Page 39 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

ivy

I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE I KNOW WHAT’S happening to me.

I don’t even know if it’s good or bad yet.

And all my janky brain can think is this can’t be real.

Wyatt can’t be real.

Maybe it’s because nothing is ever supposed to be this good. I’ve had to fight for every scrap of affection I’ve ever received. Even from my own mother. But Wyatt’s love language is acts of service, and boy can that man service with an intense ferocity that leaves no room for doubt.

Parts of me begin to pulse just thinking about it.

But it’s more than just his selfless orgasm giving. I casually mentioned that the only thing I like more about my cabin than his, was the porch swing.

This man, who undeniably has a mile long to do list, proceeded to procure and hang a swing the side of a twin mattress on his porch.

Now I’m sitting on it, with my computer and a plate of day old pastries from Laurel.

Even as I write the scene, I know what the critics will say when this becomes a show.

It’s unrealistic.

A little over a week ago, I would’ve said the same thing. Because it is. I’ve never known a man who just does what you need him to right then and there the way Wyatt Logan does.

I almost hate to write a character like him because of the unrealistic expectations he creates.

Hence why I have doubts.

I have to doubt because this doesn’t make sense. It hasn’t even been two weeks. Surely something that burns so hot is going to burn out just as fast. Right? Hope so, because my time in Montana is running out quickly.

“Right?” I ask Blanche and Rose out loud.

The two hens barely spare a glance in my direction.

They’re more social than Dorothy and Sophia who are busy keeping Jasper at bay as I toss them scraps of the stale pastries I couldn’t finish off this week.

Wyatt says they’re Laurel’s chickens, but they all seem to just roam all over the ranch like a security detail regularly checking the perimeter.

I’ve named the rooster Stanley because we do not like him, and I obviously spent entirely too much of my childhood watching Golden Girls reruns.

I’m losing it. And I probably need to eat an actual dinner.

Wyatt said he’d be out late, rounding up bulls, and would miss dinner but that I should go to the main house. I’m running low on wardrobe options, so I throw my charcoal knit writing cardigan over a cream-colored slip dress and slide my feet into my boots.

Planning to head up to the main house for dinner, I drive the side-by-side through the clearing that leads to the house.

When I see Antonio carrying what appears to be a dozen or more pizza boxes toward the cowboy camp, I turn the side-by-side around. A wide grin spreads across his face.

“Need a ride?” I gesture to the stack of boxes he’s carrying.

“Well now, I might be inclined to take you up on that, Miss Ivy.” He glances back toward the house. “I’m just running these to the bunkhouse. Don’t want to make you late for dinner. One of the hands can pick me up.”

Truthfully, I’ve been dying to see the inside of the bunkhouse. Neither Wyatt nor Isaac has shown me the inside, and I’m quite curious.

“I’d love to take you,” I tell him. “I’ve been meaning to check out the bunkhouse anyway.”

He climbs in beside me, and I help him balance the boxes.

“Not much to see. Probably not very clean either.”

I head toward the cowboy camp. “That’s okay. If you saw some of the places where I’d lived growing up, you’d know that not much bothers me.”

He eyes me speculatively, like I gave him the missing piece to a puzzle that had stumped him. It makes me nervous, so I start asking questions.

I start with, “How many ranch hands live in the bunkhouse?”

According to Antonio, there are seven ranch hands, two of which are wranglers, as of today.

But two hands recently quit, just up and left without telling anyone, as often happens when they learn the true depths of the work.

Drifters working for cash, then bailing suddenly is a common occurrence, he says.

One was seasonal and never stayed through the winter, but would likely reappear next spring.

And one was let go for misconduct involving the Logan sisters.

I don’t know exactly what that means, but the ominous tone the foreman uses makes me wonder. By the time we reach the bunkhouse, my writer brain has come up with half a dozen nefarious possibilities.

The grandfatherly man has an edge, one that suggests military or prison time in his past. I want to ask, but that would be impolite, and I don’t want to get my bunkhouse invitation revoked.

There are so many stories here. So much to learn, to experience. And I am running out of time.

“What’s the difference between a ranch hand and a wrangler?” I ask, for research purposes.

Antonio looks thoughtful for a moment. “Ego, mostly,” he jokes, then says more seriously, “All wranglers are ranch hands but not all ranch hands are wranglers.”

“Sounds like a riddle I don’t know how to solve.”

