Page 1 of The Cowboy's Close Quarters Claim

1

CLEMENTINE

Less than a week in and I'm liking this place. The Delta O is the finest ranch I've found myself on yet-- better than the one I grew up on, if I'm being honest-- and that's not just because it's the first place where the owners don't have their heads stuck up their sexist, eighteen-hundreds, women-belong-in-the-kitchen asses.

Unlike my own father, who'd rather let my brothers run his legacy into the dirt than admit a woman is qualified to keep our family ranch turning a profit into the next generation.

Pop left all eight thousand acres to the boys when he passed away. I got his watch, and fifty thousand dollars to use as a "dowry."

Tom and Jed sold the ranch off one section at a time, and I put my fucking "dowry" into the degree I needed so that my resume says I'm as qualified to run a cattle operation in theory as my experience proves I am in practice.

Still, finding someplace that doesn't think "woman" and "foreman" are mutually exclusive terms hasn't been easy. It'sbeen five long years of moving around the country, chasing whatever work I can find as a seasonal hand.

Sure, there was that place down in New Mexico that offered me a management position-- in the office. The money was good, the people were great, but I've been working the land since I was big enough to reach the clutch pedal of a tractor.

I'm not cut out for air conditioning in "business casual."

The highest heels I own are on a pair of Ariats I picked up for a rodeo dance.

When the official offer came in from Ranger O'Leary himself for the herdsman job here on the Delta O-- well, let's just say I wasn't about to argue with the senior partner of the biggest cattle operation in Slow River.

Not that the biggest cattle operation in Slow River competes with the big ranches farther east, but Slow River has history, and the Delta O is a name that opens doors in this industry.

Pulling the brim of my hat low over my eyes to block the morning sun as it crests the high peaks of the mountain range that borders Slow River Valley on the east, I squint at the rider heading my way.

My horse shifts a foot on the soft surface of the worn trail and I adjust myself in the saddle.

Most places I've worked make these kinds of runs in trucks or OHVs, I can't remember the last time I got to do any real cow-girling from the back of a horse.

As soon as I heard they needed someone to ride up to the high camp to repair some fence line and retrieve a few strays that have wandered over the property line, I volunteered for the job.

Normally I'd send a hand or two for this work, but the ranch has plenty enough man power to handle things down here so I can do the fun stuff.

Lance and Archer-Dean, the two youngest of the O'Leary brothers and the only two of my bosses that I've met in personso far, are real hands-on types that'll have things covered down here in the valley, while Gunner-- the second oldest of the brothers, acting ranch manager since his father passed away just a few weeks ago, and the last of my bosses I've yet to meet-- will be riding up to the high camp with me.

Seven a.m. sunlight spills over the last of the mountains, flooding the valley with warmth that casts my approaching companion into silhouette as his horse happily tromps through the shallow waters of one of Slow River's lower distributary channels that give the ranch its name.

I can make out the man's sturdy build; muscled thighs that strain against the denim of his jeans as they flex with practiced movements to guide a horse he's obviously used to riding, the heavy weave of a corduroy barn jacket to ward off the chill of the late May morning, the tilt of the classic Stetson with a pinch crease crown that looks like it's been stomped by a set of hooves more than once.

I've been working alongside men my entire life. Sure, I've seen my share of attractive men, but even in my chaotic teen years with hormones running in full stampede, I've never been distracted by the way a co-worker's Wranglers fit.

At least, not till long after the work was done and we'd gotten a couple beers in at the local watering hole.

So I'm not sure what it is that has me squirming in my saddle as this man draws up close into view.

"You Gunner?" I ask, squinting into the sunlight to take in his rugged good looks.

Now that he's close enough to make out the details, I find myself looking into the wary eyes of a man in his mid to late thirties. Lines bracket the corners of his mouth beside the dusty brown stubble of a mustache and matching beard that looks more like he has hasn't bothered to shave in two days than like he wears it this way on purpose.

He should definitely wear it that way on purpose. It's working for him.

Or rather-- it's working for me.

With a hand to the crown of the worn hat, he dips his head in greeting, his eyes staying pinned on me the entire time.

"Afraid you have me at a disadvantage, ma'am. Who might you be?"

So much for thoughts of putting that mustache to good use; I've seen that look before. That's the look of a man who knows exactly who I am-- and doesn't like it.

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