Ranch Hand Read online

  Table of Contents

  Ranch Hand

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter 5

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About The Author

  Red Sage Publishing

  An eRedSage Publishing Publication

  This book is a work of complete fiction. Any names, places, incidents, characters are products of the author’s imagination and creativity or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is fully coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form whatsoever in any country whatsoever is forbidden.

  Information:

  Red Sage Publishing, Inc. P.O. Box 4844 Seminole, FL 33775

  727-391-3847 eRedSage.com

  Ranch Hand

  An eRed Sage Publication All Rights Reserved Copyright © 2012

  eRedSage is a registered trademark of Red Sage Publishing, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.eRedSage.com

  ISBN: 9781603108195; 160310819X Ranch Hand eBook version

  Published by arrangement with the authors and copyright holders of the individual works as follows:

  Ranch Hand © 2012 by Alla Kar

  Cover © 2012 by Fiona Jayde

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  ebook layout and conversion by jimandzetta.com

  Ranch Hand

  ***

  By Alla Kar

  TO MY READERS:

  I’m so glad y’all have taken the time out to read about RANCH HAND. I love the south, I’ve lived there here my entire life. To have a chance to share a story that takes place in the Deep South is a blessing. I brought Bridget Gaines and Levi James to life because I feel every girl loves her a cowboy deep down. I also feel every girl is secretly still in love with her first love. I hope that y’all enjoy reading RANCH HAND as much as I enjoyed writing it!

  READER ALERT:

  Bridget never felt she belonged in Texas until she is thrust back into the southern state to see her ill papaw and comes face to face with her ex boyfriend, Levi, who looks all too well in his cowboy hat. Levi knows how to ride a woman better than he knows how to lasso a horse

  Chapter One

  The damned hot air is the first thing that catches my attention. If I wasn’t already dreading what might be my last trip back to Humble to visit my papaw, the hot Texas air is dripping and sliding against my Northern skin, making it hard to even breathe. He is sick. More than sick, he’s dying. The thought makes my stomach churn. I hate that I haven’t been back in so long, and I hate that it’s because of this.

  I clutch my suitcase and walk down the stairs leading me to the ground at the Houston Airport. The atmosphere is different. The air. The sky. The people.

  I feel strange; I haven’t been back to Texas since I was eighteen, since I graduated from high school and went to college in New York. Now I work at Harper Teen as an editor. It’s been seven years since I have stepped a perfectly manicured foot on Texas soil, and it is haunting. My past seems to be so close to me. I hate it.

  The second thing I notice is that everyone is smiling at me. Not in a creepy way but in a Southern polite way. We don’t do that in New York. I almost expect them to ask me for money. A man once shoved me down accidentally, and he kept walking. That would never happen in Texas. Anyone here would get an “I’m sorry ma’am, are you okay?” It’s polite and the Texas way. I shove my way through the crowded airport, though the sweaty people and receive a few nasty looks and comments. Now that feels more like home.

  Biting my lip, I try to crane over all of the tall people to see my mother. Everyone to me is tall, since I’m only five three. I get it from my mother, who seems to be invisible in the crowd, also. My legs are long, but my torso isn’t. I’m all legs is what my momma used to say.

  I stand my suitcase up and lean against the airport wall, pulling my cell phone from my cluttered Coach purse. I know my mother will comment on my purse. No missed calls. Not that I expect Christopher to call me this soon, but it would be nice for him to call and see if his fiancé made it okay. Putting aside my self-pity, I dial my mother’s number. She picks up on the third ring.

  “Hello,” she says, a little too loud for my ears. “Bridget, are you there, hon? I can’t hear a darn thing in this phone. Can. You. Hear. Me. Darlin’?”

  “Mother. I can hear you, where are you? I’m off the plane, are you here yet?”

  “Yeah, darlin.’ I’m over here by the women’s bathroom. I’ve been here for an hour waiting.”

