Gene woke the next morning with a clear visualization of the day ahead, thanks to the additional YouTube videos she'd watched before bed.
She would mount her new horse flawlessly; she would round up her share of cattle with aplomb (perhaps even saving a baby cow caught in a fence if she was lucky); she would swing expertly down from the saddle at day's end, and Trace would be so impressed he'd ravish her on the spot. Because hey, it stood to reason that if he'd gotten that massive erection yesterday when she'd made a complete idiot of herself around the horses, the hard-on he got today when she excelled in the saddle would be a humdinger of epic proportions, unable to be denied.
Of course, as she'd already acknowledged, some men could get a hard-on looking at anyone with two X chromosomes so Trace could become equally impressively erected by looking at the other two single female dudes, Rina and Julie from Chicago. Pretty. Friendly. Great riders. Nothing not to like there.
She tried to imagine Trace on top of Rina the way he'd landed on Gene yesterday, the scorching look in his eyes suggesting he was a breath away from shoving her legs apart and going at her, hot, hard, hammering...
Nope. She couldn't quite get there. Rina was too relaxed, too take it or leave it, for that scenario.
So...Julie, maybe? Julie had explained the term "Wrangler butt" to Gene and Llew, and they'd all agreed Trace had one hell of a Wrangler butt.
Buuut no. Just no. Wrangler butt appreciation aside, Julie was too sophisticated for the awesome alliteration of hot hard hammering. She was the type to order a Negroni and a bowl of warm Sicilian olives to share with her man in a hot tub after a day in the saddle, and there was no hot tub (and certainly no Sicilian olives) on the Three Range ranch.
Which wasn't to say that the abstract idea of cocktails in a hot tub (and Gene would just bet Julie had the makings of a Negroni stashed in her cabin) wouldn't appeal to Trace. He did, after all, own a bar, where all sorts of women ordered cocktails and no doubt invited him into hot tubs at the end of the night. Into beds, too. Or maybe into toilet cubicles if they couldn't wait until the end of the night.
Uh-oh. It uncoiled suddenly, like a startled snake. A little tendril of jealousy at the idea of Trace with other women.
Oh no! Not happening! No jealousy. A Teflon-coated tough-as-rawhide girl did not get all hands-off-my-man over a guy she'd known for one day and would kiss goodbye in two weeks.
She grabbed her hair dryer, trusting that the concentration required to recapture a little Beachy Jennifer Lawrence hair magic would send that pesky little tendril darting for the rocks, out of sight. And as she brushed and flicked and blew, she gave herself a stern talking to: It didn't matter how many other people Trace had sex with, as long as he had it with her. He could do it with take-it-or-leave-it Rina; he could do it with Julie as they sucked a mutual hypothetical olive; hell, he could do it with Llew, just for the sake of variety! That was why condoms had been invented: so people could screw around without impregnating anyone and landing themselves with a lifelong commitment, and spread the love without spreading disease. Just bring on the condom and she'd be AOK to get what she wanted. Buck would get what he wanted—Trace re-entering the field. Trace would get what he wanted—hello, hard-on!—even though he might need to be persuaded that he really truly did want it. And nobody would be hurt at the end when she returned to London. All that she had to do was get on with it!
She turned off the blow dryer with a snap and fluffed her hair. Not bad.
Next, she examined her underwear, choosing a flimsy pair of pink lace panties in preparation for seduction.
She sorted through her bras, pulled out the one in matching pink lace, and looked at her boobs doubtfully.
Her boobs had been bounced every which way on that horse yesterday, and she didn't think the pink lace bra was going to do anything to keep the bounce in check during a full day in the saddle. The only solution that occurred to her was to don two bras—which was perhaps not all that sexy. But if she made the second bra the one in the darker pink satin that offered a little stronger support...? Might it not look like a style, should they get to whatever base it was that involved breast action? Especially if, say, she wore her hot pink Western shirt, with the matching kerchief knotted with insouciance around her neck. Couldn't she—and he!—regard it in the light of deliberate color coding?
It seemed reasonable, so Gene went for it.
