The Cowboy And The Ceo. Christine Wenger
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to the mountains in the distance. Yes, they were beautiful. Not something she’d see back home.
She noticed several more buildings on the grounds. A long, wooden building had saddles hooked over the railing that surrounded it. To the left was a barn with a corral. The smiling boy she saw earlier was brushing his horse there. The cowboy who’d been with him sat on the wooden fence, watching.
“Smell that air,” Clint said. He took a deep breath.
She did. The scent of pine drifted on the air, but she’d rather smell coffee. “Which building is the dining room?”
He pointed. “Hang on a minute.”
He gave a shrill whistle and waved to the cowboy and the boy. “Morning, Jake. Morning, Tyrone.”
They waved back.
“That’s Jake Dixon. I guess you could call him the program director of the Gold Buckle. Tyrone is a camper.” He walked toward Susan, as if he had all the time in the world.
She groaned. “Coffee. Hurry.”
But he didn’t hurry. She waited for him and looked around. To her right, almost a city block away, stood a large ranch house that must have been the model for the dozen or so smaller cottages. From the beams of the wraparound porch, fuchsia-colored flowers cascaded from hanging baskets. Pink and red roses climbed on white trellises from a bountiful garden.
On one half of the porch was another set of stairs and a wheelchair ramp. A large sign on the roof proclaimed “Office.”
There were still more buildings. Some were weathered, others were whitewashed, and some were stone or brick. It looked like a little village.
Clint arrived at her side, and she felt his hand at the small of her back.
“It’s not like New York City, I suppose.”
She had to admit it was a pretty setting. “Manhattan looks incredible at night, but here there’s such wide-open space and all those trees and mountains. It’s breathtaking.”
“I never thought you’d notice.”
“I didn’t, until you pointed it out.”
Clint laughed and offered his arm. “Shall we dine?”
She hesitated a moment, then took his arm. “Sure.”
He motioned toward a chalet-type building with big picture windows. “That’s the dining hall, movie hall and all-round gathering place. And there’s always a pot of coffee on, day or night.”
The man knew how to get to her—forget the Chardonnay, bring on the caffeine.
“I think I should call my office first and see how things are going.”
“You’ve only been gone a day. Let’s eat first.”
“But I’ve never been gone a day before.”
He shrugged. “Give them some space. Maybe it would show you trusted them.”
Maybe he was right, but she was still going to call.
As they walked, Susan was very aware of his presence. She could feel his taut muscles beneath his shirt. The sound of his boots against the hard-packed ground reminded her of a hundred old western movies that her father used to watch on TV—when he was still around, anyway.
She studied Clint. He was clean-shaven, tanned and fit, and he was making her heart beat double time in her chest.
No one she’d ever dated had excited her this much. Admittedly, she’d always gone for typical Manhattan businessmen—stockbrokers, bankers, real estate developers—yet it was this cowboy who intrigued her the most.
Then again, she didn’t really know Clint. Heaven knows that she had more in common with the Manhattan singles. She loved to talk business with them. But none of them were for her. None of them could handle it when she left them waiting at the restaurant or the latest trendy bar a couple of times because she had to stay late at work.
Clint opened the door for her and she walked in. One of the first things she noticed were the long rows of picnic tables lined up end to end. The dining hall was crowded and noisy with a lot of laughter, the clang of china plates and the metallic clicking of silverware.
And full of kids.
Susan’s heart started to ache immediately. Yet these kids were smiling and laughing, yelling to one another. She could hear snippets of conversation about the horses they wanted to ride and what they planned to do during the day.
Black cowboy hats bobbed up and down, like a flock of crows pecking at seed. Every once in a while, a white hat could be spotted in the mix—a dove among the crows.
Under the hats were cowboys and cowgirls of all ages, wearing long-sleeved shirts, denim jeans and cowboy boots.
Uniforms. Cowboy uniforms.
She looked down at her designer clothes and her strappy Italian sandals. Maybe she ought to find a phone and give Bev a call, ask her to send a care package of western wear.
Clint steered her toward the back of the huge room to a cafeteria line, just like the one she remembered from high school. He plopped down an orange plastic tray in front of her and nodded to a tall, thin cowboy behind the counter. He had bristly white whiskers and a black baseball hat that read “Professional Bull Riders.” He wore a gray T-shirt, and on his arms were tattoos of the Marine Corps.
“She wants the works, Cookie,” Clint said.
Before she could tell him that she just wanted a toasted bagel with cream cheese, he handed her a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, ham and fried potatoes with onions.
“Come back for seconds or thirds if you want ’em,” Cookie said, grinning. “We got more than enough.”
Clint plucked a potato that had fallen off her plate onto the tray and popped it into his mouth. “Every once in a while, Cookie thinks that he’s still cooking for the marines.”
She looked down at her breakfast, floating in grease. “I see that he specializes in low-fat cuisine.”
Cookie handed Clint an identically heaped plate of food.
“The grease makes your hair shiny,” Clint said, leading Susan to an empty picnic table. “How do you take your coffee?”
“Black.”
“Have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
She watched him walk to a round table supporting a coffee urn as big as a silo. Clint could really work a pair of jeans, and she could think of several designers who’d scoop him up instantly as a model, but her major concern was the fact that her coffee would be cold by the time he meandered back.
He finally returned and handed her a steaming mug of the coffee and she took a long sip. The strong, bitter brew slammed against the back of her brain and her eyes watered. She gasped for breath as her toes curled into her sandals.
“Good stuff, huh?” Clint said. “That’s cowboy coffee.”
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t speak.
“You’ll get used to it.”
She took a bite of bacon. It had a nice smoky flavor and she guessed it was the real cholesterol-laden thing.
“So what are you going to teach in arts and crafts?” Clint asked. “I’ll help you any way I can.”
She took a deep breath. She didn’t want to think about it yet. “Thanks, Clint. I appreciate the offer and will definitely take you up on it.”
He nodded and concentrated on his plate of food.
“How come nobody takes their hat off when they eat?” Susan asked.
“A cowboy never takes his hat off,” Clint replied. Then he winked. “Well, maybe