Page 4 of Wrangle Me, Cowboys

“Looks like Van Gogh agrees with me,” I said. “She’s the gentlest, so you’ll do fine on her.”

I thought Amber might hold back, but she wasn’t a bit afraid. She walked right up and held her hand out, letting Van Gogh mouth her palm. Finding nothing there, Van Gogh snorted. Amber laughed and stepped closer, running her hand up the horses cheeks and scratching her forehead while Van Gogh sniffed at her neck. I could tell they’d make fast friends, and my riding lessons wouldn’t amount to more than one lesson.

“We’ll take them out in a couple hours, after they’ve had time to digest,” I said. “I’ll show you a good trail to get some exercise on. The others will probably want to follow, but you don’t have to take them. They’ll get their exercise in the field.”

By the time she’d loved on all the horses, and I’d shown her the blankets, how to check the horses over so if they were acting funny or had anything unusual going on, she’d be more likely to spot it, it had been over an hour. Amber wanted to brush them down, so we worked on that. I didn’t figure a city girl would be interested in horses, but maybe it was because she’d never been around them. Maria had been scared of horses and wouldn’t even ride unless one of us rode behind her. Now that I thought about it, that might have been just another part of her game.

Amber wasn’t the sort who wanted to look helpless and scared, though. Sometimes she could be a little clueless, but I figured that was just the way she’d grown up. I couldn’t expect her to know more about horses or tractors than I knew about the New York subway. It was something I’d seen on TV, that was all. Same with her.

When the horses got restless to go outside, I saddled up Van Gogh, showing Amber how to do it, too, but reminding her to ask Grimes for help if she wanted to ride when we weren’t around. Then I saddled up Picasso and put leads on the other two so they could get some exercise before the snows got too deep to ride the trails.

“Ready?” I asked Amber. She strode over, patted Van Gogh, and stuck her foot in the stirrup. I guided her hand to the saddle, aware of the heat of her body so near mine. My cock stirred at the memory of our kiss the other night, and having my hand on her ass as I helped her into the saddle didn’t help.

Damn, this was bad. We were supposed to be looking out for this party girl, not falling for her. But as we rode out, I couldn’t stop. It had been way too long since I’d had a woman in my bed, that was all. I kept telling myself that, but it didn’t stop me from seeing sexiness in everything Amber did. Her rhythm in the saddle, her thighs around the horse, her tight little ass in those designer jeans she wore—she had my cock straining against my jeans, wanting her riding me that way.

When the horses were warm and I thought she could handle it, I urged Picasso ahead, letting him run a little. Rembrandt and Frida cantered along beside us, used to this routine. Looking back over my shoulder, I saw Amber riding with her eyes closed, her head thrown back and her blonde hair flowing out in the wind behind her. God damn, she was beautiful.

Too beautiful for us to destroy her with our perversions. She looked so pure and joyful in that moment, not like the kind of woman who wanted to be plowed by three cowboys at once. Amber wasn’t a girl to take turns fucking—she was one to treasure and care for. I’d floated the other idea by her, and she’d seemed interested, but she hadn’t said yes. Now I could see that it would be a mistake. We were supposed to be getting to know this girl, not having an orgy with her.

She was part of our family now, a girl we should protect as we would our own sister. And that’s what we were going to do. If not because she was our stepsister and that’s what we’d been asked, then because she deserved it. And because I cared about her too much to ruin her the way we would if we let ourselves.

4

Amber

The next morning, it was my very first day to feed and tend the horses on my own. They hadn’t wasted any time giving me some responsibility. I’d thought they’d give me a week of training or something, but they seemed to trust that I could remember the right amount of feed and water.

Van Gogh whinnied when she saw me, swinging her head in my direction. The horses were already getting used to me, like Holden said they would, and soon they’d look forward to my visits, knowing that meant they were getting food.

When I turned to feed Picasso, Mr. Grimes was standing in the wide aisle that ran the length of the barn, between the stalls.

“Hi,” I said, raising a hand to him. While I was distracted, Van Gogh reached out, grabbed the edge of the scoop, and dumped her oats all over the floor at my feet.

“You brat,” I said, pushing her head away. I refilled the scoop and fed her, poured Picasso’s oats in his feed pan, then turned back to the metal drums. I bent down to fill the scoop, and when I turned, Mr. Grimes was still standing there, leaning on the gate of one of the stalls, watching me.

Okay, that’s a little creepy.

Ignoring him, I went about feeding the rest of the horses. He was probably just watching to make sure I did everything right. I was new, after all, and he’d been doing this for years. Still, it was unnerving to have him just stand there, not hovering but observing. When I finished, I brushed off my hands and blew the hair off my face.

“Did I pass?” I asked.

Mr. Grimes grunted.

“Well, then,” I said. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

When he still didn’t speak, I started to get a creeping feeling in my gut, so I headed for the door. Just as I passed him, I heard a single word uttered.

“Whore.”

The word hit me like a bullet, hard and unforgiving. I stumbled before righting myself and turning to face him.

“Excuse me?”

“I know what you been up to in that house.” His voice was gravelly and nasal, with a strong southern twang.

I took a step back. “What?”

“My wife told me all about it.” His eyes crawled over me with a mixture of disgust and lust. “I know what kind of girl you is.”