Authors: Beth D. Carter
"All the horses are gone right now,” Tristan said from behind her, startling her out of her musings. “Which makes this the perfect opportunity for you."
"Excuse me?"
He walked around her and held out a shovel. She eyed him warily.
"Here,” he said with a thrust of the shovel in her direction.
She took it, but held it away from her body as she eyed it with disgust. “What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Your first task is going to be cleaning the stalls."
Her gaze narrowed on his face. “Are you joking?"
"Not what you had in mind?"
"I thought we could start out simple, like, show and tell."
"This is a horse and cattle ranch, not kindergarten."
She took a step closer to him, thrusting out her chest slightly and tilting her head. “Aw, come on, Tristan. Show and show some more could be loads of fun. I'm sure there are more pleasurable things to do in the barn than just using this."
She dropped the shovel to the ground and then bit her lower lip as she batted her eyes.
He stepped into her, invading her space and immediately throwing off her wide-eyed, naughty-girl routine. She stumbled just a bit as she backed up. Her back hit the stall wall, halting her retreat.
"Like what?” he asked, his voice low, throaty. His big body pressed against her curves. “A roll in the hay? Riding me as we ride bareback?"
She licked her lips, the mental picture his words invoked making her skin sensitive all over. His mouth was so close to hers. One small move from either of them would bring them together. His eyes flickered to her mouth, and his nostrils flared just a bit, letting her know he wasn't quite as immune to her as he portrayed.
Abruptly he pulled back and took a step away from her.
"Hay itches and usually winds up in places hay should never be. And trying to have sex on the back of a horse is just asking for trouble,” he replied in a flat, emotionless tone.
He bent and picked the shovel back up, then grabbed her hand and wrapped her fingers around the shovel's handle.
"I'm afraid the only plowing you're going to be doing is into manure,” he told her.
"I am not cleaning up horse shit!"
"We all shit, baby, even horses. And if left unclean, it could cause hoof problems like thrush. Now,” he said as he pointed to the shovel. “Use it or leave Hart Ranch."
They stared at each other, and the challenge was clear. Fury burned through Heather, sharp and electric. She badly wanted to throw the shovel at him and flounce away, but she knew that was what he wanted. He wanted her to give up and make this easy for him, so he gave her a task that he knew would disgust her in every way possible. But the one thing he hadn't figured on was her steely determination to never fail, especially in front of him.
She lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Where do I put it?"
Tristan stuck his thumb to the other side of the barn's entrance. She spotted a four wheeler with a trailer attached on the back.
"After you're done, it gets hauled across the ranch to a compost site where we dry it and sell it to local farmers."
"You're kidding me. You sell it?"
"It's great fertilizer."
"Ever heard of E. coli?"
He ignored her comment. “You better get started; you've wasted five hours already,” he said as he turned to walk away.
"Wait!” she called, and he turned around with a raised eyebrow. “You're just going to leave me here doing this by myself? There're forty stalls here!"
"And you better get busy because those horses will be coming back at the end of the day. Remember, the manure goes out along with the old hay and new hay goes down. Very easy."
Then he walked away, whistling a little tune.
Damned arrogant jerk! All right, she did this once twenty years ago, shouldn't be that hard to dredge up the memory. Unfortunately she couldn't think clearly. Her mind rolled with images of his smirking smile, and the only thing she could concentrate on was plotting her revenge for this little trick.
"You're not exactly dressed for mucking out stalls,” came an amused voice.
Heather looked around and saw a cowboy leaning against the doorway, watching her, his arms folded across his chest. He wore a black hat pushed back on his head, allowing her to see his amused blue eyes.
"I don't need comments from the peanut gallery,” Heather retorted, turning back to face the stall. She swallowed hard, forcing her breakfast back down.
"I'm just saying. The urine is going to destroy the lacings on your, er, boots."
Heather huffed and looked at her feet. “Well, these definitely are going to live up to their name."