She examined a profile view of her clothed self in the mirror. The two bras gave her a flatter-than-usual appearance. Le sigh. There really was nothing to be done about that; she was going to need her breasts for longer than this fling would last so protecting their pertness was paramount. On the bright side, when Trace finally unwrapped her he'd get a nice surprise to find them more apple than pancake—a thought that put a spring in her step as she headed to the lodge for breakfast.
The spring was still there after breakfast, despite the absence of her quarry at any of the tables, because the countdown to seeing Trace was now well and truly on.
At least it would have been on if she hadn't had to stop her cabin en route to the barn to collect the hat and gloves she'd forgotten earlier in her pink-thinking haze. Problem was, that delay meant that by the time Gene and Llew rocked up to Horselandia, the other dudes were already tacking up—and they were all dauntingly, scarily good at it.
YouTube, Gene reminded herself. She'd picked up some good tips last night, and if she got started quickly any tiny mistakes could be corrected before Trace appeared.
She looked around trying to identify the replacement horse Emmett had chosen for her, but the only newbie horse she could see had already been claimed by Jim V—who didn't deserve a new one after spending the whole of yesterday's ride calling his poor horse 'buzzard-bait.'
"Llew, look," she said, as the implication sank in. "There's your horse," she said, pointing. "Julie, Rina, the others—they're all saddled up and out of the corral. There's a horse for everyone except me. I..." She stopped, swallowed hard. "I must have been really bad yesterday, because I don't think they're giving me a horse today."
Llew's eyes narrowed as he looked from horse to horse. "If they can find a new horse for that dickwad Jim V, they can find one for you. They can give you his cast-off—Pepper, or whatever its name is. You'll get a horse or I'll be demanding to know why."
Gene cringed. She didn't want to have to demand a horse. She'd didn't want to be a Jim V-style pain in anyone's ass. Didn't want to start today with a scene.
"It's okay," she assured Llew. "I could do with a rest, actually. My backside's sore from all that bouncing yesterday. And...and I'm chafed, too, because the inside seam of my jeans rubbed so hard." She forced out a laugh. "Now that's one thing that will get me to open my thighs—aloe vera. So I guess... I guess I'll read today. I brought a few books with me. Literary ones. I made a start on one on the plane. Crime and Punishment. It's...good."
Llew turned her to face him, hands on her shoulders. "One," he said, very talk-to-the-crazy-person. "You will get a horse. Two—you're babbling. Three—we both know your inner thighs are interested in more than aloe vera. And four—are you talking about Dostoyevsky or a romance involving BSDM?"
Gene flicked a finger at the corner of one weepy eye, pretending to dislodge a piece of grit. "Dostoyevsky, of course."
"Five—that is not dust in your eye. And six—sweetie, if you're already teary, I'm not leaving you alone with that book—at least not before I check your bathroom for razor blades." He hugged her. "I have a book about the secret confessions of a flight attendant—much better, in your current sta..." He trailed off. And then, smiling, he turned Gene to face the same direction as him. "But the flight attendant can wait, I think."
"Oh," Gene breathed out, seeing the rider approaching, leading a second horse. "Oh, Llew! Do you really think it's for me?" she asked, and although she was trying not to get her hopes up, her heart was nevertheless lifting joyously in her chest.
"I'll put money on it. And what a beauty."
"It's a mustang, right?"
Llew snorted. "Trust you to want a mustang, you nut. No! Looks like a quarter horse to me. Buckskin."
"How do you know that?"
Llew shoulder-bumped her. "You're not the only crawling round YouTube my girl! And I'm bloody glad I did a little scoping last night, because I wouldn't mind impressing that hunk leading your horse with my brilliance. His thighs will do me very nicely indeed."
As the rider neared the corral, Cheyenne called out, "Hey, Avery!"
A few minutes later the horse's reins were being handed to Cheyenne and Avery was dismounting. Propping a booted foot on the bottom rung of the fence as Cheyenne led the horse into the corral, he asked, "Where's Trace?"