  I close my eyes. She is always early. “Great, I’ll be there in just a second, do not move.” I hang up and grab my suitcase. I know exactly where the bathroom is. I spent thirty minutes throwing up in it before I got on the flight to New York for college. I was scared shitless and thought I would never make friends with my Southern twang and little knowledge of everything Northern. Luckily, I lost my accent, and I gained a good knowledge of how Northerners work.

  ***

  My mom is standing up against the wall, fingers laced together and squeezing tightly. I glance down at my own fingers and notice the blisters in between each one. She has them, too. One thing besides my height I inherited from my mother, a terrible nervous habit.

  She twists toward her left and her eyes catch mine. She watches me for a moment and then smiles. Her smile reaches her slightly wrinkled eyes. Her light hair is pulled back into a tight bun low on her head and her eyes are just as soft as I remember them. “Bridget,” she mouths, hugging herself tight, wrapping her cardigan around herself. I mentally wonder why she has that damn thing on; it’s only 106 degrees down here. And that really means 115 because of the humidity.

  I set down my suitcase and lean forward into her hug. She pulls me against her, squeezing me into the plump breasts I used to envy as a child. “I’ve missed you so much, Bridget.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Momma.” I take in her cinnamon scent and hug her tighter. It’s been so long since I’ve seen her that I have to hold back the tears that want to fall. I miss her smell, her warm smile, her amazing Southern cooking.

  She pulls back and glares at me. “Your hair is different. It’s longer.” She twirls the long blond curl of hair around her index finger. “It’s beautiful, just how my momma’s used to be.”

  I wince. “How is she?”

  Momma’s smile falters but she keeps it there anyways. “She isn’t holdin’ up too well, darlin.’ She is sad.” Momma looks off. “It’s hard to picture her sad, huh? But anyways, she is ready to see ya. Let’s get your stuff, so you can get settled in, dear.”

  I nod and pick up my suitcase following behind her. She takes slow, exaggerated steps toward the sliding doors. When we get outside, Dad’s old, rusted red pickup truck is waiting in the parking lot. I smile to myself; I learned how to drive with that truck. I also got my first kiss on the tailgate of it. I open the rusty door and slip inside, taking a seat on the torn burgundy leather cab. It smells of the same work boots, hay and old leather.

  “So, does he remember any of us?” I ask quietly, looking out the window as Momma starts the engine and we start toward the ranch.

  She sighs and shrugs her shoulders. “He has his good days and bad days, darlin.’” I nod and pretend to dig through my purse to hold back my tears.

  “Livin’ large?” Mom says. I look over and she is looking at my purse. “You’ve sure made somethin’ out of yourself, sweetie. We’re really proud.”

  I smile. “Thanks.”

  “So, when do we get to meet this Chri
stopher? Is he comin’ down here?”

  Squeezing my fingers together, I say, “Yes, he will be coming down here in a couple of weeks. He is caught up at the law firm.” I pretend I’m excited about him coming. I’m not. My life in Texas is nothing like my life in New York. He was raised in upper Manhattan and isn’t accustomed to Southern living and I’m pretty sure he won’t understand it.

  Momma looks over and smiles at me. “I’m really proud you got out of here and are makin’ somethin’ of yourself. I’m glad that you didn’t stay and do what he wanted you to do. You know what’s best for ya.”

  A surge of guilt plows deep through my stomach. I grit my teeth to keep from screaming. I do not want to think about this.

  “You know he is still…”

  “I don’t care, Momma. I’m sorry, but I don’t. Like you said I’ve moved on and made something out of myself not involving Texas.”

  She nods her head and keeps quiet. I close my eyes and wish it all away. I can’t think of him I won’t. Southern bastard.

  When I open my eyes, I look up and see the GAINES sign written across the top of the black cast iron fence. I intertwine my fingers and squeeze. The lush oak and pine trees start to come more frequently and the paved road turns into a slim gravel path. I sit nervously squeezing my fingers and my mind is racing. The leaves are starting to fall and there is a blanket of orange and red leaves spread across the Texas ground. There is a calming look to the beautiful trees surrounding our long driveway.

