Cowboy Page 14

  My fingers circle the bump of her abs before lowering to stroke over the coarse hair near the apex of her legs. Her thighs spread automatically, anticipating where I’m headed, and I don’t want to disappoint her. I never want to give her a reason to second-guess her decision to stay with me. My hand slips forward, curling over her before two fingers thrust inside.

  “Babe.” Her back arches as her head tips back. She’s so wet and ready for me, but I’m taking my time. In the quiet of dawn, I just want to tease her and drag this out a bit, take her sweet and slow. Scarlett and I are pretty hot when we come together, and we’ve experienced things in a lot of unique spots in my home. Over the back of the couch. Against the wood stove chimney in the kitchen. Even on the staircase once. Of course, with her changing shape, we’ll continue to be creative, so I want this moment.

  As I slide in and out of her wet heat, she’s dripping, and I’m so stiff. I’d blame it on the morning, but it’s all Scarlett. She does this to me.

  “Sweetheart, I want to feel you around me.” Sensing what I mean, Scarlett rolls toward me, ready to climb over me, but I press her back. “I’ll be careful,” I tell her, knowing we both worry about squishing the baby. Scarlett researched it when I was concerned I’d hurt her, and she told me I wasn’t coming anywhere near the baby. Folding up to my knees, I position Scarlett’s lower body, slipping a pillow under her backside to tip her upward. Holding myself in place, I drag my dick, which is hard enough to hammer nails, through her slit and coat the tip. I love that being pregnant means we can go without anything between us, and briefly, I wonder if Scarlett will consider a second baby even though she hasn’t had the first.

  Eventually, I slip inside, taking my time to fill her, drawing out the tension. She hisses as I get to the hilt. Her legs are pressed against my pelvis. We’re as close as two humans can get, yet it almost doesn’t feel like enough. She’s crawled into my soul, and I want to live in hers, but I fight back those thoughts, reminding myself that admitting such things is too much. I won’t be making any verbal promises. I’ll be keeping all my feelings to myself.

  Pulling back, watching as I spill from her body until only the tip remains, I take a breath and surge forward, filling her once again. Staying steady, I repeat the motion as Scarlett’s head rolls on the pillow, her bright hair glowing in the dimness of dawn. She’s so beautiful. Her hair reminds me of the Engagement Tree when it’s in fiery bloom come fall. The heart of this land. She’s the heart of me.

  Taking my time, I pull back and thrust forward, drawing out the sensation until we’re both panting with the need for more. Angling higher on my knees, Scarlett moans.

  “What’s this?” Her voice squeaks with the change in position, allowing my shaft to rub against her clit as I move forward in this position. Her eyes spring open and widen. “Bull?”

  The hitch to her voice tells me she likes this, and the tension in her body hints she’s close.

  “I told you, I want to feel you. There’s no better sensation than when you come and I’m inside you.”

  Her arms stretch over her head, reaching for the slats of my wooden headboard. Fingers curl around the wood strips as she moves her hips in a way that matches my dance over her, and she breaks. Her legs tighten at my hips. Her head tips back. She’s a goddess like this, all curves and arches, giving in to the power of us coming together. With that thought, I release the tension I’ve been holding back. Her orgasm sets off mine, and I spill into her, pulsing as she clenches. If she wasn’t already pregnant, she would be from this.

  Lowering my hands to brace myself on either side of her shoulders, I stare down at her, still inside her. There’s so much I want to tell her. How happy she makes me. How much I love her. How thrilled I am she’s having this baby, but I keep it all locked up tight.

  “Feel good, sweetheart?” I ask, knowing there’s no way she doesn’t, but what I really want to know is if she’s satisfied with me. Could she ever fall in love with me? Could she want more with me?

  That night, dinner is almost ready at the main house, and I’m expecting Scarlett any minute. Joey has the television on in the den, and I’ve wandered in to see my favorite niece. When Canyon showed up with her a few years ago, our world turned upside down. Our mainly male household didn’t know what to do with a girl on the edge of becoming a teen. Thank goodness Carly took over the female matters, although I’d like to think Canyon has a good handle on these things. His love of women over the years certainly should have prepared him to raise one, which leaves me wondering how I’ll be if Sprout turns out to be a girl.

