Page 3 of Ranch Life At Heart
Riding into town gives me a small thrill. It’s been years since I’ve been back home. When I left twenty years ago it was always my intention to one day return home. I left when I signed up for six years of service in active duty.
After that I took a job at a ranch, breaking in horses. The experience I had growing up in the ranch life made it easy to obtain the job. Training and breeding Arabian horses is in my blood. My father and I have different thoughts and techniques when it comes to training. At least, that was the case two decades ago when I left here.
A few weeks ago, he called me with a request to come home. His request was completely out of the blue. Though, it felt like the right decision…the right time. Hell, I’m thirty-nine, I’m not getting any younger.
It’s not like I have dreams to settle down, knock up a chick so she can squeeze out a couple of kids. I don’t have the kinda dreams others my age might have. My mind is too scattered, and I crave other shit. Working hard, the sun on my back, wind blowing in my face, riding at odd hours, sipping whiskey on the porch, and watching horses graze happily in the pasture.
In all my years walking this planet I haven’t met a chick who shares the same interests. Sure, there have been a handful who thought they enjoyed the thought of having me in their bed. The hard work, along with the smell of horses, gets old really damn fast for those who aren’t used to the ranch life. Hell, maybe I’m too picky and easily annoyed, bored, who knows?
I guide my bike to an empty parking space and hit the kickstand. My old man doesn’t know I’m riding into town today, so I might as well enjoy myself tonight and arrive at the ranch bright and early tomorrow morning.
There’s a small neon sign hanging on the wall of the small bed and breakfast, which is located right next to a bar. Grabbing my backpack from my saddlebag, I head to the bed and breakfast to get a room for the night and drop my shit, before I head next door for a beer or two.
The bar is crowded, and instead of music they are hosting karaoke. I make my way to the bartender and raise my hand to get his attention. He leans in and I ask him for a beer when I hear a female stating through the microphone that she needs to pee.
My attention swings to the curvy woman gracefully jumping off the stage and heading to the bathroom before focusing back on the bartender.
The man snickers and places a beer in front of me. “When you gotta go, you gotta go, right?”
I nod and hand the man his money. “Right as rain.”
Leaning against the bar, I take a healthy sip of beer and watch the stage. An involuntary wince hits me when the woman singing hits false note after more than a false fucking note. Nails on chalkboard is too nice of a description for this damn sound.
“Fuck, my ears,” the bartender grumbles over the screeching noise.
I snicker and polish off my beer.
Placing the empty glass on the counter, I turn to face the bartender and rumble, “Another one, please.”
At the same time a female voice says from beside me, “Two fruity cocktails and two shots. I have to make her drink because my ears are starting to bleed.”
The bartender barks out a laugh, and I do too. He quickly starts to make the cocktails as I turn to take in the woman. Recognition sets in when our eyes lock. Light brown copper hair pulled back into a long messy ponytail. Strands have escaped and are framing her heart-shaped face.
Straight eyebrows, no makeup and yet nice, juicy pink lips. Her skin is kissed by the sun, dark freckles dusting her nose and cheeks, from working outside. Her stormy gray eyes are a bit out of focus from the booze. Gliding my gaze down, I take a deep breath as I appreciate the lush set of tits little Rosette Lavern, or Rosy as her friends call her, grew into.
“Having fun?” I ask when I drag my gaze back to hers.
Her grin is infectious. “Sure. Though, I should have brought my earplugs.”
Chuckling, I agree, “Daphne always sings for shit, but thinks she has the voice of a nightingale.”
Her head tips to the side. “You know Daphne?”
I take a step closer, liking the fact she doesn’t seem to recognize me. “I know a lot of things, Rosy.”
She closes her eyes as if she needs to be able to enjoy the way her name flows from my tongue as it washes over her.
Stormy gray eyes face me again when she asks in a serious tone, “Do you shave weird shapes in your pubic hair?”
Completely flabbergasted by her words I barely manage to grunt, “Excuse me?”
The bartender snickers. “Don’t take it personally, she’s been asking the same question to every guy who showed a hint of interest her way.” He places the drinks in front of her. “Here you go, doll.”
Rosy, the woman I know from when we were kids in school, takes one of the shots and throws it back in one go. She eyes the other three glasses, murmurs, “Fuck it,” and downs the other shot before grabbing both cocktails and heading back in the direction of the stage.
“Your beer, sir,” the bartender states as he places my new beer on the counter.
I place down a couple of bills and murmur my thanks as I face the stage. Rosy takes the microphone from Daphne and takes over to sing the words to “Cotton Fields” by Creedence Clearwater Revival.
