Page 5 of The Cowboy's Close Quarters Claim

Threatenis about the last of the words I'd use to describe what this woman does to my manhood. In fact, even now, I have to figure out how to discretely adjust my cock to keep the semi I can't seem to lose around her from getting any more uncomfortable than it already is.

Damned if I'm going to let her know just how her ribbing gets me riled up. As far as she needs to know, she's just another man on my staff. And that means giving her the same shit I'd give any of my guys.

She's proven she can dish it, let's see how she takes it.

"You okay, there?"

Clem's voice let's on that she's not at all concerned for my well-being when she hears me groan as I lower myself onto on one of the old logs we use for seats around the fire ring.

She adds a comment about my age, suggesting it might be my joints-- truth is, hearing the words"how she takes it"run through my internal monologue conjure up some not safe for work images that remind me that Clementine isn't the kind of woman I can allow myself to think of like that.

The kind of woman that gets my blood heated and has me more aware of the differences between us that a professional relationship allows for.

"No thanks, darlin'," I answer as I stir the coals and adjust the grill, "you keep that ibuprofen for yourself. We've got a lot of fence to mend tomorrow and more than twenty head to round up. You'll be needing it for yourself by the time I'm done with ya."

She's quiet on the other side of the fire for long enough that it has me reflecting on what I've just said. Which did not come out sounding like I meant it to at all, dammit.

I'm about to backtrack, an apology at the ready to cover up the Freudian slip, but when I brave a look up at her face, the way she's looking at me makes me think better of it.

Something tells me it's not just the reflection of the campfire that's putting that heat in her glare.

3

CLEMENTINE

Gunner cuts the label off a can of chili with the tip of his pocket knife and sets the can on the grill over the coals while I set a foil-wrapped packet into the embers.

"You brought ice?" Gunner nods toward the small chest I packed my meals in.

"Need some for those joints, old man?"

We've settled into an easy exchange of snarky comments more like flirting than I care to admit.

Gunner pulls a flask out of his pack and holds a battered, steel mug toward me, presumably waiting for me to drop a couple bits of ice into it.

"If you got sore joints, this stuff'll do 'em better than ice."

Passing my own camp mug over, I let him pour a finger of liquid into it. The liquor shines amber in the firelight and I sniff it before taking a taste.

It's good whiskey. Lighting the back of my tongue up with a bit of warmth and leaving a sweet finish after I swallow.

"Good stuff," I tell him, without any of the grief I've been giving him all day. "Where'd you get it?"

I could use a bottle of this myself.

"Guy up in Moonshine Ridge has been making it for years," Gunner tells me.

"You actually buy moonshine in a place called Moonshine Ridge?" It's not the booze that makes me laugh.

Gunner looks up at me and his face relaxes in an easy smile that has me momentarily forgetting the fact that he's my boss, and all the reasons I've been giving him shit today.

Damn, the man is handsome.

"Mountain folk take their traditions pretty serious, I guess," he offers by way of answer, still looking over at me with that smile that's warming my insides up way more than the bit of whiskey in my cup.

A beat of silence stretches between us as I pull my dinner from the coals. Gunner watches me with a look I'm not brave enough to hope is what it looks like.

"Is that steak?"

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