And I don’t.
“I’m going to go inside and get my damn salt licks.” He steps away from my car, boots dragging across the gravel. “You’ve got five minutes, and then the offer’s off the table.”
I watch him go inside, his boots dragging through the gravel parking lot as he takes long strides. His dark jeans wear tight on his muscled ass, and his blue and red plaid shirt is cuffed at his elbows and pulling tight at his broad shoulders. I’d have figured a man like that in these parts would’ve been married with a family by now, maybe with a pretty little wife and a handful of strapping sons to help out on the ranch.
But he’s got the confidence of a man who doesn’t care what other people think of him. And he comes across as a bit of a loner, a man content to live by his own rules. A man who needs nothing and no one: a dangerous combination.
It would be nice to see my house again, even if it has been converted into Asshole Cowboy’s bachelor pad. But I haven’t worked on a farm in over ten years. I’m not sure how much help I’d be. And I don’t want to stay in the bunk house. If it’s anything like it used to be, it gets hot in there at night with no AC, and it’s musty, and all kinds of creepy crawlies get in through the cracks in the walls.
A voicemail box lights up my screen. I must’ve missed another call from Grant. Pressing ‘play’ simply for curiosity’s sake, I lift the phone to my ear and listen.
“Leighton.” His voice breaks when he says my name. And then he sighs. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it sounded like he hasn’t slept since I left.
Good.
“What are we doing?” he asks. “Talk to me. Call me back. Come back. I miss you. I need you. I fucked up. I admit it, baby. I fucked up so bad. Just … come back to me. I don’t know where you are. Your sister won’t tell me. Your boss says you quit your job. I’m worried. You just left … and that’s not like you and I …”
He rambles on, but I tune him out when I see Cowboy strutting across the parking lot toward his truck. Ending Grant’s voicemail, I climb out of my car and meet him at the tailgate.
“You haven’t even told me your name,” I say.
He cocks his head in my direction. “River McCray.”
“And how old are you?”
“What’s that matter?”
I shrug. “I just want to know a little bit about you.”
“Thirty-three,” he says, sighing like my question annoyed him.
“Are you from around here?” I ask.
“Born and raised.”
“How come I’ve never heard of you before?”
He lifts his dark brows. “I’ve never heard of you either. Guess we’re from different generations.”
“I’m not that much younger than you,” I say, doing the math in my head. Roughly seven years. We wouldn’t have gone to high school together, so I guess it makes sense that I’ve never heard of him. Though growing up, my parents tended to know all the farm families in the area, so I guess it strikes me as odd.
“Anything else you need to know?” He places some salt licks in the bed of his truck, their heaviness echoing off the metal when he drops them.
“Have you ever been married?”
He about chokes on his spit. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“I’m just curious.”
“More like nosy.”
“You just seem so …”
“So what?” He squints, waiting.
“Closed off?”
“Nothing wrong with that,” he says.
“Have you ever lived with anyone before?” I ask. “More specifically, have you ever lived with a woman?”
“Where are you going with this, Leighton?” He checks his watch before peering toward the highway.
“Okay. Fine. I’ll get to the point,” I say. “I’ll work on your ranch, but only until next Friday, because I get paid then and I’m getting the hell out of here. And I’m staying in my old room, not the bunk house.”
He looks me up and down before slamming the gate shut. “As long as you understand it’s my house, my farm, and my rules, I think we can make this work.”
Chapter Six
River
“Boots and coveralls are in the mudroom.” I point, forgetting she knows her way around. “Get dressed and meet me in the red barn at the end of the east drive.”
She stands at the base of the stairs, dark hair dripping wet and a fresh change of clothes covering her damp body. She smells like a bar of Dial soap, but she won’t for much longer. If I’m opening my doors to a complete stranger, giving her food and shelter, she’s sure as hell going to earn her keep, and I don’t intend on going easy on her just because she’s a girl.
I don’t wait for her.
I head to the barn where two bucket calves await their morning bottles.
Mixing their formula with warm water, I turn when I hear the door slide open behind me. Leighton stands, dressed in coveralls and a pair of my boots that are way too big for her.
“That was quick,” I say as the calves nudge my arms and follow me around.
I place a giant bottle in her arms, and the Holstein calf nearly plows her over.
“You’ve done this before, right?” I ask.
“A long time ago.” There’s a hint of a smile on her face as the calf pulls at the bottle, and she holds it tight with both hands. “What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“This one. The one I’m feeding.”
“I don’t name my animals,” I say. “Only the dog.”
A white bull calf comes up behind her, nudging her back and huffing. He wants to eat too.
“You should name her,” she says.
“And why would I do that?” I shake my head. “These aren’t pets, Leighton. No point in getting attached.”
Leighton shrugs. “I know they’re not pets, but it doesn’t mean you can’t still care about them.”
“These animals don’t give two shits if they’ve got names or not,” I say. “And I take damn good care of them. That’s all that matters.”
The white calf tries to knock the bottle out of her hands before headbutting the Holstein calf.
“I’m calling him R.J.,” Leighton peers up at me through dark lashes, fighting a grin.
“R.J.?”
“As in … River Junior,” she says.
“Why?”
“He reminds me of you. He’s pushy. And he’s got this permanent scowl on his face,” she adds. “But he’s still kind of cute.”
“Going to pretend you didn’t just insinuate that I’m cute.”
“Let’s not read into things, cowboy.”
The Holstein polishes off the last of her bottle and Leighton grabs the other bottle for “Junior.”
“This used to be my favorite chore,” she says, a reflective gentleness in her voice. “Feeding the orphaned calves.”
I say nothing as I watch her. She’s a natural, not minding the slobber on her hands or the baked-in stench of the barn. Most city girls like her, the pretty ones with the perfect hair and bright white smiles, would balk at an experience like this, but so far, she’s yet to complain.
“You’re a natural,” I say.
“You say that like you’re shocked.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the white calf, her expression softening.
“Not shocked. Just impressed.”