He chuffs out a laugh. “Ranch hands do a little of everything, wranglers are more focused on the horses. In other words, the hands work for Wyatt and the wranglers work for Isaac, for the most part.”

“Makes sense.”

As I shut the engine off, two young men in cowboy hats hurry over and relieve Antonio of the boxes.

“Get these inside,” he commands. “And we have a guest. So, anything that wouldn’t be appropriate for her to see had better disappear. Quickly.”

One of the ranch hands smirks. “You finally giving me permission to make Judd disappear?”

Antonio frowns. “Don’t be a smart-ass. Get inside.”

They amble inside toward the bunkhouse with their arms full of pizza boxes.

When I move to follow, Antonio holds a hand up, indicating I should wait.

“Let’s just give them a minute to tidy up.” He sighs heavily. “Some of these guys I love like sons, and some . . . “ He glances toward the horizon even though the sun set an hour ago. “Desperate times,” he says quietly.

I nod. “I didn’t go to college, but I’ve been in a few frat houses in my day. I promise I can handle it.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m sure you could. Question is, how will the boss handle you being here?”

The boss being Wyatt Logan. I imagine he isn’t going to love it—if he finds out.

“Maybe we don’t mention it to him,” I offer.

He arches a brow at my answer.

“I’m guessing there’s a reason he hasn’t brought me down here,” I admit.

He chuckles lightly. “There’s seven reasons.”

“Is that your way of telling me I’m not welcome here?”

He sighs heavily, reminding me of Wyatt. “You like pizza?”

I grin. “Love it.”

He waves me over, and I follow him to the door.

I don’t know what I’m expecting, but walking into the bunkhouse is sensory overload.

It’s dim with only a lamp on in the living area and a fluorescent light in the kitchen.

As far as smell, if I had to compare it to something specific, it’s a unique combination of a high school cafeteria and a men’s locker room.

The mingling scents of sweat, pizza, bacon grease, leather, and steam, tinged with masculine-scented body wash, as if someone recently took a hot shower, permeate the air.

Stepping all the way inside, I see three cowboys on a leather sectional, arguing over a football game still playing on a big screen television set.

The two who brought in the pizza set it on the counter and begin pulling beers from the fridge.

A black square folding table is off to the side, and an older look man sits there, shuffling cards and drinking.

There’s a decent-looking pool table where the dining room would be. Neon beer and whiskey-brand signs glow in the corners.

My gaze sweeps to the back of the surprisingly large space and lands on posters of half-and fully nude women in the back corner, where two sets of bunk beds are along the wall. Liquor bottles line the countertops like decor.

It’s like being driven a million miles an hour into a wall of testosterone. It seeps into my skin the second I’m all the way inside.

Antonio whistles, piercing the air and stopping a conversation from the couch that ends in, “. . . licked her pussy.”

My eyes widen, and I hold back a laugh.

Heads whip in my direction, and the men of all ages gape at me with similar expressions.

I couldn’t write this scene any better.

They clearly weren’t prepared for company. And damn sure not female company.

“This is Miss Ivy,” Antonio announces gruffly. “She’s a guest of the ranch. She’ll be joining us for pizza, and I expect you to behave yourselves if you still want to have a job here tomorrow.”

One of the dark-haired guys on the couch meets my gaze. Then glances at Antonio. “But it’s not even—”

“You heard me,” Antonio breaks in. “I said, guest of the ranch, Cole.”

Understanding appears to settle over him, but I’m still confused.

My writer-brain is dying to know what he was going to say.

“What do you like on your pizza, Miss Ivy?” A cowboy in the kitchen calls out.

“Use plates,” Antonio barks at him.

“Please don’t get fancy on my account,” I say, gesturing for them to return to whatever they were doing. “Anything except anchovies is good with me. I’m not picky.”

Antonio shakes his head. “These animals wouldn’t know fancy if it slapped them upside the head.”

A few of them grin and shrug in agreement.

Antonio waves an arm out toward the couch. “That’s Cole, Judd, and Marcos,” he tells me.

Then he turns to the kitchen and introduces me to Tucker and Ace, who helped with the pizzas. I’m dying to ask if Ace is his real name, but I smile politely. It’s clear I’m holding up everyone’s dinner, and I feel bad for interrupting already.

Guy named Houston is the one shuffling cards. Cole informs me that Houston is not his real name, but he’s from Texas so that’s what they call him. No one seems to know his actual name, and he seems to prefer it that way.

“Where’s Colter?” Antonio asks just as a man steps out from the back room in nothing but a white towel around his waist.