  “Whatcha watching?” I ask as Joey sits on the couch, her feet up on the ottoman. The television screen comes to life with blaring music and the spinning title of KTEL. The program is titled Insider. Admittedly, I haven’t investigated the place where Scarlett told me she once worked. She doesn’t talk about it, dismissing her former employer as a modern-day gossip rag full of spoils about the rich and famous. It’s definitely not my thing. I’m not up on pop stars, movie star marriages, or even the greatest hits in music.

  “It’s summertime in the city, but what about the neighboring countryside? Who’s missed some of our favorite stories? Ever wonder what happened next? In tonight’s segment, we have updates on some of our most requested stories, turning old news new again.”

  The square image in the upper right corner immediately has the hairs on the back of my neck lifting. Despite it not being full-screen, I already recognize the picture as well as what the headline reads. As if conjuring it larger, the square blows up to fill the monitor, and the headline appears.

  Bovine Bridegroom turns Dirty Dairy.

  “Turn this shit off,” I hiss to Joey, but she’s transfixed by the image. The remote is in her hand, but she doesn’t change the channel, and the train wreck begins as a familiar-sounding female speaks.

  “In a special interest story about our New England neighbor Vermont, this tale doesn’t hold the happily ever after of Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. You’ve heard always the bridesmaid, never the bride, but what about the repeat groom? Sources say this hunky dairy king has been engaged and left at the altar on more than one occasion.”

  The image focuses on the backside of a cowboy, covered in muck, but zooms in to highlight the tight-fitting jeans.

  “Who could leave a man like that?” the feminine voice questions, a hint of both sarcasm and attraction in her voice. Closing my eyes, I don’t need to see the rest of the scandalous special segment, but my ears remain open, and it’s then that the familiarity of the voice registers to full recognition.

  “Looks like this bovine bridegroom has taken to the fields. Perhaps he’s found love in other places, although that’s not legal in most states. Just what are they doing in Vermont?”

  As my eyes slowly open, I watch as the cowboy in question is bent forward, rocking in a way that didn’t seem inappropriate in any manner until this shitshow aired and interpreted the motion as thrusting into a calf. Eventually, the cowboy is caught hitching up the poor thing, which was stuck in the mud, caused by days of rain and a flood of the backfield. In the video, the thickness of the muck sucks at his boots, and he falls over, tumbling with the baby cow. The medium-sized animal lands on top of the poor sucker. For a moment, the calf rocks, his own hooves stuck once again, and the position is nothing more than a mess. But this no-nothing show spins its own web.

  “Poor cowboy can’t even get the cows to come home with him.”

  That babe unsticks himself and stumbles out of the mud, leaving the cowboy in a heap, covered in muck. When he rolls over and presses upward, the backside angle is caught again.

  “Looks like our dairy king is out of luck, or should we say muck, with even his own animals. Oh well, here’s hoping he catches the next one.”

  There’s a chorus of chuckles before the video shrinks, and the screen shows a group of reporters—and I use the term very loosely—crammed together in an office cubi
cle.

  “Updates?” The original male announcer stands with his arms over a mid-waist cubicle wall.

  “Last check-in, the Bovine Bridegroom has sworn off women,” a male reporter states.

  “But a quick search of Dating Dairy shows an image of someone strikingly similar to the cow king,” adds another person.

  “The best way to confirm likeness might be a view from the backside.” The female lowers her eyeglasses, pulling them forward and back like a trombone. Despite the glasses and the longer length of hair, there’s no question who she is. She’s the woman who reported the whole damning scandal on the video. “Wowza.”

  “Jojo, turn it off,” I demand. Her head turns as if she’d forgotten I was behind the couch. Then her eyes shift to my side, narrowing at who she sees.

  “I knew you looked familiar,” my niece states. As if in slow motion, my neck cranes, and I gaze at Scarlett over my shoulder. Behind her stands my brother Blade.

