Page 1 of The Cowboy's Temporary Solution

1

SERENITY

My connecting flight terminal is in a separate building so far from the main airport that it requires a shuttle ride. Not that that seems unusual, but the shuttle in question is barely more than a glorified golf cart and the building it drops me off in front of looks more like a temporary office on a construction site than an airport terminal.

I've already walked farther through the SeaTac International Airport than I'd expected to in the four-inch heels that I realized were a bad choice by the time I'd trekked through the Cincinnati airport to make my first connecting flight. By the time I made my second connection in Denver, I was looking for one of those vending machines that sells those little ballet flats-- no luck.

When I looked up the air time from Baltimore to Seattle it seemed doable. It's a longer flight than I'm used to, but still less than my typical day in the office.

I should have known Estelle would book the cheapest possible flight she could find. With three connections, and a three-hour layover in Missoula, before arriving in Seattle whereI'd expected to be spending a night in a decent hotel before moving on to Slow River after a good night's sleep.

But, of course not.

My boss obviously hates me.

I trudge across the blacktop from where the shuttle dropped me, to the door of the tiny building in my heels and the pencil skirt that I thought would give me a classy, businesswoman air. The emerald green blouse I paired with the skirt has long since lost its crispness and I unbuttoned the top two buttons somewhere over Michigan trying to relieve some of the stuffiness of the crowded plane's recycled air.

There's a run in my nylons and all I want to do is get to my hotel, order dinner, kick off these shoes, and sink into a hot bath.

Inside the building, two rows of standard, molded plastic airport seats run down the center of the room. A couple of vending machines light up a dim corner, promising Coca Cola, and bottled water. The Coke machine is out of everything that contains caffeine.

I've been in the air or running through airports since five-fifteen this morning. I was looking forward to an overpriced latte and a stale croissant like you can't even imagine.

Giving up all hopes of finding a caffeine boost to keep me from keeling over before I reach my final destination, I plop into one of the uncomfortable seats and go over the notes I have so far.

Just what I could find online from the comfort of my office back in Maryland. Which isn't much.

History Vault is the brain child of Estelle and her brother, who, after spending decades to research their own family history, saw the potential in creating a database of small-town history gleaned from places where libraries and museums still aren't online and aren't likely to be anytime soon.

With the growing popularity of genealogy research and curiosity about home town history, the company was visionary. Estelle and Bruce's company has grown fast, and quickly become the go-to resource for anyone looking for information specific to the histories of the families that have made up rural America for as long as there's been a rural America.

And, as the company continues to grow, we've been able to hire more researchers with the goal of expanding the database beyond the US in both the physical border of the country as well as the time it's been on the map as the United States.

Which is why I'm here. At an airport gate that very much feels like an afterthought in the more complex schematic of the Seattle/Tacoma airport, under-caffeinated and over-dressed, uncomfortably aware of the scrutinizing glare of the man seated across from me, making me feel every bit the fish out of water I most definitely am.

I'm desperate to prove that I can handle a bona fide field researcher position with the company. It's the reason I wanted to work for History Vault to begin with and, as a professional historian and genealogy geek-- it's pretty much my dream job.

Although, I am starting to clue in to the fact that doing field research in small town America might not be a business attire-friendly undertaking.

There are only six other people waiting for the flight that will take us to Slow River, and every one of them is in jeans and boots.

Even the woman scowling at the soda machine is wearing chunky hiking boots with a pair of no-nonsense Wranglers that are a far cry from the Designer label fashion jeans I see in the city.

Nervously, I cross my legs and try to concentrate on the list of families I need to concentrate my research on while I'm out here.

Slow River is primarily a ranching community that was founded in the mid-eighteen hundreds. The land that sprawls the long corridor of the Slow River Valley consists of several ranches split among five family names that go back to the gold rush when it flooded the area with new settlers seeking easy fortune.

Unfortunately, outside of a couple of locally-written books on the history of the town, there's not much available on the web about the history of the people who settled the Slow River Valley.

So I'll be spending the next week sitting in a musty basement or back room of a small-town library, copying acres of microfiche to make sense of once I get back to my office.

It's not the kind of field research that Hollywood action movies make look sexy, but I'm good at it, and it is the kind of thing that I get weirdly excited about.

The man sitting across from me openly contemplates me like I'm a specimen in a petri dish, making me uncross my legs and cross them again in the other direction. I keep my head tilted toward my phone and try not let on that I can feel the heavy weight of his eyes on me.

Ranger

The pretty littlething sitting across from me, looking all kinds of out of place, has my interest piqued and my dick hard.

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