Page 4 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy (Brides of the Lonesome Creek Orcs #3)

Holly

M ax and I arrived at the bakery at six.

Hours before nine, but I couldn't resist. I'd never been one to lounge in bed, and if I knew my bakeries, Sel would be hard at work already. The sky still wore that soft bruised color before full morning, and I paused on the boardwalk, just staring. I couldn’t remember when I’d seen a sky so open, so beautiful.

Cities tended to mask everything around them.

Max held his book with one hand while the other fluttered near mine, not quite reaching.

He didn’t say he was nervous. He didn’t have to.

I almost reached back. But I didn’t want to spook the quiet courage it had taken for him to come with me in the first place.

Some things, you just let settle on their own.

Inside the bakery, the scent of yeast and sugar wrapped around me. Warm ovens hummed in the back. A display case waited to be filled in the front. My fingers flexed twice before I stilled them.

Max wandered a few steps away from me, searching everything behind his glasses. “Is that real sourdough starter on the shelf behind the case?” His voice was quiet, but full of awe. The kind I’d missed without knowing.

“I assume so.”

Sel stood behind the counter, sorting through things, placing items in the day-old area, all tall and broad, though currently hunched over. His tusks caught the light when he straightened and smiled at us. “You're early.”

“I hope that's okay.” I braced myself, watching his face for anger.

It remained pleasant. “No problem. Couldn't sleep?”

I shrugged.

He turned to the jar on the back counter. “You're right, Max. I started feeding this starter months ago, not long after I arrived here from the orc kingdom.”

“That's cool,” Max breathed. “What's the kingdom like?”

“Different from here. We have cities built much like yours. But no sky overheard. No moon, and no sunshine, though the bugs peppering the cavern roofs provide enough light.”

“That’s so cool.” Max looked more than impressed.

“I hope it's alright that I brought Max with me,” I said, the words coming out fast. My jaw was tight from holding in the worry that he'd frown, that I’d see that little flicker people got when they realized you’d brought baggage.

I continued to watch, watching him for any hint of irritation, and I was surprisingly grateful when I didn't see any. “He'll sit here in the front.” I rested my hand on Max’s back. “He’ll read. Stay quiet. I promise.”

Sel’s brow lowered, though his expression didn’t appear unkind. “He can visit the stables if he wants. Or sit in the saloon with one of my brothers. Not a lot of danger in Lonesome Creek.”

My stomach dropped. The thought of Max not remaining in the same building as me knocked the air from my lungs. Not this soon. Maybe not ever.

Max blinked at me before turning back to Sel. “Could I stay here instead? I like being near kitchens.” His voice wavered. “I won’t get in the way. Promise.”

Sel looked at him. At me. His chest lowered with a breath that sounded like resignation. “Alright.”

The word steadied me more than I wanted to admit.

While Max settled in a chair in the corner of the empty dining room, Sel led me through the swinging door on the left, into the kitchen.

Stainless steel counters lined the walls with smooth countertops beneath.

A row of stand mixers perched in the back left, waiting to be used.

The scent of vanilla and flour hung in the air.

He pulled a clean apron over his head, a dusting of flour already clinging to his black shirt beneath, and handed me a second, which I donned.

It was huge, made for an orc, but I tightened the ties a few times around my waist and secured them with a bow.

His arms flexed as he tied the strings on his own, his thick muscles moving beneath the short sleeves.

His cowboy boots squeaked on the polished tile.

I sensed he was trying to come across as casual, but his pointed ears twitched at strange intervals.

Cute. Completely misplaced on someone so massive.

His hand swept toward the island in the middle of the room.

“This is where I prep dough.” His voice came out a little too loud.

“Pastry bins are there.” He pointed. “Scales. Measuring cups.” He tugged out a big drawer with neatly organized cooking implements.

“And you saw the big mixer. It’s got a thing for speed if the gear lever sticks.

Just bang it—here.” Striding over to it, he smacked a spot on the side.

