Page 20 of Big Filthy Cowboy

He can even name every cow in the pasture just based on the numbers they’ve been tagged with. “Do the tags in their ears hurt them?”

“It’s no different than getting your ears pierced. The tags help us identify each animal and keep records. See number four hundred and sixty-two? That’s Daisy. She had ulcers in her hind hooves. Since we know that, we can inspect her hooves more frequently. Little things like that let us keep an eye on the herd and make sure they’re happy and healthy.”

“But some of them are tagged in the right ear and some in the left. What does that mean?” I ask, fascinated by his world. He asked me a million questions when he was at my bakery yesterday to understand what I do. Now it’s my turn to understand what he does.

“We do that so we can identify the gender easily. Left ear is a female. Right ear is a male. The tags help us know which calf belongs to which mama. The tags also tell me how old each animal is.”

“What about horses? Do you have any of those?”

“Over in the south pasture, we have a dozen or so,” he answers. “My favorite girl is in the barn. Want to meet her?”

I nod, and he puts a hand on my back as we walk toward the barn. He pauses every so often, telling me where to be careful on the path.

“You must know every square inch of this farm,” I breathe. I can’t imagine living in a place so long that I know everything about it.

He grins. “The closest thing to heaven on earth you’ll ever find is a farm.”

“It’s amazing,” I agree with him. It’s obvious from the way he talks about the farm that he loves it the same way I love my little bakery.

“And here’s our girl, Cookie,” he introduces me when he gets to the barn. “She’s a Missouri Fox Trotter. See how she has patches of white and chestnut in her coat? We call that coloring pinto.”

The horse knickers quietly as I approach. I don’t reach out my hand or try to pet her. “She’s so pretty. How old is she?”

“She just turned twenty. She’s our senior citizen.”

As soon as Barrett says that, Cookie makes a noise as if contesting the fact that she’s a senior citizen. He chuckles and asks, “Want to feed her?”

When I nod, Barrett gives me a banana, explaining how to offer her small bites.

I feed it to her, delighted when she takes the bite of fruit from me. I can’t help giggling at how it tickles my hand. “I thought she would like carrots or apples.”

“She’s lost a few teeth. Bananas are easier on her now, isn’t that right, Cookie?”

I keep asking him about Cookie as I give her the treat. When I’m done, he turns to me. “Want to see my favorite spot on the farm?”

I nod enthusiastically and he points behind me where a small wooden ladder is attached to a loft. “It’s up there.”

“Show it to me.” I shimmy up the ladder. There are dozens of hay bales up here, and plenty of straw scattered across the wood floor. But there are also a few blankets spread out and some lanterns that are already lit. The soft glow makes the loft feel cozy and romantic.

I settle on the blanket. From here, I can look out the barn window and see the blue sky with the big, fluffy white clouds rolling by.

He sits beside me, pausing to take off his boots. He flexes his toes and rolls his shoulders. I didn’t realize until I was here just how physical farming is. No wonder my man is so strong. He has to be to care for the animals and crops.

“I get why you love it up here. It’s soothing,” I tell him. He’s been sharing pieces of himself with me today. Vulnerability is a gift we give those we care about, and he’s offering it to me. I want him to know that he’s safe with me, the same way I’m safe with him.

He takes my hand in his big one and says, “This is one of the places I’d run away to when I got overwhelmed as a kid. I’d come up here and work on my jokes and card tricks. I’d practice becoming someone people liked.”

I squeeze his hand, my heart hurting for the little boy he was. “I like you, just the way you are.”

Something flickers on his face, and his gaze goes to my lips. His voice is deep and husky when he says, “I like you too.”

I reach for him at the same moment he reaches for me. My arms go around his neck, and he lowers his head. He explores my mouth with long, slow strokes of his tongue. I love that about him. He never rushes this. He always takes his time with me.

I grab fistful of his shirt. I want to touch him all over, the same way he has touched me. Seen me. Licked me. The thought makes my mouth water. “Off.”

He hesitates, and I ask him what’s wrong. “We’re different. You’re beautiful.”

For a half a second, I’m speechless. By the world’s standards, I know who is considered beautiful between us. I love my curves and the way I can fill out a pair of blue jeans. But Barrett, with his dark hair and bushy beard, looks like he was meant to be on a cowboy calendar.

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