Page 7 of Daddy’s Firm Hands (Saddle Up)
STONE
B eing in your forties isn’t akin to sitting in a spring meadow, that’s for sure. Five years ago, I used to be able to drive through the night and work the ranch the next day.
I haul ass to my bathroom and freshen up, then get dressed in record time. Nothing fancy, a dark blue button down with Ironhide’s’s logo and light blue jeans. Nice enough for a dinner in or at a restaurant in town, if we can get any seating.
When I walk past Milo’s room, it’s empty. The bed is untouched, his bag sitting on the hope chest in the corner. It seems odd that he left his home with only one bag.
What’s in it? The urge to open it and poke around is tempting.
Milo hasn’t been forthcoming about himself, and I want to know more about him.
But invading his privacy will only drive him away–I learned that lesson the hard way before.
It’s not the best way to start our relationship—our working relationship.
Calm down, cowboy.
This isn’t the start to a relationship. I’m not some beast who trapped a wayward young man on his ranch.
He isn’t going to get Stockholm syndrome and fall in love with me.
Milo needs some help, a fresh start away from whatever future corpse gave him those bruises.
He doesn’t need some old, washed up cowboy obsessed with him.
I’m not even sure if he can handle how I get…the things I like to do. And I’d do well to remember that while he stays under my roof.
The smell of something rich and garlicky hits my nose, distracting me from my inner musings.
It smells like an Italian restaurant set up shop somewhere in my house.
I follow it down the stairs to the kitchen.
Milo stands by the stove, skillet in hand, tossing some pasta.
The wet sound the pasta makes sounds like slapping skin, and I walk behind the counter to shield my cock, because he obviously has no concept of social norms.
“Sorry I’m late. What did you make?” I ask him, taking a seat at one of the place settings on the counter.
“No worries, I’m running behind anyway. I used what I found in your fridge to make chicken cutlets with pasta. I found the cherry tomatoes you had in the fridge and made a pan sauce for them.”
He plates the food, then tears up some fresh basil from the plant my part-time house keeper grows on the windowsill.
I’m glad he’s made himself at home. Seeing someone who enjoys making real food in this kitchen feels good.
It feels right. I usually microwave frozen dinners or order takeout.
Hell, I can't even boil water without burning myself.
Milo takes a seat across the island from me, sliding my plate over. I moan as I chew the crispy chicken, its flavor out of this world. Chicken has never tasted this good before. The smirky, satisfied expression on his face is well earned.
“This is the best chicken I’ve ever had. How did you make this?”
“Hold on now, Stone. I’m not giving my family’s chicken cutlet recipe away until we talk about the terms of our arrangement,” he says in a stern voice.
With the way he talks, maybe he is familiar with my kind of bedroom activities. It sounds like he knows how to negotiate.
“Alright,” I say around a mouthful of pasta. “Go on.”
“The room and board are satisfactory. The kitchen checks out, too. But if I’m going to cook here, I need to be able to get the ingredients I need. How do we arrange that?”
“I’ll give you a company card and smartphone. You can choose whether or not you want to drive into town, or have it delivered to Ironstride through an app. Don’t order beef. We have a whole freezer full of the stuff.”
“I would hope so, since you raise cows. What are my working hours?” he asks.
“That depends on you. I wake up at four every morning and I’m out the door by five.
” His eyes widen, and I can’t help but laugh.
He’s such a city boy. “Yeah we start early around here. I trust you to get your work done, but I’d like you to be able to be here for breakfast and dinner, if that works.
I usually have lunch with the ranch hands, so you can pack that for me. ”
He rubs his chin in thought, then nods. “Okay. What system do you use for your business records?”
“Huh?” I dunk another piece of chicken in the sauce and shove it in my mouth.
“What software are you using to manage your business, you know, your records, invoices, and salaries?”
“Hmm. I never thought about using my laptop. My father and his father used a physical ledger. Mine is in the top drawer of the desk in the home office.”
Milo looks downright scandalized. “Do you know how much metadata you’re missing out on? A software gives you insights on income trends, how to cut wasteful spending, and how you can expand. First order of business is getting you into the twenty-first century.”
“Okay,” I say hesitantly. This isn’t the first time someone’s told me I needed to get with the times. I never wanted to before, but I guess when Milo says it, the change seems less daunting.
