Page 3 of Owned By The Cowboy
I’ve been preparing for this moment for months, ever since Mel mentioned her divorce, Reggie’s plans to move back to our small town. I thought I was ready. Thought I could handle seeing her again, being around her on a regular basis instead of just those brief trips where I made sure to make myself scarce.
I was wrong as hell.
She looks different. Older, yeah, but not in a bad way. There’s something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. A wariness, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. It makes me want to find her ex-husband and show him what happens to assholes who hurt women.
But it’s not just that. She’s… fuck, she’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but seeing her sitting at that kitchen table, in that sundress that brings out the gold in her brown skin,with her hair pulled back in a way that shows off her delicate neck…
I need to get my shit together.
I climb into my truck and head back to the job site, even though my mind’s not on work. It’s on the way Regina Mason looked at me, like she was really seeing me for the first time. Like I’m not just Blayne Madison, the veteran her father took pity on many years ago. Like a woman who looks at a man…
That’s dangerous as hell thinking. Reggie Mason is off-limits. She’s always been off-limits. After I left the army and then Silver Creek Ranch, Mel treated me like family, gave me everything I have now. The least I can do is keep my hands, and my thoughts, off his daughter.
Even if she is divorced now. Even if she looked at me like that…
“Boss, you okay?” my foreman Tommy’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You look like you seen a ghost.”
I’m standing next to the concrete mixer, with a wrench in hand, staring at nothing. The crew’s watching me with expressions ranging from concerned to amused.
“I’m fine,” I growl, turning back to the engine. “Let’s get this shit running.”
“You sure?” another one of my men, Martinez, calls out. “Because you’ve been standing there for five minutes trying to adjust a bolt that’s already tight.”
Smartass. “Mind your own business.”
“Your business is our business when you’re holding up the pour,” Carlos jumps in with a grin.
I flip him off, which just makes him laugh. Bastards know me too well.
But they’re right; I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m fucked.
* * *
The workday drags on forever. By the time we wrap up at six, I’m beat as hell and covered in dust, but my mind is still racing. I send the crew home. Tommy, Martinez, Carlos, and the rest of the guys who’ve become more like brothers than employees over the years.
Most of them have similar stories to mine. Second chances, third chances, sometimes fourth. Tommy did three tours, then came back a wreck before he got his head on straight. Martinez was in and out of county after leaving the service until his daughter was born. Carlos never went to prison, but he was headed there fast after release before I hired him.
We don’t talk about the old days much, but we all know. We all understand what it’s like to wake up every morning grateful for the chance to do something right.
I drive home instead of going to Rosie’s diner, my usual dinner spot, needing the quiet of my own space. My house sits on twenty acres outside of town, built five years ago when my business really took off. Me and the crew did most of the work ourselves. Four bedrooms, three baths, open floor plan, granite countertops, the works.
The guys gave me endless shit about keeping it simple. Tommy wanted me to install some ridiculous sound system that would’ve cost more than his truck. Martinez kept pushing for a swimming pool shaped like a cowboy hat. Carlos thought I needed one of those fancy cellars.
“Boss, you got money now,” Tommy said while we were framing. “Live a little.”
“I don’t drink,” I told him.
“So fill it with juice.”
“Juice goes in the fridge.”
“You could have a soda fridge. In your cellar.”
I threw a piece of scrap lumber at his head.
In the end, I kept it practical. Good materials, solid construction, nothing flashy. It’s a house, not a showpiece.
I grab water from the stainless steel fridge. A regular fridge, not an overly fancy gadget, and sit on the back deck, looking out at the hills that roll away from town. The deck alone cost more than my first truck, but it’s worth it for moments like this. Peaceful. Private. Far enough from everything that I can think without the guys giving me grief about my facial expressions.
