Page 1 of Daddy Crush (Silver Fox Daddy)

1

CLOVER

Porterville, CA, Tulare County

My story began the usual farmer’s daughter way, my overalls covered with the print marks of shit-stamped baby goat hooves. The sound of a baby begging for the bottle always pulled at my heart a little. I could fill the mixing container and pour just the right amount of formula powder on top of the warm water in my sleep, I’d done it so many times. I shook the final feeding bottle, covering the tip of the huge nipple with my pointer finger. The water inside warmed my hand, and I grinned as I watched the white-coated kid with a wet muzzle and adorable little goat beard guzzle it down with relish, twitching its triangular tail back and forth with contentment.

The scent of sweet formula in the air blended with the familiar smells of manure and hay, and I let the baby lick the remnant milk off of my hand. Her tongue tickled.

It was Faith’s fault I had twice the number of babies to feed today, meaning it took me all morning, even though I had hustled. Not that I didn’t agree with her philosophy, but I could see the issue from both sides. She couldn’t resist goading my dad, coming down to breakfast wearing a tight white tank top with large black print that read,SEX. Now that I have your attention, please stop eating animals.

Before I could say, “Please pass the pancakes,” the beginning of World War III commenced with Dad demanding, “Young lady, go take that off right now and put on something respectable! You know damn well we’re going to Pickerson’s Feed Store to buy hay, and I won’t have you wearing a shirt like that.”

What did my sister expect, donning such attire in a home where charming farmhouse sayings covered the walls? They had brought us up on quotes like,Faith, family, farmsince before we could read the words ourselves. Did she really think she was going to convert traditional farmers into vegetarians by wearing a stupid T-shirt?

Come on. Pick your battles, Faith.

Suddenly, I heard the loud crash of the barn doors swinging shut, and my darted eyes over to an annoying sight strolling arrogantly onto our private property. He strutted through the barn, chin held high, despite how his green rubber boots left a trail of mud behind him. His shirt was unbuttoned one too many, and he had a smirk on his face, like he was about to reveal some secret knowledge.

Hoss surveyed the babies with a look of disdain, giving away his prejudice towards cattle raising as the only true profession. His blue eyes flicked from one bleating kid to the next without a hint of tenderheartedness, searching for me. When his eyes finally landed on my chest, he rewarded me with a smile he’d no doubt been told a thousand times was handsome, but it didn’t disarm me in the least.

In fact, his coming here when everyone else was gone made a wave of apprehension sweep through me.

The weird thing about it was, plenty of girls in this town wanted to get with him. As the heir to one of the largest ranches in Tulare County, he was raised to believe if something didn’t belong to him, he’d find a way to get it. His features betrayed that sense of entitlement as he strutted down the straw-covered aisle between green metal feeding pens. My heart capsized in my chest, and I had the urge to urp up my pancakes as saliva pooled in my mouth.

Every inch of me said to run, but I stayed put, shielding the baby below me from his douchey aura, rooted in place and trembling as I watched his large frame move towards me. It was his birthright to take whatever he wanted, and unfortunately, that was me. He didn’t much care if I didn’t feel the same.

No matter that I’d blocked his number.

As he advanced closer with a sinister sneer, the little calf butted my hand with its fragile head. It seemed to appeal for help, but my dread intensified as I only thought of saving myself.

After an arduous morning of barn chores by myself, this dude picked the wrong day to fuck with me.

“Get off of my farm, Hoss,” I said, my voice shaking with anger as I stood my ground. No matter what, I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cower away from him.

He stopped in his tracks, surprised by my sudden daring. He was taken aback, although he quickly covered his surprise with a haughty smirk and stepped closer despite my warnings. “Now, Clover. Calm your teats. I only came by to ask you out to the Cattlemen’s Ball on Saturday.”

“That’s weird. According to everybody, you and Mary Jo are a couple.” I didn’t back down. “You don’t belong here, and I didn’t invite you. Turn around and adios yourself right out.”

He looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing as he considered his options. Finally, he let out a harsh, brittle laugh. His gaze remained fixed on me, as if challenging me to make the next move.

“All right, all right. I get the message,” he said, and I noted how out of place his form-fitting, cream-colored shirt with a black vest, complete with a bolo tie, were in our barn. His jeans fit well, hugging his waist as though they were tailor-made for his body.

I didn’t let my guard down, having had it severely tested by him too many times in the past. He’d take a few steps back, say something agreeable, then make his sneak attack when I least expected it, grabbing my ass or pulling me against his body so I couldn’t escape his embrace.

This time, I had a secret weapon. Reaching back, my hand closed around the grip of a tool designed for shoving huge-ass bulls around. Most people around here called it a hot shot, otherwise known as a cattle prod; it delivered 13,000 electrical pulses per second. Like I said, they designed it for making 2,000-pound creatures get the hell out of the way. I had a feeling it would do just fine for what I had in mind. My father only kept it around to threaten one particularly precocious billy goat, who made a sport out of escaping his pen.

I was sick and tired of Hoss trying to toss me, and the rubber handle in my hand reassured me I’d be all right, and no one could hurt me. It was a good feeling. He’d groped and grabbed me one too many times, and now, with the rubber handle of my makeshift weapon clenched in my fist, I felt brave enough to stand up to him. With the hot shot in my hand, I was ready to take control. The adrenaline coursing through my veins was invigorating, reassuring me he’d learn his lesson and leave me alone.

Despite his pretense at retreating, my antagonist stepped over the small metal gate at the front of the calf pen I stood in. I tightly clenched my right hand around the hot shot, my heart racing in anticipation. I stood tall, knowing I was ready to break the single most unspoken rule of Porterville.

Do.

Not.

Cross.

Hoss.

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