it along with a spoon and two mugs of coffee, one for him and one for her.

Tentatively, she walked out to the corral, ever alert for anything that crawled or slithered. She could feel every pebble under her feet, and knew for a fact that she should have packed some sturdy shoes rather than strappy Italian sandals.

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