Screwdrivered (Cocktail 3)

Sighing as I came to the end of the hallway, I opened the door onto what I remembered was the master bedroom. And here was the knight’s torso, holding court on a stand in front of the wide picture window, overlooking the sea. Planning a watery invasion? Not likely, his legs being in the hallway, you see.

The ornate four-poster bed, still majestic and beautiful, was sagging in the middle. Well, bowling balls will do that. Yep, seven to be exact. Pink. Lined up down the center.

I turned in a circle, taking it all in.

Aunt Maude might have been shithouse crazy.

I left the house through the back door, testing each floorboard before putting my full weight on it. That scratch on my leg was throbbing. I’d need to head back into town and find some Bactine.

Ugh. I shuddered to think about sleeping in any of those beds until I could do a good airing out. The couch didn’t look too bad, though. I could sleep there just for tonight until I could—

I was pulled from my thoughts by a soft whinny. The barn! I turned to look: still weathered red, with a pasture surrounded by a weathered wooden fence. Across the long dooryard from the house, I could see the old pump for the well that had been there forever. As I walked through the grass, a few chickens scratched at the ground.

Mr. Montgomery had said there were still a few animals. Someone from town took care of them, someone who had worked for Aunt Maude for a while. Hank, I think his name was. I hadn’t seen any sign of him in the house; perhaps the barn?

I headed toward the barn door, the chickens squawking and making sure I knew my presence was unnecessary this afternoon. I toed my way through and poked my head around the corner.

Warm and still, the oaken beams soared just as high as they did when I was a little girl, when I had spent hours swinging from a rope above. I could see the hayloft, stuffed full with feed for the horses. Er, horse. I counted seven empty stalls, and one solitary horse. Which whinnied again.

“Hey there, Mr. Horse,” I soothed, the extent of my equestrian knowledge being exactly zero. But I always see people on television stroking the nose.

I didn’t get to the nose. Because before I could get to the nose, I stepped in the shit.

Turns out picturesque old barns with actual living horses also come with poop. Which was now all over my boot. I limped on the left from the porch scratch and dragged on the right from the poop boot right back out into the yard. And for the history buffs out there, apparently shit and hay mixed together literally makes a kind of mortar. Like you could build a house with this stuff. So my right foot now weighed two thousand pounds.

I limped-dragged toward the cliff, trying to scrape my boot off but succeeding only in smearing dandelions into the mixture. “Oh for the love of f**k,” I muttered, trying to laugh about this and retain the feeling I’d had before the shit step. I was in love with Mendocino, I was in love with this new adventure, I was in love with—

And then? I saw him. As I stood at the edge of the earth, buffeted by the wind, I saw a distant rider on a black horse on the pristine beach below, which curved as far as the eye could see.

My toes curled up in joy.

He splashed through the surf, galloping through the waves. Hurtling down the crooked, winding steps, down, down, down toward the beach. I forgot my brick shoe, I forgot my ripped jeans, I forgot everything but . . . the rider.

And as he galloped closer, his features were revealed. And by features, I mean he wore not a stitch of clothing upon his mighty chest. Long, strong legs wrapped around the powerful black stallion, which snorted and tossed its head into the sea spray. Legs wrapped in the luckiest denim ever sewn led my eyes up, up, up to the most chiseled chest and abs, cut into his golden wet skin by the hand of sweet merciful God himself. Arms? His arms were like pythons, his hands holding the barest of reins, preferring to guide his horse with a gentle nudge and prod. And speaking of a nudge and prod.

His manhood was apparent even through his jeans.

I gulped as I traversed the treacherous steps, finally reaching the beach and slowing my pace as he approached. Closer now, I could see that his hair was long, and flowing, and a blond the exact color of honey and lust. I stood upon the sand as he cantered close, his cowboy hat—a motherfucking cowboy!—tilted back to reveal a face that could make angels sing and devils weep. Square jaw, full lips, and dark smoldering eyes that made me want to get lost in them for the foreseeable future.

He rode his stallion right up to me, looking down at my female form and raising an eyebrow in . . . appreciation? Admiration? Total and complete abandon?

Was this Cowboy Hank? Oh my, yes, it was. Because his belt buckle told me so . . .

Those perfect lips parted, and he said—

“Hey, lady, this beach is private property. Get the hell outta here.”

He spun his horse and galloped away. But as a parting gift, his horse crapped on the beach.

I dragged myself back toward the stairs, my footprints behind me ridiculous due to the now shit-hay-dandelion-sand-encrusted-twice-the-normal-size right side and the hobble on the left.

Not how my romance novel was supposed to start . . .

Chapter three

I crawled back into the house, mad as a wet hen. Which I’m pretty sure was cackling at me as I’d made my way through the yard and tried to get the old pump working. It didn’t. Naturally.

Cowboy Hank. I couldn’t believe it. Not exactly the introduction I’d hoped for. But still, he was dreamy as all get-out. I’d tangled with bad boys before. I could do it again. All great romance novels had a conflict to overcome, right? Granted, they rarely started with horseshit, but I’d adapt. But for now, I had business to attend to.