Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114263 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 571(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
“I will. And remember, you’re coming home. Good night, sweetheart.”
“Bye, Mom.”
I cowgirl most of the week.
The weather is cooling off ever so slightly now that we’re approaching October. One morning is even close to crisp. I can’t get enough of it. The sun, the action, the way the cowboys rib each other while tossing lassos and caring for injured cows.
Maria and I finally bond. I’m more confident in the saddle with each passing day.
We’re so in tune, I even eat like a horse, devouring Patsy’s excellent cooking. One night, she makes these melt-in-your-mouth ribs, slathered in sweet, tangy barbecue sauce that’s so good, I practically finish a rack of ribs myself. I can’t get enough of the cheesy grits she makes one morning or the homemade chicken salad she pairs with croissants she bakes from scratch for lunch.
My stomach hasn’t hurt in…wow, a week now. Makes me think my problem isn’t food or any kind of allergy. It’s something else entirely. Can fresh air cure stomach pain? Was there something in the water in Dallas that was killing me?
Or do I just like life on a ranch more than life in the city?
I try not to dwell too much on that last question, because the implications are…alarming, to say the least. I’m not staying on Lucky Ranch. Not for the long haul, anyway.
But I do love how wrung out my body feels at the end of each day. I dutifully take my Epsom salt baths and then fall into bed.
I’ve never slept so well in my life.
I’ve also been struggling to juggle my responsibilities. I’ll squeeze in some Bellamy Brooks stuff after supper in the evenings, but needless to say, I don’t last long before I’m nodding off.
By the time Friday rolls around, I’ve missed so many calls and have so many emails and invoices to catch up on, I decide to take the whole day off from doing my cowgirl thing to do my cowboy-boot-designer thing instead. Palmer is arriving this afternoon, too, and I want to take a long shower so I can shave everything and wash my hair.
Cash blinks when I inform him at breakfast that I won’t be joining him and the other cowboys today. “Oh.”
My heart somersaults. “If y’all need me—”
“Do your thing. We got it handled.”
“You sure?”
He sips his coffee. “I’m sure.”
“You’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?”
“Maria will. She likes you.”
I smile, even as my heart does another flip. Why do I get the feeling Cash is disappointed? Does he actually want me out there with him?
Is he actually going to miss me?
“Enough with the guilt trip,” I say.
His eyes glitter. “Passive-aggressive ain’t my style, Mollie. But you’re the one who’s gotta share the news with your horse. She cries, that’s on you.”
“She’s Dad’s horse.” I shove Cash’s shoulder. “And horses don’t actually cry, do they?”
He shrugs. “You’re about to find out, aren’t you?”
I don’t want to laugh, but I do.
I don’t want to think about Cash and Maria and the other cowboys as I clear out my inbox later that morning in the soaring, silent office at the front of the New House, but I do.
Wheeler picks right up when I call her. “Hey, hey.”
“Good morning,” I singsong. “How’s it going?”
“Don’t you sound chipper! Please tell me it’s because you got railed by a cowboy with a rock-hard—”
“Only railing I’ve dealt with this week was the kind that makes a fence.”
Wheeler chuckles. “Look at you, doing authentic ranch shit! I’m proud of you. But I’d be prouder if you did the other kind of railing too.”
Trust me, I’ve thought about it. A lot.
“So, my stipend’s about to hit our account.”
“You’re not very smooth at changing the subject. Wait, wait. You didn’t get railed, but you’re getting close. Oh my God!” She’s squealing now. “Yay for you! There’s a reason they say cowboys do it better, and faster, and harder, and all the things.”
“Actually, I invited Palmer to the ranch.”
Dead silence.
Then, “You’re telling me you’re surrounded by hot cowboys, but you’re going to have sex with Gordon Gekko instead?”
“Oh, stop. Just because Palmer’s not your cup of tea—”
“He’s fine, Mollie. But that’s all he is. Fine. And not in the sexy sense of the word either.”
Wheeler’s hung out with Palmer and me a few times, usually at the tail end of a night out when Palmer or I send each other the proverbial U up? text. If he’s close by, he’ll usually meet me at whatever bar I’m at, and then we’ll head to my place or to his.
“He gets the job done,” I say diplomatically.
“That’s a job someone else can do better. How’s Cash?”
Clicking on an email, I roll my eyes. “He’s fine. So once we have the money, let’s firm up our completion dates with—”
“You’re cute.”
“What? C’mon, Wheeler, focus. I have a lot to catch up on.”