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CHAPTER 6
Ryder
Both Barney and Herby trot along either side of me, ever the odd pair, as I carry a bucket of sliced apples toward the smallest pasture. Barney’s hopeful for a handout, even if he pretends he’s not. I know as soon as I surrender and hand over a slice, the Great Pyrenees will disappear and sleep until dinnertime. The lug.
I catch him side-eyeing the bucket and then me as we walk. Our eyes meet for a split second and my facial muscles pull in unnatural ways.
Well shit. I can’t deny the truth. Barney lucked out when Paps finally caved and brought him home from the shelter in Bozeman. A hundred and eighty-seven days in a concrete kennel hadn’t been good for the aging gentle giant, but he was blossoming now. Making eye contact when he wouldn’t have even a month ago is enough to smother my guilt over buying him the luxe dog bed last week. Good fucking thing Paps didn’t see me bring it home or I’d never hear the end of it.
Herby, the only cat on the property who isn’t won over by Gumby’s friendliness, is more than happy to take the three-legged Aussie’s place now that the pup is keeping close to the main house. Gumby won’t leave the front yard until Macy arrives. Who knew a dog could crush so hard.
I hate that the mere thought of seeing Macy makes my pulse trip.
I hate that she tried to seduce me, trying to lure me to the dark side to flip the ranch to a proper rescue. It’ll take more than a great piece of ass to convince me we should invest money we don’t have into an unofficial animal rescue. That’d only encourage Paps to take in even more animals we’d struggle to care for.
I hate even more that I wish she had succeeded. At least with the seduction part. Could’ve been fun. I’d eat my Stetson whole before I admitted I watched the animal rescue reel she sent me when she was five drinks in last night.
If only Everleigh hadn’t kept supplying her best friend with fruity umbrella drinks like they were on fucking Spring Break. No matter how much I enjoyed Macy’s constant handsy flirting, I’d never take advantage of her. But damn if I didn’t pump my cock in the shower last night, coming so fucking hard to the memory of her tits pressed up against my chest that I dropped to my knees under the stream of water.
I stop outside the small pasture. Herby lets out a meow that reminds me of a rusty door hinge, weaving his way around my ankles. The miniature cows—who are no longer so miniature at two hundred plus pounds—spot me from the opposite end of the field and perk up. I rarely come around with snacks, but I had a bag of apples to spare.
I hold up the bucket in offering and give it a shake, just like I saw on the reel I’ll never admit to watching. The echo of apple on tin carries across the pasture.
Buttercup and Milky Way hesitate, debating whether the trek is worth this unexpected interruption to their early afternoon nap. But the goats are quick to poke their curious heads around a giant bale of hay. As if they think in sync, they all start running at once.
Gertie lets out one of her blood curdling screams mid-run, causing two of her three new pack mates to stiffen in fear and drop onto their sides. She, however, makes a beeline for the gate we’ve had to reinforce nine different ways from Sunday since her arrival. Today is the first day I haven’t discovered her inside the tractor cab or on top of Paps’ golf cart.
But it’s early.
I toss Barney an apple slice—he trots away as predicted—and slip inside the gate just in time to avoid Gertie’s latest escape attempt. Last thing I want to do before a dozen volunteers show up to decorate for Paps’ surprise party is chase a mischievous young goat around the property. Grams might not find Gertie so cute if she helps herself to some of the birthday decorations.
“Since when do you come bearing snacks?” Grams appears from seemingly nowhere—she’s always had ninja-like skills—wearing a pair of coveralls. There’s no trace of her purple garden gloves. I’d give it fifty-fifty odds that Gertie ate them. She leans her arms on top of the fence, watching the circus that surrounds me.
“I had some apples to get rid of.”
Grams reaches inside the bucket I’ve propped on a fence post to exam a slice. “These look pretty fresh.”
“It’s Paps’ birthday. Thought I’d make a peace offering to his misfits.” Before Grams can call bullshit, I ask, “Did Weston?—”
“Yes, they just left for Hillsdale. They should be gone for at least three or four hours if your brother knows what’s good for him. Volunteers are just starting to show up now.” Grams pauses as I hand Gertie her first apple slice. She gobbles it down immediately. “Macy’s been feeding her apples, too.”
“Macy.” The name slips from my lips before I can stop it.
“You’ll show her to the barn when she gets here?”
“She knows how to get—” But Grams is already a dozen paces gone in the opposite direction. Herby, the traitor, trots after her with his orange tail poised high.
I sigh and continue handing out apple slices as I spot Macy’s Jeep in the distance. I ignore the way my pulse begins to trip. But trying to shove away the memory of her hands all over me last night is futile.
Though her drunken seduction attempts were adorable at best, the way her fingers raked down my chest is forever burned into my brain. My dick’s half hard again, forcing me to adjust my jeans. There’s no time to take care of the situation before I’m due in the barn.
A loud bleeeat reminds me three of the four goats are impatiently waiting for more snacks. They’re in absolute heaven. The fourth—Jingle Bells—is uncertain about his slice but unwilling to give up on it. He keeps spitting it out on the ground and picking it up before anyone else can snatch it away.
As Macy parks her Jeep nearby, I focus on the miniature cows who are still deciding if my apples are candy or poison. “If you girls can’t make up your mind, I’ll be taking the rest of these to Molly. She’s eating for two, you know.”
“I must’ve drank myself into oblivion and died last night, because this can’t be real life.” Macy struts up to the gate, folding her arms on top and leaning over to look at the gaggle of misfits surrounding me. “Ryder Stone isn’t talking to the animals he claims to hate, much less feeding them snacks. It’s not possible.”
“I don’t hate any of them.”