  “I can explain,” she offers weakly. The words crash into me like the ramming of a steer. I’ve heard that phrase before.

  “Putting aside the personal humiliation for a second, did you know that story damn near cost us our farm? People didn’t want to do business with us.”

  I stare at Scarlett, whose mouth opens but thankfully shuts just as quickly.

  “MoosHaveRights2, an animal activist group, got that video and investigated. Somewhere, your reporting suggested that mud was shit our milkers were walking through, dragging their teats in the muck, making them unsanitary producers. We had to have multiple inspections and hormone tests, which the FDA is very strict about, proving we weren’t doing anything to alter our milk after collected. We also had additional health inspections of our cows, our barns, and that backfield, all at our expense.”

  “I’m sorry,” she mutters.

  “Sorry?” I snap, exasperated at the weakness of that word. “This is the kind of reporter you were?” As soon as I’ve asked, I raise a hand because I don’t want an answer. “Do you have any idea how mortifying that was? It looks like I fucked a cow.”

  “Bull,” my brother warns, shifting his eyes to Joey still seated on the couch. Ignoring him, I continue.

  “Your Insider team didn’t do their homework, or they’d know that mud was caused by heavy rains and a flooded field. Cows are not the sharpest of animals and slow to move in the mud. I was trying to move them along. That calf followed its mother but got stuck. Cows will leave their babes behind. I had to wade through that sh . . . muck to get him out of there. Ever pick up a calf when you’re ankle deep in sucking mud, Scarlett?”

  I don’t bother to wait for an answer. “I’m strong, but calves are heavy, especially if they’re stuck as well. You have no footing or leverage, and when I lost my boot in that crap, we tumbled over, and he fell on top of me. My last resort before he trampled me into the mud was to push him over. Luckily, he found solid ground and scrambled off.”

  I heave a deep breath before I continue.

  “MoosHaveRights2 wanted to go after me for animal abuse as it looks like I tossed that calf off me after he humped me.” I cup both hands behind my neck. “Or was it I humped an animal? Despite your disgusting bestiality claims, I care about my animals. I would never hurt them, but you wouldn’t know that, would you? Only looking for a story, weren’t you? As if digging into my love life hadn’t been bad enough? Making a mockery of my misery wasn’t enough for you. Is that what you’re doing here?” My heart races at the sudden possibility. “Are you here to investigate me again? Are you looking for more on the Bovine Bridegroom?”

  Everything in me tells me not to believe it could be true, but I’m so wound up by the images and her voice reporting that bullshit.

  “Here’s your inside scoop from someone who knows him best.” I slap at my chest hard as I reference myself. “It was the man left at the altar angle you wanted first, right? Well, he’ll never be in that position again. He’ll never be a groom. He’ll never be anywhere near a wedding. Not ever. He will not be left behind. He’s no longer on those dating apps because he can’t trust anyone. And as for the cows on my land, you keep your nose out of a business you don’t understand. This isn’t Dirty Dairy, or whatever the fuck you think you’ll call us next. This is my property, my family, and you won’t find your follow-up story with us.”

  My chest heaves as I watch tears stream down Scarlett’s face. With thick lashes, her makeup is a river of black down her cheeks. Her head lowers, and her hands clench together, making her look repentant, but I have no forgiveness in me. That fucking cockamamie story they cooked up when it was a slow day in the newsroom caused a scandal—a real scandal.

  My heart races so fast I turn back to the couch, bending at the waist to place my hands on the back of the furniture to catch my breath. This cannot be happening. I could not be such a poor judge of character again. I brought a woman into my home who nearly decimated my family and me with preposterous reporting and lies.

  Glancing up, I realize we’ve gathered more of an audience. Canyon stands near the entrance of the family room from the front hall, and my dad stands beside him.

  “I’m so sorry,” Scarlett repeats behind me. The words tremble in her faltering voice, but I close my eyes. I can’t look at her right now. How could she report such a thing? How could this have been her career? How could she destroy the lives of people she didn’t even know?

  We should keep our distance. Is this how she’d done it?