Cheyenne shrugged a shoulder. "Problem with a calf. He headed out to sort it but he'll be along soon. He told me to expect you with Calamity when he brought her saddle and reins over last night."
Gene gripped Llew's arm, tight. "That horse is named Calamity," she breathed. "It's a sign."
"Not a good sign, if you ask me," Lew said. "There's enough calamity surrounding you as it is."
Gene gave him a playful pinch. "It must be short for Calamity Jane—she's who I modeled my cowgirl look on."
"Sweetie, you'll need something with a fringe to pull that off."
"Wait until the party Saturday night. I'm wearing a fringed vest I bought in Pinedale."
And then Cheyenne was beckoning her over and she turned shining eyes on Llew. "Oh, they want me. She really must be for me. Oh, Llew!"
Llew, laughing, gave her a little push and she was off, hurrying over to the horse.
She took in both Cheyenne and Avery with her biggest smile. "Is she really for me?"
Avery beamed a smile right back at her. "If you're Gene, then yes, she is."
"She's so pretty," Gene said, and reached out a reverent hand to touch. But then she stopped, jerked her hand back. "Am I allowed to touch her?"
"Sure—but let me show you how to go about it," Avery said. "Just give me a minute first to check her hooves. You can watch while I do that."
He dropped his reins to the ground before heading in through the gate.
Gene, who was watching every move this fascinating newcomer made, waggled a hand at his horse. "Won't your horse run away?"
"Nope," Avery said, and pointed to the reins on the ground. "That's called ground tying, and all the horses on the Johnson Ranch are trained that way.
"The Johnson Ranch? As in...as in Trace Johnson?"
"As in Trace Johnson," he confirmed. "My brother. It's our ranch. Me, Trace, our sister Fern. It borders Three Range. And Calamity here is one of Fern's horses." He took Calamity's lead rope from Cheyenne's hands and dropped it to the ground. "Now, see? She won't go anywhere."
He was right. As Cheyenne disappeared to the stable to retrieve the saddle and reins, Calamity stayed exactly where she was.
Avery lifted each of Calamity's hooves in turn, explaining what he was looking for—but Gene was too busy trying to make sense of the Trace-ranch-horse business to concentrate on hoof talk. She'd heard about the Johnson ranch; she also knew that Trace had left it as result of what had been described to her as "the Amy effect." But what was the deal with bringing a horse from there? Three Range had eighty horses! Surely there was a non-Cub horse here she could ride! Why was Trace giving her his sister's horse? Did it mean he liked her, maybe?
Avery straightened before she could go too far with that enticing thought. He smiled and Gene smiled back, the way she always did, her mind cataloguing the features of the Cowboy Archetype Mark II before her. Or maybe Avery could be classified as Cowboy Archetype Mark I. At least he was a current cowboy, unlike bar-owner Trace.
Avery looked like his brother—and yet not. Perfect teeth, for one thing. Hot—although not smoking. Similar build—just a bit leaner. Same eyes—but warmer. Same easy confidence—only calmer, friendlier.
He held out his hand to Gene, and she automatically took it, waiting for her thighs to signal that they wanted to open immediately. But it seemed her thighs weren't all that interested in Avery Johnson. Which was not a relief.
"Let's get you and Calamity acquainted," he said, stripping off her glove and shoving it into the back pocket of his jeans. "Buck tells me you like western movies?"
"Yeeees. At least I...I used to," Gene said hesitantly, wondering if the twinkle in Avery's eye meant she should box up all her western DVDs along with the rom-coms, ready for the library. She wasn't sure she could bear to do it, Teflon coating notwithstanding.
"Well, don't do any of that stuff you see in the movies, where people bowl up and stick their hands all over the horse's face." Avery turned her hand so it was knuckle-up. "Curl your fingers a little... Yep, good." He tugged her gently forward. "Now hold out your hand and let her sniff the back of it."
Gene held her breath as the horse sniffed her hand.
"You're doing great," Avery said. "Now move your hand, like this, to her neck, down towards the shoulder. And, there—see? She's saying she likes it."
