The Cowboy's Twins. Tara Quinn Taylor
Читать онлайн книгу.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE THINGS YOU do for love...
Monitor receiver in hand, Spencer Longfellow took one last look at his sleeping seven-year-olds, slipped into his boots and quietly let himself out the back door, the line from an old song playing in his head.
The things you do for love...
Every single thing he did was for love. Love for his children. And love for his ranch.
He didn’t much love the idea of waking up the glamorous city woman at two in the morning. But a deal was a deal.
And he needed the money she was paying him.
With a nod at Betsy, the wife of one of his most trusted full-time cowboys, he continued across the yard. Blanket and pillow in hand, Betsy was on her way to his couch, where she’d sleep until Spencer and Bryant, her husband, were back from the barn.
If they didn’t make it back in time for breakfast, she’d get the kids up, feed them and put them on the bus for him.
It was routine. One he’d grown up with on that very ranch.
Hating the extra five minutes it was taking him for the detour to the cabin he’d given Natasha Stevens to use during her visits to the ranch over the coming weeks, Spencer reminded himself, once again, of the money.
If you’d have asked him two years ago if he’d ever allow a TV crew access to any part of his two-thousand-acre ranch, he’d have issued an unequivocal absolutely not. But a lack of rain had all but wiped out his hay crop—right at the time the cattle business he was building, while hinting at a success that could climb even higher than his hopes, was still in the fledgling stage.
He was on the brink of turning the land of his ancestors into a lucrative venture that would ensure the financial security of not only the twins but also their children and grandchildren. All while remaining true to those members of the family who had come before. Using heritage to build on the legacy.
He just needed an influx of cash...
Passing a few dark cabins, he stepped quietly.
Most of the guys who stayed on the ranch were single—and lived in the bunkhouse on the other side of the barns. A few, like Bryant, lived with their wives in cabins. Spencer was heading toward one of the larger ones—one outfitted with modern amenities including wired high-speed internet for those times when the wireless connection was in a mood.
A figure moved just outside the front door. Tall. Slender. She was in shadow, but there was no doubt in Spencer’s mind, the second he saw movement down the steps, that the body belonged to Natasha Stevens.
“I’ve heard of cowboys sleeping in their clothes, to be ready to ride on a second’s notice, but not a famous television producer,” he said, meeting her a few yards from the cabin.
“You called five minutes ago,” she said. He could tell she was grinning by the show of even, white teeth. “And I was prepared before I went to bed. It takes less than one minute to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. Give me another one to pull on the boots...”
Her words trailed off as she kept pace beside him. He’d sped up to get to Ellie. And to keep his thoughts from lagging behind with visions of the city woman climbing out of bed and into jeans.
Natasha broke the silence in the crisp night air, her voice night-soft in spite of the miles of vast land around them. “You said she was going to calf tonight. You were spot-on.”
When it came to his precious cattle, he usually was. Came from breathing ranch air every day of your life. The whole heritage thing.
The closer they got to the big barn housing his dry cows, the faster he moved. As though he could outrun the fact that he was allowing a television crew to be a part of a live birth as part of footage that would be used on a cooking competition reality show.
He was a serious rancher who took pride in his work, not a drama monger looking for ratings. Not that he knew Natasha Stevens well enough to know if there was any drama, or monger, in her. It wasn’t her fault that her presence there—and the fact that he’d succumbed to it for the money—made him feel cheap.
“How much do you know about cattle?” he asked her as lights came into view. Bryant was the only member of his staff who’d be with them that night.
“Assume I know nothing,” she told him. He heard the click as she turned on her recording device—a compromise since he preferred not to be formally interviewed on camera. Reading from a teleprompter, as he’d be doing for his small portion of the filmed segments, was one thing. Answering questions without a script was another. He’d told her so, quite clearly, before he’d signed her contract.
To appease his conscience more than anything else, he gave her a brief rundown of America’s top cattle breeds. If he was going to do this, he might as well make the best of it—get the promotion out of it she’d promised him.
“Ellie’s classified as Purebred Wagyu,” he told her. “You’ve heard of Kobe beef?”
“Of course. It’s the best of the best...”
“Kobe’s a type of Wagyu.” He simplified it. “It’s tender with abundant marbling. Historically the cows have been fed beer to amp up their appetite, which allows for premium maturity standards.”
“Do you feed your cattle beer?”
He’d been experimenting with the process. Part of his new venture. If he could get a full herd of Purebred Wagyu grazing his lands, the twins would be set for life. At a