  Closing my eyes is a mistake. Behind my lids, I see two things—a mixture of the woman on the screen, chuckling as she tugs at her glasses and the woman who was under me this morning, filling my heart with her tenderness as we joined as one. I shudder and quickly reopen my eyes, focusing on my hands curled over the back of the couch, veins extended with my anger. This is worse than being divorced, left at the altar, or a broken engagement to a thief. This is my heart being ripped out of my chest as the woman I thought I loved, who I brought into my family, who might be carrying my kid . . .

  I spin to face her, and my insides twist like a snowstorm, cold and out of control. “I think you should leave.”

  Blade gasps beside Scarlett, and she slowly nods, looking up at him with dark, tearstained cheeks. Her lids blink before she looks back at me, but I instantly turn away. Shifting to my right, Canyon has his head lowered as well, shaking it side to side in disbelief. I find my father staring at Scarlett, his eyes full of concern.

  “Don’t look at her,” I snap. Does my father not remember all that happened? We almost lost this place. People didn’t want our milk. The slaughterhouse didn’t even want the cows we had to sell to cover the legal costs. Farms tied to MoosHaveRights2 didn’t want to sell us new heifers at first because they were skeptical of our practices. Generations of dairy farming were almost down the drain by a careless story.

  Dad’s eyes shift and narrow at me. In the background, Scarlett’s sandals tap on the hardwood floor as she exits the room, and I watch as my dad disappears into the front hall. Left in silence, my brothers remain as the quiet support they’ve always been. The dairy king’s men were ready to put my heart back together again. Only this time, I’m not certain they can.

  14

  Gossip Girl

  Scarlett

  I trip over my own feet as I stumble down the gravel lane. A pebble gets stuck between my toes, and I try to bend forward to remove it, struggling with the added weight and bulge of my belly before jiggling my foot in the sandal. I flap my ankle around until the small rock flips free, and I can continue forward.

  I recall the story as I walk. The reason the Eaton name sounded vaguely familiar returns to me. The report was three summer’s old. We’d gotten word of a man who’d been stood up at the altar similar in fashion to the Runaway Bride. Three times he’d been left behind, and we wanted to know why. Based on his picture, I remember the girls in the office wondering what could be wrong with him. He was good-looking, solidly built, and had a glint to his eye. We
’d come up with several hypotheses as to how a man such as him could be alone, and none of the possibilities were flattering. We didn’t know the truth—that behind the image of a handsome silver fox was a good man who’d had bad luck with women.

  It was a fluke that our investigative team arrived after the rainstorms of that spring and captured the images of Bull fumbling in the field with his cows. Frolicking is how the cameramen had captioned his video. We laughed, wondering unfairly what they were doing in the meadows of Vermont. I recall feeling uncomfortable reporting such a suggestion as the fine-assed cowboy was humping his animals, but it was a slow summer season, and I remember thinking the story wouldn’t be viewed by many. It hadn’t, actually. The statistics showed it was one of our least watched episodes, but something happened over on social media, and the video went viral. Perhaps it’s what Bull said; an animal activist group got involved. We didn’t follow up. Without a direct interest in the television airing, we moved forward.

  I’m so ashamed.

  The story made a revival all these years later due to the social media sensationalism. Lex wanted to try a new segment, highlighting old news with follow-ups. We sat around in office chairs, and he reported out former stories, flashing snippets of them before we commentated. We filmed an entire series about eighteen months ago, intending to use the news flashes as this one was used as a filler. I’m a little surprised the network would play a video with me in the picture, given I no longer work for them, but they hold all the rights to what they’ve produced, present example included, even if I’m currently not employed by them.

  My pace slows as my feet grow heavy, the weight of what just happened pressing me down. Bull will never forgive me, and I don’t blame him. Reporting on the average person never made me comfortable, but then again, mega-stars are just people too, and it shouldn’t have felt right to expose their dirt either. I’d always had a twinge of guilt covering divorces when the husband cheated with a nanny or reports of a woman losing her child before birth. How is that newsworthy? It’s not. It’s private, and a good reminder that I no longer have what it takes to report such sensationalism.