"How can you tell?" Gene asked, entranced.
"She's rolling her neck into it. Can you feel that?"
"Oh! Oh, yes!"
"And bending towards you a little?"
"Yes, I can feel it," Gene said, practically glowing.
Avery laughed and gave her shoulder a squeeze. "You know, my sister said the next couple of weeks were going to be interesting. I swear, she's psychic."
"Your sister is psychic?" Gene asked, impressed, just as Cheyenne reached them.
Cheyenne balanced the saddle on the fence. "Fern? Psychic?" She laughed. "I wish!"
Gene nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Avery said—"
"Avery said," he interrupted smoothly, "he'll look after Gene, Cheyenne, while you go help Emmett get the others sorted."
"If you're sure," Cheyenne said.
"Oh, I'm sure," Avery said, and laughed again.
Gene didn't know what was so funny, but she laughed too. And really, she was just feeling happy all round so why not laugh? She had a horse and her new horse liked her. The happiness continued as she tacked up, because Avery didn't seem to mind how many times he had to correct her. She felt certain she'd nail the trotting today and be able to revert to a single bra.
"Right," Avery said when he'd answered everything she could think to ask. "Time to get you on. I can see my brother on the way in, and from the way he's riding, he won't be waiting for any stragglers today." Another twinkling smile. "And we don't want you to be the one he leaves behind."
"Trace?" Gene's asked, spinning to see. And, "Oooooohhh,"—talk about riding ventre a terre! Just the way the Marquis of Vidal in Devil's Cub rode! Very, very sexy.
"Are you okay, Gene?" Avery asked, possibly thinking she was having some kind of conniption with all that ridiculous sighing!
"Er...it's just...we were told not to ride like that. When we were on approach, I mean." Her eyes were drawn inexorably back to Trace. "And he is."
"My brother is always the exception to the rule. And he knows how to ride a horse."
"Yes, I can see that," Gene murmured, transfixed.
And then Avery tapped her shoulder, jolting her attention back to him. He was twinkling again. "So come on, let's get you up," he said, and cupped his hands.
Gene looked at Avery's hands. A boost, that's what he was offering.
Chewing furiously on her bottom lip, she contemplated the situation. Had Calamity Jane ever needed a boost? No. On the other hand, Calamity Jane didn't need to impress Trace Johnson. And judging by the way Trace was riding, he would be there smack bang on time to see her sprawl in the dirt if she stuffed it up.
"Just this once," she said. Which she hoped told him she could usually swing into the saddle like a true cowgirl.
It took Gene three tries to get her foot into Avery's hands, which proved that she certainly could not swing herself into the saddle like a true cowgirl, but at least Avery didn't call her on it, even if his shoulders were shaking with what she suspected was silent laughter.
And then, just as a triumphant Gene got her foot where it was supposed to be and managed to grasp the saddle horn, Trace arrived, flinging himself from his horse and tossing his reins to the ground—the equine equivalent of screeching to a halt in a Lamborghini.
"What the devil's taking so long?" Trace demanded, barreling though the gate just as Avery straightened and Gene swung into the saddle.
Flustered, Gene lost her grip on the horn, and with a despairing, "Nooooooo," slid ooooff theee ooooother siiiiide aaaaannnd... "Oooof."
Silence.
Excruciating.
And then, "In your usual position, I see," Trace drawled.
"You distracted me," she accused from the ground.
"You shouldn't let yourself be distracted when you're mounting a horse."
A hand—covered in tan leather—was thrust down at her. Trace's.
Gene—not one to look this gift horse of actual contact in the mouth, regardless of the mortifying circumstances—took the hand being held out to her and was hauled unceremoniously to her feet. She took a moment to inhale the slight saltiness of him, and her hormones started rioting so energetically she had to take two steps back for sanity's sake.
Avery came to her side. "She was doing fine until you showed up leaping around like Zorro on a mission."
Trace turned his glower on his brother. "She didn't look so 'fine' on her butt."
Avery turned to Gene. "Ignore him," he said, reaching into his back pocket for her glove. "And here—I almost forgot this."