“Do I get days off? What’s my salary?” he asks.
“Unless we have to, we try not to work on Sundays. Doc and I may do some patrols and check on the cattle, but otherwise, it’s a rest day. How does $1000 a week sound?”
“For handling your business and cooking your meals… Sounds more than fair,” he agrees with a smile.
“And if anything needs to be adjusted, we can talk about it.”
“You’re already better than my last boss,” he says with a laugh.
I jump on the chance to get to know him. “Your father is a hard man?”
His face crunches for a moment, then relaxes. “You can say that. He expected a lot of us.”
“Us?”
“My brothers and I.” His smile falls as a haunted, far off gaze takes over. His eyes well with tears, and I take his hand, squeezing it gently.
“Are you okay?” I say in a softer voice than what I’m used to.
He snaps back, his eyes zeroing in on our joined hands. Damn it, I spooked him.
“Um, y-yeah. I’m okay. I’m going to start researching softwares you can use. Maybe make a meal plan for the week.” He tries to take his hand away from mine, but I squeeze it tighter, halting him with his chair half pushed out from the table.
“Not until you’re done with your food,” I tell him, gesturing to his half empty plate. “You need to eat to get your strength up.”
“I’m not hungry anymore.” He stares beyond me, not meeting my eye.
“You have over half your plate left, and there wasn’t enough food on it to begin with. You’re healing, and you need your strength,” I say, squeezing his hand a little more so he can’t escape. I’ll be damned if I let him run away to deal with his emotions by himself.
The poor guy looks devastated. What brought on the sudden change in him? Was it the mention of his father? He mentioned him earlier in passing…
Maybe his father is the one who gave him the beatdown? The thought of Milo’s own father beating on him like that suddenly makes me want to strangle the bastard and feed him to the pigs.
“Did your father do this to you?”
Milo releases a heavy sigh. “Nah. He wasn’t around enough to beat us this badly. I’m sorry, it’s been a really long day, and I can’t talk about my family right now.”
“I’m sorry for prying. Finish your food, then you can go.”
He hesitates for a moment before pulling his chair back in. We finish our meal in relative silence, but at least he’s eating. He even takes a second chicken cutlet.
“There’s some ice cream bars in the freezer if you want one,” I offer.
“No thanks, I’m turning in early. Goodnight, Stone.” He limps away from the table, his shoulders slumped.
Hearing my name on his lips shouldn’t make me feel this way—like I want to be the cowboy that rides in on a wild stallion and saves the day. But it does. I want to know who hurt my little city boy and cause them a whole world of pain.
I’ve been around him for less than a day, and I can already feel the dark, untamable monster inside me claiming him. I haven’t felt this way about someone since my late wife. Fuck, whatever kind of obsession this is, it’s worse than it was with her. It’s downright dangerous.
But what kind of cowboy would I be if I didn’t run toward danger?
Sleeping down the hall from Milo is next to impossible.
I stayed awake the whole night, aware of his presence.
Knowing he’s right down the hall…laying in my guest bed, underneath cotton sheets and a quilt that could easily slip off in the night.
Asking myself if he sleeps shirtless, or in a sweatshirt.
Then imagining him in one of my old rodeo tees.
I usually sleep on my stomach, but I was rock hard the entire night and had to suffer on my side.
Even a quick hand job didn’t make it go away.
Three hours of sleep is not going to be enough to rotate the herds today. I’m going to be so fucked if this goes on every night.
I get dressed quickly in my normal attire, then make my way downstairs.
Milo is already there, sitting at the kitchen table absorbed in my laptop.
There are two plates of breakfast waiting for us.
Eggs, hashbrowns, sausage, and English muffins.
On the left of each plate is a bowl of blueberries and cut up apples.
This is a major improvement over the protein bars I cram into my mouth with a couple cups of coffee to wash them down.
I bring the pot to the table, pouring myself a mug and topping his off.
“You drink it black too?” I ask to make conversation.
“Yeah, Stone. All psychopathic serial killers do,” he responds, rolling his eyes.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, city boy,” I order him without thinking.
Milo’s eyes meet mine, holding my stare for a few seconds before averting. A bright red flush blooms across his cheeks. His lips are parted and I can see his nipples pebbling through his thin white shirt.