The mixer looked fairly new, but I guess it would be since he wouldn't have been on the surface for long. Although, he might've been able to find one used. Plenty of bakeries were going out of business lately.

As he showed me around, I nodded politely, not interrupting his explanation even though every word was for someone who’d never measured flour in her life.

Maybe it was nerves. Or he might not know what else to say to me.

I let him keep talking, though I was starting to ache from holding back my laughter. At least I didn’t feel offended.

He picked up a small offset spatula to demonstrate drizzling glaze technique and my amusement cracked. The tool looked ridiculous in his hand. It was like watching a grizzly frost cupcakes.

My smile escaped before I could pull it back. I washed my hands and dried them, then reached into the bin of prepped dough and pulled one out. I rolled it in flour and laid it on a board. “May I?”

His words paused mid-sentence. “Uh. Sure.”

Rolled once. Turned. Rolled again. My fingers found the rhythm. When I sliced the first fold and shaped it into a shell that would become a croissant, his eyes latched onto my hands and went still.

“You’ve done this before,” he said softly.

I didn’t look up. “A few times.”

Silence stretched until I glanced sideways. He wasn’t smiling, but warmth flickered in his eyes.

“I don’t let just anyone into this kitchen,” he said after a long pause. His voice dipped, softer but heavier. “But I see I can trust you.”

Trust. I kept my eyes on the dough, but the back of my neck felt hot. No one said things like that where I came from. You earned your keep. End of story.

A flush coated my skin as if he’d reached out and touched me. I shouldn’t let his simple compliment reach me. But the way he'd said it, like it mattered enough to speak out loud, sent a ripple through my belly I couldn’t ignore.

I focused on the dough, but I couldn’t help stealing another look. The way he watched me work, the quiet respect in his eyes… I didn’t know what to do with that.

The flour jar was large enough I had to stand on my tiptoes to scoop from it properly. The moment I did, the front of my borrowed apron sucked to my chest and left a puff of white across my shoulder. I didn’t care. I was in love with this place already.

Sel leaned against the counter nearby, silent, his arms crossed over his thick chest. His eyes stayed on my hands. I didn’t mind him watching. Actually, it made something curl inside me I didn't want to examine too closely.

After the croissants were resting on the sheet, I started working on a common coffee cake batter. I’d add the odd fruit I’d spied in a bowl nearby that couldn’t be blueberries despite their purple hue. No blueberry I’d met had green flecks on the skin.

I creamed shortening with sugar. Cracked eggs and added them to the mix. Stirred until the batter was smooth.

“The eggs look different,” I said as politely as I could. “They're much bigger.” Bigger than my fist, actually.

And green.

“Chumble eggs.”

“Chumbles must come from the orc kingdom.” He’d mentioned they were incorporating orc creatures in addition to orc dishes into the traditional Wild West life.

“They do. They're pink.” He held his hand out at waist-height, which, for me, was boob-height. “About this tall. Scales. Claws. Try to avoid them.”

“I certainly will.” And I'd warn Max. “You said pink, but the egg yolks are green.”

“They are.”

I added leavening agent, then flour, alternating with milk I got from the fridge, stirring it all together.

“Are you humming?” he asked, his voice low enough that it almost didn’t register over the whirr of the oven fans.

Heat pricked across my chest. I had been, a song my mom used to hum while baking. “Guess I am.”

His tusks twitched in maybe the orc version of a grin, but he didn’t tease.

I began folding in fruit from a bowl beside me. Odd things. Small, with ridged skins that looked like they'd twist back if you poked them wrong. “These aren’t blueberries.”

“They’re dartlings.”

I glanced up. “They…dart?”

Another twitch of his tusks. “Only if you forget to peel the spine cap.” When I stared, he added, “I’m joking. They’re sweet, quite tasty. Grown underground. You have to sing to get the pods to open.”

My laugh rang out.

He smiled but it faded.

“You're not joking,” I said.

He shook his head.

“You actually sang to get the pods to open?”