The cowboy laughed.
Heather narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. “Do I know you?"
"I'm wounded you don't remember me."
Her brain went into overdrive and then stopped when his face clicked into place. “Ah, the BFF. Dave?"
"Duke."
"That's right. Duke.” They studied each other for a moment. “If I flirt with you, would you clean out these stalls for me?"
"Not a chance."
Heather shrugged. “Had to ask."
"Good try.” Duke righted himself and shoved his hands in the front of his jeans. “Don't forget to remove all the feed tubs, water buckets, and stall toys. Clean ‘em out and then put them back."
"Seriously?"
"And make sure the hay on the ground is even when you're done."
Then he winked at her and walked away. Heather watched him for a moment before leaving the stall she was in to stand in the long hallway. She closed her eyes, breathing in the pungent smell of the stable, a mixture of horse, hay, and dirt. It wasn't unpleasant; in fact it brought back the tiny slip of memory from the one time she had cleaned out a stall way back when.
She looked around and saw a bunch of stuff piled against the wall—a wheelbarrow, a pitchfork, a broom, gloves, and even a pair of rubber boots. Somehow, in her anger and resentment, she had missed seeing the things that Tristan must have laid out.
Her anger thawed. Okay, so he wasn't totally a jerk. And if the positions had been reversed, she would have set up something equally disgusting for him in hopes he would give up. A lot was at stake. Heather wondered how large the ranch measured, in terms of land and cattle. Perhaps she needed to do her own investigation and learn how profitable a claim she'd be inheriting. After all, she wouldn't mind selling the ranch to Tristan, as long as she got the market value for it.
With renewed vigor, Heather grabbed the rubber boots and traded her own out. They were big and flopped a bit with each step, but at least she wouldn't have to worry about muck leaking onto her feet. Then she grabbed the wheelbarrow and positioned it before picking up the pitchfork.
Tristan was still smiling as he leaned against the fence and crossed his arms. Even from this distance he could see Heather moving around the stable. He almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
"She's legal now,” Duke commented as he joined Tristan.
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Don't even think what you're thinking."
"You're no fun."
"And you're way too obvious."
Duke shrugged. “Hey, just looking out for you, buddy."
Tristan shook his head and marched away, heading toward his patiently waiting horse. He grabbed the reins and mounted, kicking off toward the pastures that lay north of the homestead. One of the hands had reported seeing some wild hogs the other day, and he wanted to make sure the fences were still intact.
As he rode, his mind wandered toward Heather Hart, as it always seemed to lately. The woman dominated his every thought, though he wasn't sure if it was from sexual attraction or from sexual frustration. Unfortunately, both involved the word “sex,” which had never really occupied him too much. Until recently.
Lincoln Hart had really messed things up, pitting Tristan against her. It had seemed the safest course of action was to make her so miserable that she'd walk away. But the woman had the notorious stubborn streak inherited through the Hart genes. The memory of her jutting chin and the fire burning in her eyes brought a small smile to Tristan's lips.
He shook his head and scowled to himself. If this was to be a competition, then Heather Hart better watch out. He never played to lose.
She had barely finished with the seventh stall when the cowboys started coming back for the evening. Her body ached in places she never knew existed, her mind completely blank with exhaustion, and her nose finally immune to the smells around her. She was so tired she didn't even notice any of the men making a wide berth around her as she walked, in zombie fashion, from the barn up the path that led to the house.
All she cared about in that moment was sliding into a hot bath. Her eyes glazed over at that heavenly thought.
"Heather!"
The call of her name brought her up short, and she stopped about ten feet from the back door of the house. She turned and saw Tristan striding up to meet her, his eyebrows raised.
"You're not thinking about walking in there dressed in the rubber boots caked in shit and grime, are you?"
Heather blinked and then looked down at herself. Her clothes would have to be burned. No way would she ever wear them again.
"Oh my God,” she moaned. “That was utterly horrific."
