Claiming The Cowboy (Meier Ranch Brothers 3)

Gretchen’s favorite place on earth was the special events room of the Bareback Distillery and Tasting House. Crazy, she knew, given her tumultuous start with the entire concept of the place. Oak barrels that contained the whiskey of the future—their future—lined the shotgun-style room and extended all the way up to the twenty-foot rafters. The space was long enough for one continuous table and fifty chairs and intimate enough that the light strings that zig-zagged overhead created an unparalleled ambiance of magic. They had hosted dignitaries, anniversary parties, wedding receptions—including their own—and charity events, but none were as special as the celebration on election night.

Landslide victory, Gretchen de Havilland, state district attorney.

Of course, it took five years, a lot of campaigning, and a major delay in starting a family, but luckily Chase was accustomed to time spent on the road. When things became hectic, he always said any means of getting from one town to the next was better than a rodeo RV. She couldn’t say exactly why. Probably something to do with horse biscuits on the boots.

They saw the last of their guests out, mostly family, the knee-high tottering ones the hardest to convince to leave. Nat and January’s son, Clem, ran around, knocking on each barrel end, delighting in the unique sounds from the differing levels resulting from how they had been rotated, taken down, and sampled. Future drummer, no doubt, but it might have been their trip to Africa that had started his pursuit of rhythm. Wes and Livie’s son, Daniel, preferred things closer to home. The first time he crawled up on an empty barrel in the warehouse, Wes shot Chase a warning look. Future bull rider, that one.

Chase locked the door and turned off the lights, street side. When he rejoined Gretchen, the only lit bulbs came from the strings overhead. Chase pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

All right, the special events room was her second favorite place on earth. Inside her husband’s arms was definitely better.

After her toes were sufficiently curled, she said against his lips, “Hm. No longer tastes like dirt.”

Chase laughed.

“You know, it would only be fitting to have the first scandalous affair of my tenure as attorney general right here, the site of so much controversy.”

“You’re certainly wearing the right shoes for it.”

On purpose, Gretchen had chosen four-inch, cut-out, peep-toe heels in coral-dyed leather. The running joke: the closer she came to elected office, the more extreme her shoes. Mostly, she loved what her shoes did to him when their days were finished. She was pretty sure they had more sex with her sporting heels than barefoot. But the road went two ways. She had grown to adore Chase’s vast array of championship buckles, mostly for the kinky utility of the attached belts.

She knew there were times Chase missed rodeo. It would always be part of him, but he valued his health more than the eight-second thrill it gave him. Besides, he said, he had her for thrills now, and those lasted a helluva lot longer than eight seconds.

“I don’t trust these event tables,” said Chase, between kisses. “But we got a delivery of empty barrels today. Good, solid oak.”

Gretchen thought of the night in the pasture, how much she had wanted him then, how far they had come. The thought of a b

arrel and heels had her terrified and turned on, all at once. She took him by the hand and led him around the corner, near where she knew deliveries entered the building. Golden glow from the party lights filtered through the spaces between the barrels, leaving a brilliant and symmetrical artistic pattern on the vertical surfaces: barrels, concrete walls, Chase’s back, and, eventually, her bare breasts.

He draped a quilted delivery blanket over the barrel’s end to protect her skin from splinters then marveled aloud at how his whiskey casks, designed for strength and flavor and beauty, also happened to be the right height for him to enter her—all while her heels hooked the oak lip and her pleasured cries echoed through the finest artisan whiskey the state had to offer. And when she clung to him and gripped him and took him with her, he lifted her from the barrel, her legs around his hips, and carried her to the sofa in his office.

She snuggled against his warm neck, feeling the pull of fatigue in her eyelids, her limbs, and every sated part of her body in between. Achieving dreams demanded rest. She fought sleep valiantly, remembered Chase whispering, “I love you,” against her earlobe, remembered the gorgeous sight of him naked before he slipped back into his pants and settled beside her on the couch beneath a blanket. The woodsy smell of oak and Chase filled her senses.

Her life had gone according to plan. Except for one thing. Chase Meier was about as unplanned as a burr in a saddle. He was fearless and reckless and lawless. He also happened to be her best surprise of all.

End of Claiming The Cowboy