  The ranch house hasn’t change. My grandparent’s house. The white siding is still perfectly painted; the wrap around porch has rocking chairs, hanging ferns and a swing suspended from its ceiling. I can see the fields in the distance, the horses running, the donkeys eating. A fluttering hops around in my stomach making me squirm.

  “Home sweet home,” Momma says, stopping the truck. My eyes flicker over to Momma and Daddy’s house in the backfield.

  “You don’t stay there?” I ask, ashamed that I don’t know the answer to this. I should know. I should call. I should care.

  “Ever since Daddy became ill, your daddy and I moved in with them. Momma is slippin’ and we have to help. But…during your stay, if you want to stay at the house you can.”

  I shake my head. “I want to stay with you guys.”

  She is quiet for a minute, gazing off at the house before she gets out and shuts the door behind her. Clutching my bag, I step out of the truck. The ground is different here. It’s soft, addicting. Not like New York, where there is barely any ground, it’s all concrete and buildings. Here, you can see the ground, the random flowers growing up toward the raging Texas sun. I watch as my heels sink into the fresh dirt and I cringe. I paid two hundred dollars for these damn heels.

  “You comin’, darlin’?” Momma asks, turning around and staring at me. “Your daddy is inside waitin’ on you. Papaw is asleep and Mamaw is at bridge.”

  I smile. Bridge. She still does that.

  I grab my suitcase and walk beside her in silence until we meet the door straight on. I almost raise my hand to knock but let my hand fall back to my side. Reaching for the doorknob, I walk in. The cherry hardwood floor is brightly waxed. The scent from the cedar furniture fills my nose in a heavy gust of my past. The open floor plan is welcoming and inviting.

  “Princess,” I hear my dad’s boom of a drawl in my ears. It sends tickles down my back.

  “Daddy,” I whimper out a pathetic shaky cry as I see him standing in the kitchen. His large hand is rested on the kitchen entrance and his wide shoulders are straightened high and proud. His salt and pepper hair is short and his goatee is perfectly quaffed. He is barefoot and is wearing a plaid shirt unbuttoned.

  Unable to hold in my excitement any longer, I run toward him. I feel like a little girl again, running to him as I used to when he came home after work. He takes me in his arms, pulling me to his chest, and my feet dangle from the ground. Daddy is six four and Fate gave me not one mere inch of his height. When he sits me back down, I look up at him. His eyes have dark bags underneath them and his smile is worn and tired.

  “I’ve missed you,” I mumble, wiping the tear away before it hits my cheek. Daddy leans down and wipes underneath my eye.

  “I’ve missed you too, darlin.’ So much. Too much.”

  I nod and rest my head against his chest. I never want to let go. I want to stay in his arms forever.

  Momma clears her throat and pats me on the back. “Do you want to stay in the guest bedroom in the rear?” she asks. I nod, pulling myself together quietly. It’s been so long.

  “Sure. I love the view.”

  Dad’s boom of a laugh rattles my ears. “Don’t see anything like that in New York, do ya, honey?”

  I shake my head and bite my lip. “Nope. Nothing like this.”

  Momma pats my shoulder. “You want me to help you get settled?”

  I sigh and pick up my bag and suitcase. “No, I’ve got it. I need to get a shower anyways. I will be out in a little while.”

  I walk down the hallway and pass by a few bedrooms. My heels click against the hardwood, and I take both of them off and hold them tightly in my hand, letting them swing at my side.

  The door to my left is cracked, and I know Papaw is in there. I know I should let him sleep, but I just want a quick glance. The door creaks when I push softly on it. The smell of sawdust and medicine are vibrant in my nose. The papery white hair on his head is thinner. He takes shallow breaths in and out. His fingers are laced together on his stomach, and he is oblivious.

