Under the Rancher's Firm Hand

But while he definitely looked, he quickly looked back out the window.

The tension in the jet was too thick, and I started to feel a little suffocated, almost wishing I could strip down more. We were at least half an hour to our destination, and so I put my bare foot down and kicked off my heels. He turned to look at me again.

“So, where in New York are we going?” I asked, trying to break the tension.

And also, I genuinely wanted to know. He hadn’t said for sure, and I was picturing skyscrapers and streets packed with taxis. But New York is a whole state, not just the bustling city.

He cleared his throat and pushed aside the thick locks of dark hair disturbing the peace across his forehead. I loved them there. I loved it even more when he subconsciously tucked them away.

“My ranch,” he replied flatly and reclined in his seat.

Surprised, I pressed on. “What kind of ranch?”

He snorted and raised an eyebrow. “How many kinds do you know of?”

I gritted my teeth, annoyed with the condescending tone, but I answered calmly anyway.

“I mean, I imagine just the normal kind. Growing crops, raising livestock, cows, horses, chickens, pigs, all that,” I said with a nervous little shrug.

“That’s a farm.”

I have to resist the urge to sigh out loud this time. “Then teach me the difference.”

My snarky tone finally seemed to rouse his interest and he lifted an eyebrow once more, this time with a mildly amused expression.

“Well, if you must know Miss Sawyer, the kind of ranch I own deals with all of that livestock, but primarily cattle.” He paused.

I had quickly come to realize Caleb was not the kind of man you interrupt in his pauses, rather you wait. And I did. ‘There are horses too. And buffalo. And on some parts, I have ducks. I started off with my father and his brothers on a small acreage down by the Mississippi. We dealt with cows and chickens, and it was enough.’

I sensed that it was where he wanted to end his story. I stubbornly pushed on.

“So the difference is the plants, is what you’re saying? Farms do crops, ranches don’t?”

“Essentially, yes,” he nods, “And while it’s not a general rule or anything, as a general rule, ranches tend to be larger and more commercial, whereas farms can range from a guy with two cows and a garden to huge-scale operations.”

“Well, I mean, it’s not exactly a secret you grew up on a ranch, that’s all over the internet” I say, adding under my breath: “Even though every single article I read online referred to it as a farm.”

“Of course it is. So what else do you want to know? What do you want to hear straight from the horse’s mouth instead of Google?’ he asked with a smile.

I liked that smile. I tilted my head side to side and then paused while I shifted a little in my seat, getting more comfortable. “I want to hear the stories of the legendary Caleb Johnson as a young man growing up on a farm, and why he chose that as his business goal.’

The gates opened.

“My dad always told me to get into business that would never die; the land. And from an early age I took that to heart. See, when I started with the land he left me, things were hard. I struggled to put our business on the map and sell top dollar quality to the highest bidder. Before I was in a suit I was in a jumpsuit, tractor levers in my hand and sweat on my brow. It was all I could do to avoid the office or the investors or the…’

The man did not ramble. He spoke from his heart. And I listened with rapt attention, and laughed and smiled and got surprised at just the right moments. I saw him for who he truly was; a man with a burning flame deeply rooted in his principles. But I saw another thing. I saw love.

Love that would never die, that would constantly drive him and keep the fire burning behind him when he got tired or toiled with nothing in return or became a success. I saw the man behind the dark gray eyes. I saw him.

And I wanted that. I wanted to be loved by someone as much as Caleb Johnson loved his land.

Chapter 6 – Caleb

I am in awe at how much restraint I have shown. The more she asks me, the more she nears my core, to my amazement. Does she really not see how hungry I am for her body? Does she really not realize that I choose brevity for my own sanity?

The more I talked to her, the more I liked her, and the more I liked her, the more I wanted her.