“Not me. There are farms now, and more are being developed to grow products for export.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Here, we use them like human raspberries. Try one.”

I tentatively popped one into my mouth, moaning at the wonderful flavor bursting across my tongue. Sweet, as he’d said, with a nice cherry flavor, except subtly different in a way I couldn't define. “These are wonderful.”

His face darkened.

Aw, was he blushing? He really was cute.

“Are you mated, Sel?” I hadn’t planned to ask. The words popped out, pushed up by some reckless part of me that wanted to know if the space beside him was already taken.

His shoulders twitched. “No, though I was. She's dead.”

My breath caught, and I wanted to kick myself for asking. “I'm sorry.”

“She died trying to deliver our youngling. They both died, actually.”

He must mourn them greatly. My heart sank in sympathy, and I nodded. I knew what it felt like to carry something you couldn’t put down.

I directed my attention to the batter. “Well, the dartlings will taste wonderful in this coffee cake.” A good way to change the subject fast.

“Yes. They will.” With a grunt, he turned away to start making something himself. So much for our pleasant conversation. My skin prickled with dismay, but I wasn't sure how to bring back the easy friendliness we'd established.

The island was wide enough we could work across from each other, but he mixed to my left, close enough I could feel the heat pouring off his body. Our shoulders almost touched.

Grease the pans. Pour in the batter. Smooth it out where it belonged. For once, so did I. I knew better than to trust the feeling, but I let it linger, long enough to remember later how it felt.

His arm brushed mine as he reached for a bowl, and though I wore long sleeves, I lost my rhythm. I caught myself before I dropped the spoon, and my cheeks warmed.

He didn’t say anything, but I swore his pointed ears darkened.

To cover the awkward moment, I pointed to the row of chalkboard labels leaning against the shelf behind us. “Are those for the display case?”

“Pricing and names. Tourists want authenticity, so I try to label everything with either human or orc names. Color-coded too. Green means it's an orc item.”

Stepping carefully around the space between us, I took a look. “Horncrust Thunder Bread?” I blinked. “That’s interesting.” I could only imagine what it might taste like.

“The name is accurate,” he said.

I laughed. “Are you saying it tastes like lightning and cranky gods?”

His mouth twitched, but he only shrugged.

Pulling trays from a rack near the oven, I paused. “Would it be alright if I gave Max something to eat?”

“I’ll get it.” Sel grabbed a wide plate, loaded it with a little bit of everything, from two sugary rolls to something I didn’t recognize with a glazed top, to what might be an orc version of a bagel. He poured water from the tap into a tall cup and left before I could thank him.

I scurried over to watch from above the swinging doors as Sel strode to my son.

Max didn’t flinch when Sel stopped beside him.

He lowered his book to the table, and they spoke, though I couldn’t hear what they said.

Max nodded. Took the plate. Focused on the food but not in that worried, I-have-to-eat-it-fast kind of way.

His face remained calm. Seeing how relaxed he was with Sel tied a knot in my chest.

Sel returned to the kitchen, passing me where I stood by the doors.

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded.

Something about the way Max hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked toward me for reassurance, made my ribs ache. His trust wasn’t a result of direction I’d given. It was something he’d chosen on his own.

My eyes stinging, I returned to my work.

We fell into a rhythm again. I mixed and portioned muffins while he prepped a batch of flatbread behind me, singing under his breath. The song was in orcish, full of thick consonants that smoothed in places where I didn't expect.

The bell over the front door jingled.

Sel froze. “We’re not open yet.” Stepping into the double half-doors, he peered into the front and sighed. “It’s my Aunt Inla and Grannie Lil.”

The way he said it made me pause with the scoop halfway from the bowl to the muffin tin. “Is that…bad?”

If he was rattled, I needed to know why. Trouble was rarely loud. It started with familiarity. And my son was out there.

Sel didn’t answer, just gave me the sort of look that made my hands sweat before he stepped through the swinging doors.

I reluctantly followed.