Buckled (Trails of Sin 2)

I have so much more to say about this, but I won’t. Raising cattle is their livelihood, and preaching is not mine.

I turn back to my plate and wait for the backfire.

Conor steps beside me, drawing my gaze to hers.

“Welcome to Julep Ranch.” A grin spreads across her face. “You’ll do just fine here.”

She strolls out of the kitchen, leaving me stunned and staring after her.

As Jake follows her out, he claps a hand on Jarret’s shoulder. “I like her.”

When he vanishes around the corner, I dare a peek at Jarret. “What just happened?”

“No one here cares what you eat.” He folds his arms on the table. “They were just feeling you out. Seeing what you’re made of.”

“That’s fucked up.” My eyebrows pull in as my mind spins with curiosity. “What do you think I’m made of?”

“Backbone.” He reaches out and yanks on one of my braids. “And now they know it, too.”

“Why does that matter?” I straighten my spine.

“They were concerned I might take advantage of you.”

“Is that a habit of yours?”

“Only with meddlesome reporters.” He pushes the oatmeal closer. “Eat.”

“Thank you for breakfast.” I grab a spoon and start eating. “You don’t need to cook special meals for me. I have food in my car.”

“Oysters?” He grins and nods at the bowl. “It’s microwaved oatmeal. Nothing fancy. Since our moms died when we were young, none of us learned how to cook.”

“As much as you work, I’m surprised you don’t have a personal chef.”

“We’re running the ranch on a bare bones crew to trim costs. We’ll hire more cowhands before we invest in a personal staff.” He stands, slides on his hat, and starts clearing the table.

He’s already done?

I eat faster, scraping the bottom of the bowl. “How did you guys scarf down everything so quickly? Did you even taste your food?”

“We were raised to eat efficiently. It’s a way of life here. Meals are fuel and nothing more. After a couple of days, you’ll get used to it.”

When I finish the oatmeal, I help him with the dishes and try not to dwell on how domesticated all this feels. Moving around him in the tight space by the sink, bumping arms, brushing hands, sharing air—it’s more intimate than the live-in relationships I’ve had.

Jarret starts the dishwasher and grabs a hat from the back counter.

“This is a Stetson.” He sets it on my head and adjusts the roll of the brim. “The felt is made from the fur of various critters, and before you get all self-righteous—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Good, because we use a lot of leather and hide around here. It’s durable and lasts a long time. I wore this hat through most of my teens.” He lifts my chin with a finger, inspecting my face. “Do you burn easily?”

“Sometimes.”

“Conor!” His booming voice makes me jump. “Where’s your sunblock?”

“Mudroom,” she shouts from somewhere in the house.

The finger beneath my chin becomes a hard grip, and something flashes in his golden eyes. “Let’s get started on that adventure.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach as I follow him to the mudroom.

“You want me to put my hand where?” I curl my fingers in the long-sleeved glove that Jarret lubricated to my shoulder.

“The rectum.” He pats the rear flank of the cow in front of us, and she returns a cheeky snort.

After I lathered up with sunblock, he led me to this cowshed on foot. During the five-minute walk, he could’ve prepared me. He could’ve said, “Hey, so that adventure I mentioned? It’s a trip down a dark tunnel of shit. Literally.”

But, no. He walked ahead of me, as fast as those long legs could carry him, without saying a word.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, but not too deeply because the air reeks of manure.

When I open my eyes, I find the rich amber of his waiting inches away.

“I’m not qualified to do this.” I frown at the cow’s twitching tail. “What if I hurt her?”

“I won’t let you.”

“You still haven’t told me what A.I.-ing the cattle means.”

“Artificial Insemination. Explaining why we do this is more complicated than explaining how to do it.”

I make a grudging sound in my throat and release a breath. “Okay, just tell me what to do.”

“That’s par for the course.” The insinuation in his deep voice vibrates through me. “What’s your experience with anal?”

“Jarret, I swear to God, if you make this sexual, I’ll believe everything I’ve heard about rednecks and their farm animals.”

“Let’s set one thing straight.” He puts his face in mine. “If I ever spit without opening my mouth, mow my lawn and find a household appliance, get a farmer’s tan while watching NASCAR, name a son after a Southern Civil War general, or take a seventeen-year-old bride in my fifties, then you can call me a redneck.”

He’s so serious and intense it’s hard to keep from laughing.