Stripped Down

“Angel.” She chants my name, eyes shut, lost in her pleasure, but I can’t stop watching her face any more than I can stop moving in and out of her. Funny how something so simple makes us so connected. Just the two of us, right here, right now, on the picnic table, where the whole damned world could line up to watch, but I don’t care. All that matters is the woman in my arms and making sure she finds what she needs.

“Oh, God, Angel.” My name is part-scream, part sigh.

She stiffens, the muscles in her thighs tensing, and I reach between us to help. Gently, I stroke her clit and then I tap it. Hard. She flies apart with a shriek, coming around me as my arms wrap around her, pulling her down to me as I bury myself one last time inside her.

Maybe the blowjob is a gift, but it comes with a price tag. My heart’s attached to it. Rose pushes me, challenges me. Nothing’s easy around her, and she dared me to come after her and convince her to follow my rules. We’re lovers now, and all the rules have gone out the window. This time, if Rose runs, she takes a part of me with her.

ANGEL

I’m no Jesus Christ, but it’s like my hopes have been buried in a fucking tomb, and now I’ve got to find a way to resurrect them. Rose didn’t come home after she blew me on the picnic table. In three days, I have an appointment at the lawyer’s office and we’re going to file the paperwork to force the sale. It will take time—nothing that happens in a courtroom is speedy—but it will happen. I’ve got the demolition team standing by, ready to go. All I have to do is give the word, and I’ll be that much closer to gaining the new well my ranch needs so badly. Instead, my head spins me in circles, trying to find another way out of the mess I’ve landed himself in. Three days to choose between Rose and the water. Her hopes and my future.

Even if I show up on Friday to sign the papers in the lawyer’s office to take title of the Jordan place, there’s no predicting what Rose does. She’s moved the RV to Auntie Dee’s house, but she hasn’t packed up that pink eyesore of hers and she hasn’t put Lonesome behind her. Not yet. I check at least twice a day and that her car is parked in Auntie Dee’s driveway. I arranged to have the electricity turned on, but her camping spot still isn’t ideal. It’s better, though, than her up and running further away from me.

She won’t make this easy for me.

Fair enough.

She hasn’t sought me out she took me on that picnic table. I’d like to have the damned thing bronzed, can’t stop myself from doing a driving-by while I give her the space she claims she needs to think things through.

I have it bad.

Which explains why I’m headed toward the corral where J.J. is working his horse in some complicated, fancy-ass pattern that’s probably worth a million points to the rodeo judges. J.J. is an expert on competing and winning. If anyone can straighten me out, it’s him.

I ride up the ring and swing down from my horse. The poor stallion’s probably got rider envy now, but I tie him to the railing anyhow.

I let myself relax into the familiar rhythm of hooves hitting the sunbaked ground. Later today I’ll ride out and check the northern fence line. I haven’t been there in three weeks, so it’s time. I have cowboys to ride the line, but some things are better seen for myself.

J.J. raises a hand, the horse bucks, and I have no idea how he hangs on. “Be with you in a minute,” he hollers.

I tip my hat at him and settle back against the railing. I’ve got a nice view of the ranch from here. On the other side of the fencing, where our open range begins, one of my cowboys rides after an escaping calf, moving seamlessly with his horse as his lariat slips through the air and over the head of the recalcitrant calf. That man has ridden for Blackhawk Ranch for thirty years now. Where’s he gonna find work if the ranch goes under and becomes housing developments instead of range? The number of California beef outfits shrinks each year, which makes this battle about more than just water. I’ve got an entire way of life to preserve, so no fucking pressure.

“You talk to Rose about selling?” J.J. slouches up beside me on his horse.

“Yeah.” I make a mental note to send more hands out. The fence on our northern perimeter probably needs replacing, not a simple fix. “I did.”

“Didn’t go well?” J.J.’s always had a soft spot for Rose.

“Not particularly, no. Hell, J.J., how do you think it went? I want to take Auntie Dee’s house from her. It’s like I’m pissing all over her dreams. She thinks she can make it work.”

J.J.’s eyes follow the cowboy bringing back our AWOL calf. “She needs a dozen contractors, a money tree, and the second coming of Christ to fix that house. Yeah, I can see the problem there.”