Page 44 of Cowboy in Colorado
I shove my emotions down, because this is definitely not the time or place to be emotional about things. My clothing is still on the floor where Will threw it last night—pants here, blazer there, blouse across the room, bra in another corner, underwear in a ball near the bed. Everything is still damp.
I swallow past a hard lump in my throat and go through the unpleasant struggle of putting on cold wet musty clothing.
I have to remind myself several times to stop being stupid, that I have no need to be upset. It’s not any different than any of my usual liaisons—once and done, no connection, no mess, no looking back. He got to the no looking back part first, that’s all. My chest is tight and my heart is weirdly empty and oddly cold and my gut twists, and my mind won’t stop offering up memories of what we shared last night.
God, I can’t believe I let him fuck me like that—bent in half and all control ceded over to him, like some weak, pathetic, needy, desperate, clingy, vapid thing.
But holy shit was it incredible.
I know I’ll never let anyone take me that way again, that’s for damn sure. Especially not Will, if I ever even see him again. Which I won’t. I’ll make sure of it.
It’s best that way. For him, for me.
There’s nothing else in this cabin for me, so I leave, making sure to latch the door behind me. I peek into the stable, and sure enough, Gopher is gone. My heart hammers in my throat, because I’m alone in the farthest and most remote corner of the Bar-A Ranch, on foot, and I have no clue how to get back, and it would take hours on foot even if I did know the way. Despite the sudden violence of the storm last night, the sky is back to being clear and blue and endless, the sun just peeking up over the tree line.
At least there’s an obvious trail leading down off of this mountain, away from the cabin. I force the steel into my spine, settle my feet into my trusty Louboutin’s, and set off down the path. My makeup is gone, my hair is a knotted, tangled wreck. I still have my earrings, thank god, a graduation gift from my mother. My watch is ruined—the face was shattered by hail last night, and it wasn’t water-resistant so the rain and the subsequent shower would have ruined it anyway.
It takes me what feels like forty minutes of walking to get off the ridge and out of the woods, the trail leveling off into an endless rolling field. The path ends, vanishing into waving grass. I firm up my chin, clench my jaw, and refuse to cry. I’ve done enough of that, and I refuse to do it again. I may have no idea where to go, but I’ll be damned if I’ll just stand here alone and bawl. I’ll just walk, and hope someone finds me eventually. My brain is telling me if I walk straight away from the ridge behind me, I’ll eventually find a camp, or even the Big House; my brain may be wrong, but it’s all I’ve got at the moment.
I start walking. It’s well past dawn, the sun blazing a few inches above the horizon off to my left; it’s before noon, at least, but more closely than that I couldn’t even begin to say. Will could probably tell you the exact hour from one glance at the sun, but I don’t have that skill.
I just walk, one foot after another, and eventually discover my best bet for keeping track of the distance yet to go is to fix my eyes on a clump of grass a few feet ahead and watch it until I pass it, and then focus on another. Thus, my gaze remains on the ground just ahead of me, and I don’t see the rider approaching until he’s close enough that I hear the thud of horse hooves.
Clint, wearing a faded ball cap, sitting on the same horse he rode yesterday, is leading Molly behind him, her reins trailing from one fist. He doffs his hat, waves it at me. “Howdy, Miss Brooklyn. Beautiful mornin’.” His eyes won’t quite fix on mine, though, and I know he’s all too aware of the situation.
“Good morning, Clint,” I say, my voice icy and tightly controlled. I take Molly’s reins from him, spend a moment rubbing her nose and saying hello, and then I climb up into the saddle—awkward, clumsily, but much less so than yesterday. I gesture at him. “Lead on, if you will.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Boss showed up hours before dawn with a real hair up his ass, told me the two of you had holed up at his cabin.” A pause. “Asked me to come get you. We had a yearling filly come up lame this morning, which is why I’m so late coming out here.”
“Save your explanations, Clint.” I nudge Molly into a walk. “We’re all adults. No point in pretending you’re not fully aware of the situation.”
“None of my business,” he says, riding beside me with eyes on his saddle horn, a blush staining his swarthy cheeks above his dark beard. “He was almighty pissy, though. Usually he’s the most even-tempered man I know. Not sure what you all got up to, but it left him meaner than a kicked rattlesnake.”
“As you said, it’s none of your business,” I say, knowing I’m being overly cold with someone who’s done nothing but help me, but I’m unable to help myself.
The coldness is my only armor between self-control and a total breakdown.
Clint rubs his jaw with a knuckle, eyeing me curiously. “I do something to piss you off, Miss Brooklyn?”
“No, Clint. Will did. But that’s between him and me. You could probably get pretty close to the truth if you think hard enough, though.” I meet his eyes, and that’s a mistake. He’s a plain, honest, hard-working man, good-looking in a rugged way, and he’s earnest, well-meaning, of good heart. Too bad I’m not attracted to men like him—only the bold, swaggering, arrogant ones with big, hard dicks and small, cold hearts. I feel myself softening toward Clint, and I can’t have that. Too risky.
“You’ve done nothing but help me, Clint,” I say, opting for blunt honesty, “and I’m thankful. I’m not upset with you, but I don’t have it in me to be pleasant right now, and for that I’m sorry.”
He nods. “Fair enough.”
We amble at a slow walk for a while, and I’m impatient to be gone, to get off this horse and off this ranch and back to the life I know. “I need to get back to New York,” I say. “Can we go faster?”
Clint rolls a shoulder. “Sure. Horses are fresh. Just click your tongue and tell her to trot, with a little nudge of your foot. Go at your own pace.”
I click my tongue and nudge Molly’s ribs with my foot. “Trot, Molly.” I push my butt forward like Theo instructed, way back yesterday morning, and Molly surges into a smooth trot.
“Feel okay?” Clint says, easily keeping pace.
I’m clinging with my knees, and after a while I learn how to use more of my core to keep balanced, finding her rhythm so I don’t have to cling as hard. I nod at him. “Yes, it’s good.”
“Once you’re comfortable, we could canter them a while. I know Molly likes a canter better than a trot, and it’ll cover more ground.” He gives me a sideways glance. “It’s not as smooth a gait, though, so be ready for a good jolting.”
“I’ll try it.”