"I'm impressed that you managed to finish seven stalls,” he murmured in a soothing tone, much like one he used with the horses. “You can finish the rest tomorrow if you get an earlier start."
She just stared at him, her brain too slow to think of a witty retort. Instead, she started shedding her clothes. Being careful to touch only the tops, first went the nasty rubber boots. Then she unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, shimmying out of them down to her lilac-colored panties. Next, she whipped off her top and threw that on the small pile. She looked at Tristan, who stared with his mouth hanging open and his eyes almost bugging out of his head as he took in her thong and see-through bra. Satisfaction hummed through her. It was almost worth it, cleaning out those horrendous stalls, to have him this flustered.
Turning, she paused long enough for him to get the full effect of the bottom of her well-shaped ass cheeks. Then she marched into the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind her.
She ignored Mabel, who shook her head in disbelief. She ignored Duke, who sat at the table with his fork halfway to his open mouth. She marched up the stairs to the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast, peeling off her undies and dropping them in the trash can. At this rate, she'd need that money just to go shopping for more clothes.
The hot water was the best thing she'd felt against her skin in a long time. Just washing away the stink of the day was pure bliss. She lathered herself from head to toe, rinsed, and lathered again. She stayed until her fingers pruned, and the suds were all washed away. Then she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a big towel before sitting on the closed toilet seat to mentally regroup.
The fading light trickling in from the bathroom window intensified the depression lingering in her soul. She'd always been alone, having only herself to rely on, and today had taken a huge chunk out of her self-reliance. Tristan expected her to go back tomorrow and do it all again, and in order to win this ranch, she had to. But every single muscle in her body ached, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. She looked at her hands and saw blisters had begun to form despite the gloves she had worn.
How Tristan would laugh at her if he saw her, practically defeated over a little hard work. She let her mind drift for a moment, remembering the last time she had been at the ranch. Her grandfather had been healthy then, working the ranch alongside his men. Her father had argued with him constantly, yelling matches that had only embittered both.
Her father had walked away, from this ranch and from her. For a moment, a very brief second, she opened the door to her memories, to the darkness that had turned her from a child into a shell of a person. Her life had forever changed because of one stupid decision, and her father had given up when the pressure to believe in the innocence of his only child had become too great. If only she could go back and be a young girl again, back to being fifteen and visiting this ranch again for the first time. She would do so many things differently.
Heather sniffed away the tears threatening to fall. She closed her eyes and cleared her mind, as she always did when things seemed too overwhelming to bear. Obstacles made spirits stronger, and she considered hers unbreakable. She might bend but she would never snap.
With her equilibrium back in place, she rose and exited the bathroom, heading into her bedroom, where she dressed in her nightclothes before sitting on her bed to comb out her hair. By now the sun had set and the night sounds started their lullaby.
She lay back on her quilt, intending only to take a quick nap. But exhaustion pulled her under, and she slept like the dead.
Since she had busted her alarm clock the previous morning, Heather had nothing to throw at the door when Mabel came around knocking at four a.m.
But she sat up and scowled at the door, gave it the finger, and then wrapped herself back into her quilt as she turned over to burrow back into her pillow. Yet she hadn't gotten more than a half hour extra sleep when her door burst open, scaring the daylights out of her. Heather screeched as Tristan stomped into the room, she howled when he stripped her of the quilt, and she cursed as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
"What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed, kicking her feet and banging her fists against his back as he carried her, fireman style, down the stairs and into the kitchen. He plopped her down in a chair at the table.
She scrambled to push her hair out of her eyes, ready to spit fire at him, but stopped when she saw she was far from alone at the table. Besides Tristan and Duke, two other men stared at her with wide eyes. One man reminded her of Brad Pitt, with golden hair and sky blue eyes. The other man reminded her of Willie Nelson, complete with long, gray hair and beard stubble. Mabel stood at the stove, her back turned from them as she finished cooking breakfast.