"She should keep her gloves on," Trace snapped.
Avery pulled the glove back; with a quick glance at his brother's stormy countenance, he took Gene's hand in his. "Since I took it off, I should put it back on," he said.
"Oh for God's sake." Trace, with eye roll.
Avery took his time putting her glove on and smoothing the leather over her fingers. And then, with a laugh and a wave, he was gone.
"He was showing me how to touch a horse, so I couldn't have my glove on for that," Gene said, coming to Avery's defense.
"He doesn't need you to fight his battles. Actually, nobody needs you to do that. Not him, not Emmett, nobody, so cut that crap right now."
"He was just being kind, that's all. He showed me how to tack up too."
"I said you don't need you to defend him. And you were supposed to learn that yesterday."
"I did, but this is a different saddle, different reins—"
"Funnily enough I know that, since I trained the horse."
"Oh." Swallow. First Cub. Now Calamity. "Well, thank you. For letting me ride her."
"You haven't ridden her yet."
"Avery was just showing me how to get on," she said.
"And obviously doing a piss poor job of it."
She opened her mouth to respond, but Trace cut her off with a rapped out, "Just shut up and come here."
Gift horse, mouth, Gene reminded herself, but if she were the kind of person to lose her temper, maybe, just maybe, she would give him and piece of her mind.
Still, there was more than one way to skin a cat—or in this instance, ride a cowboy.
With that in mind, she gave her hips a devilish little sway as she moved toward him. Ha! Take that, erection-man.
Sadly, Trace didn't appear to appreciate her undulating hips. He simply reached for her, grabbed her by the waist, and hoisted her onto the back of Calamity.
"I'm supposed to mount from the left side," Gene told him.
Trace's answer was to tap the lower part of one leg. "Put your foot in the stirrup."
She did it—YouTube-worthy, in her opinion.
"Use the stirrup to raise yourself up, and swing your other leg over," he ordered.
Easy-peasy, she thought, still on a high from actually getting her foot into the stirrup first go, and swung her leg with cheerful fervor. A little too much cheerful fervor. Enough to have her fearing, for one hideous moment, that she'd topple off the other side again.
As her fate hung in the balance, Trace's hand shot out and landed on her right thigh, pinning her in the saddle. Fingers tight and high. Very tight. Very high.
Gene froze...and burned...and ached. And stopped caring about anything except the fact that he was touching her.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she stared down at Trace, and she found herself breathing out the now familiar, "Oooooohhh."
She saw an answering flash of heat come into his eyes as he stared right back at her.
For one moment, his fingers tightened, and she remembered she was wearing tiny pink lace panties just for him and a tiny whimper escaped her. She tightened her thighs fractionally, squirming in the saddle as the tingle hit just there, against the leather.
The horse shifted restlessly, and Trace's fingers tightened still further, and the tingle started to glow and fizz, red-hot. As though he actually felt it, Trace shuddered; she felt it run through him even though he was only touching her leg in that one spot.
He blinked, once, twice. His mouth opened. Then closed. He ran a hand behind his neck, and as she watched, his chest expanded with one deep, long breath. No exhale.
God, what would his chest look like naked?
Then he released both her leg and the breath, and silently checked her stirrups. He made a small adjustment to one stirrup, businesslike. Then, "You're ready to join the others," he said. "But keep close to Cheyenne."
"Oh. Cheyenne."
"What's wrong with Cheyenne?"
"Nothing. She's great. Really, I love her. I just— I just hoped..." Pause. Swallow. "I just hoped I'd ride with you."
Long moment. Another of those deep, held breaths. And then he did that head-shake thing, breathed out. "You need more attention than the head wrangler is able to give."
Before she could form any kind of sensible response, Trace tapped Calamity on the rump gently, and the horse carried her out of the corral.
You need more attention than the head wrangler is able to give. That sounded to Gene like a very distinct message that had absolutely nothing to do with horses.
Could it be that the head wrangler was just a little bit spooked?
Gene smiled, and said a silent "Yeehaaaw."