One Bride for Four Ranchers

We drive for less than ten minutes before Trey’s pulling back over again. This time, I actually see cattle. And fencing. Lots of fencing in the distance, too. The cattle and the fence line are a short walk from the truck, but not too far, no matter how weak in the knees I still am. I can make it.

Trey turns off the truck and sit and then sits there moment. He stares at the dash, and I start tapping my foot. I press my hand against my knee and stop tapping. Showing my nervousness isn’t likely to help.

“I’ll take care of you if you get pregnant, Jessa. I want you to know that,” he says. And then he turns to look at me. Excitement, not fear, laces his expression. “I just need you to know that. It would be my pleasure.”

Shock reverberates through me, twisting into an uncomfortable lump in my chest. We didn’t use protection, how could I not have thought about until now? I’d spent every adult year of my life making sure that kind of thing didn’t happen. Is it because I’m already pregnant? Or had I gotten so swept up in Trey that it just hadn’t occurred to me, even to my subconscious?

I just don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him part him I’m pregnant, not now. It just wouldn’t be fair to Clay. It’s only right he knows first.

Finally, I settle for a weak, “Thanks.”

He nods, eyes still on me, before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Then he gets out of the truck.

I climb down, too—again, watching for holes—before Trey can make it around the truck to help me. I appreciate his chivalry, I really do. But I can open my own damn door sometimes.

Trey takes my hand in his again—and damn, doesn’t it feel natural—and leads me toward the pasture.

As we approach, it becomes more and more obvious to me that cows are not what I expect.

They are huge.

I slow next to Trey, my eyes widening. I mean, horses are huge, and I’m not afraid of them. Okay, I might be slightly afraid of the horses, but sheesh. The cattle—not only are they big but there are so many of them. They aren’t crowded in the pasture, but they are staying fairly close together. Probably the way the fencing works with holistic herding keeps them closer together.

“Are you all right?” Trey asks.

“Have you uh... noticed how big those things are?” I say, knowing how stupid I must sound to the lifetime rancher.

But he doesn’t laugh at me like I expected him to. Instead, he gives me a gentle smile. “The bull isn’t with the herd. They won’t hurt you. I promise, I’ll be by your side the whole time.”

I’ve known Trey less than a week. His reassurance that he would be next to me shouldn’t make me feel so safe. And yet it does. Warm and fuzzy and ridiculous, because I know that I shouldn’t already feel so close to this man. Let alone, to all four of them.

He takes me by the cows, moving slowly so I can get used to them. To Trey’s credit, they do all seem gentle and tame. They move slowly and don’t seem to be afraid of us at all. They’re actually really kind of cute.

Cows. Steak. Man, I could go for a good steak right now.

Guilt twists my stomach as I pet the cow between her eyes. Looking at that adorable face and all I can think about is steak? I’m going to have to blame the pregnancy for this one.

“Aren’t you just adorable?” I say.

The cow sniffs me, and, discovering no yummies, goes back to grazing.

“I’ll bring you an apple next time,” I promise her. At least when she looks at me, she thinks of food too.

&nb

sp; We continue walking, mostly around the herd rather than directly through it. All of the cows seem relatively docile, but I’m definitely glad that there aren’t any bulls here. A gentle breeze blows around us, bringing with it the smells of the pasture and a surprisingly little smell of manure.

I almost ask Trey about it, but I really don’t want to talk to him about poop. No doubt, the cows have enough room in this pasture that that kind of smell doesn’t build, especially with the way they rotate their pastures with the holistic herding. I’ve never been to the type of commercial farm where the smell is really an issue—like a big dairy farm—but I’d heard horror stories. I’m oh so thankful the Hollister Ranch isn’t that type of ranch. I don’t feel any nausea at the moment, but a whole field of cow poop seems like it could change that pretty quickly.

We make our way around the fence and through an area of dense brush. Luckily, there’s already a path cut through it. I’m not sure if it was done by man or by cow. I open my mouth to ask, then stop when Trey lets out a loud expletive.

We reach the end of the brush patch, and I bump into his back when he stops unexpectedly.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I peek around him to see if I can tell what the problem is, but all I see is more fence.

“This,” he says, striding forward. I have to jog behind him for a few seconds to keep up. The man has some long legs.

I look at where he’s pointing when we stop, and suddenly it’s obvious even to me what’s wrong. The fence is horribly damaged—enough so it wouldn’t take much for cow to walk through the hole. I glance at three cows who are nearest. They continue to calmly graze. Apparently, they aren’t in any hurry to escape.