  Biting back my tears, I close the door, cover my mouth with my hand and let out a small cry. Memories flood my brain like a waterfall I can’t get out of. Pawpaw helping me on my first horse… helping me ride my bike…the birthday parties in this very house… the times he threatened my old boyfriends before every date

  I grip my suitcase and walk across the hall to the spare bedroom. There is a queen-size cedar bed with a bright yellow bedspread over it. I sigh and take in the scent of fresh flowers and cedar. There isn’t a TV and I frown. My grandparents were never big on TV, and that is one thing I miss about my parents’ house. There was always something playing in the living room whether someone was watching it or not. Now, I have no time to watch TV. I’m in meetings, editing or reading. It consumes me.

  I place my bag on the huge, soft bed and start unpacking it. I’m not sure how long I’m staying. A month, maybe two? I have responsibilities in New York. I have a fiancé. I have my entire mature life. It can wait.

  I take my underwear and a soft summer dress out of my bag. The bathroom is in my room and I go to it. No one ever uses it and it is ridiculously perfect and clean. It’s decorated in light yellows and blues. There is a cinnamon candle in the corner on the sink. I can smell it without it being lit.

  The wide set window is opened and a humid breeze sways into the bathroom leaving me awed. The light curtains move in the wind. I slowly take off my clothes and get into the shower. Scrubbing away my jetlag and perfume, I leave myself smelling like my mamaw and Dove soap. I step out, grab a towel and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are weary, my skin pale. I look nothing like I used to. I look pale, vampire-like. I cringe. If I looked like this seven years ago, I would have been in the river trying to tan myself up.

  I lean over and grab a comb from underneath the cabinet, pushing it through my long wet hair. I hear a whistle. I drop the comb, letting it bound effortlessly on the tile floor beneath me. I hear it again. Tiptoeing over toward the window, I peek a quick glance outside. There is movement by the shop where Papaw keeps his saddle and all of his tools. Squinting, I see someone walking…no. I see him walking. He is walking…he is walking with that Texas cowboy strut. His face is hidden beneath a dark-as-midnight cowboy hat, his shirt is off and I know it’s him. My insides flutter. Why wouldn’t Momma tell me he is here? Would she not think it’s important?

  I know that tan skin, muscled chest and tight ass. I grip the windowsill and scoff. His eyes
flicker toward mine. Panicked, I turn and fall to the floor, making sure he can’t see me. I’m panting on the floor of the bathroom like some nervous teenager.

  Get a grip, Bridget. That was a long ass time ago. I grab my clothes off the toilet seat and crawl out of the bathroom, fuming. I snatch my cotton summer dress on and slip into its softness. My hair is wet, so I wring it out and do a quick towel dry. I leave it in damp curls down my back.

  I fight the urge to slam my door, but knowing Papaw is asleep beside me, I shut it quietly instead. Fuming, I run into the living room. Momma is sitting on the couch with a cup in her hands. “Bridget, are you…”

  “No! Why didn’t you tell me he was here?” I grit through my teeth.

  She sighs and shakes her head. “Sweetie, I tried in the truck, but you said you didn’t want to talk ‘bout it. Just calm…”

  “No. I will not calm down, Momma. He is here and you know how awkward that’s gonna be for me?”

  Momma sits quietly, her eyes darting behind me.

  “Hey, Bridget. Nice to see ya ‘gin, Kitten.” It’s been seven years but I know that rough and calloused voice anywhere. Kitten. My skin heats remembering him calling me that. He always made my stomach flutter with just that one word. Closing my eyes, I give one good shake of my head to keep myself together. I turn on my heel. He is just as smoking hot up close as he was from my bathroom window. He looks better now than he did at eighteen, more mature…more manly.

  He slowly pulls the leather gloves off his big hands, wiping them on his dirty jeans. I’m tongue tied, staring up at him like a babbling fool.

  “Levi,” I stammer out, not sure how I sound to him but know my voice is quaking. A smile plays on his lips, bringing up the dimple on his right cheek. He has facial hair now, just a little. A smooth, trimmed goatee that connects to his sideburns in a chinstrap. His sandy brown hair is short to his head like it always was. He steps toward me, wrapping his arm around my lower waist. I’m so, maybe too, aware that he still doesn’t have his shirt on.