Cowboy's Kiss Read online

  Cowboy’s Kiss

  A Big Sky Short Story

  Sierra Hill

  Contents

  Also by Sierra Hill

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 Sierra Hill

  Published by Ten28 Publishing

  Cover Design: Dandelion Designs

  All rights reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  Also by Sierra Hill

  The Physical Series

  Physical Touch

  More Than Physical

  Physical Distraction

  Physical Connection

  Standalones and Flirt Club stories

  One More Minute With You

  The Reunion

  Character Flaws

  His Fairytale Princess

  Whipped: A Second Helpings Story

  Resolution: Road Trip (A Resolution Pact Story)

  Be Patient – The Waiting Game (An Escaping the Friend Zone Novella)

  Spring Break Navy Seal (A Spring Breakers story)

  Her True Blue (A Fireworks Series)

  Courting Love (A College Sports Series)

  Full Court Press

  The Rebound

  Pivot

  Fast Break

  Jump Shot

  Reckless – The Smoky Mountain Trio serial

  Reckless Youth

  Reckless Abandon

  Reckless Hearts

  Reckless – The Smoky Mountain trio boxset

  Avery

  “That man is a horse’s ass. And the next time I see him, I’m going to shove my Jimmy Choo’s where the sun don’t shine.”

  It’s the level of indignation coming from this woman’s mouth that has me tuned into the conversation happening next to me. And it most certainly has my journalistic curiosity piqued.

  Whoever the man is that this woman is referring to, and who she has been noisily lambasting these past fifteen minutes, I sure hope he knows self-defense, because I think this woman is liable to do him bodily harm if she ever gets her hands on him.

  The two other women with Attila the Hun titter uncomfortably next to her, adding their support every so often with their words of encouragement.

  “Damn straight, sugar. He is such an ass for treating you like that.”

  “Honey, that man has no right. It’s just unforgivable. His mama done raised her boy wrong, that’s for damn sure.”

  Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been waiting for over fifteen minutes now for my ride to show up and I’ve had a drink, but I’m even more vested to learn just what exactly this nameless, heartless man did to this woman. My imagination runs wild churning up the most scandalizing of possibilities.

  Did he abandon her and their six children for another woman?

  Or maybe she caught sleeping with another rodeo rider. The horror!

  Or better yet, perhaps he squandered their paltry life savings on an impotent stud and now they are faced with filing bankruptcy.

  Or, none of the above.

  The bitter woman continues on with her tirade, her lips twisted in an angry, duck-lipped scowl. I wonder if that’s the face she uses in her Snap Chat pictures.

  “To think I’ve been mooning over him since I was sixteen-years-old, and never once did he give me the time of day until recently, and then I gave him everything. Even the back entry.”

  There’s a sudden quiet that releases over the table, and I lift my brows over my drink, waiting to see how her friends will react.

  There’s a collective gasp, as one of the women fans herself with the cocktail napkin like she’s just seen the devil in church on a Sunday, and the other whispers a, “Lawd, have mercy.”

  Oh, this is getting good. It almost makes me forget that my ride is late.

  The wronged-woman continues. “And what does he do? He rejects me. Says it was ‘nice’ and then dumped me! What man in their right mind rejects Felicity Chambers?”

  My eyes wander surreptitiously to the side, where the three very dolled-up women huddle together, drinking their white wines in collusion.

  Well, well, well. Seems I’m in the presence of God’s gift to men. Miss Felicity Chambers. I snicker to myself, biting my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

  Felicity’s friends fawn over their poor, jilted friend, patting delicate hands over hers, cooing out their sympathies.

  “Good gracious, Felicity. That man obviously has no idea what a mistake he has made. I’m sure once he comes to his senses, he’ll realize it and come running back, tail between his legs begging for your forgiveness.”

  Felicity harrumphs with disgust. “I wouldn’t take back that no-good loser cowboy for all the land in the county.”

  Both friends agree whole-heartedly with emphatic nods of their heads.

  “Oh my,” one says, placing a dainty hand over her mouth, her eyes growing wide with alarm. “Speak of the devil.”

  All heads turn, including mine, to the front entrance of the bar, where a very strapping cowboy saunters in as if he owns the damn town.

  He’s a cowboy, without a doubt, based on his wide-brimmed tan hat, the leather belt that cinches tight around his narrow waist, his tailored chambray checkered shirt tucked in to show off the cut of his torso and the dirt-covered boots that cover the ground expediently.

  The quick glance over my shoulder isn’t enough to get a full look, so I stare again at the man striding through the bar with such intensity and purpose, every female breath seems to empty and a hush descends through the crowd.

  My eyes flick to the table of women, curiously vested now in what might actually go down. I may only be here waiting for my ride, but this is pretty great drama unfolding, if I do say so myself. I’m sure it’ll be the most entertaining thing happening in the town of Paulson, Montana all night.

  The man stops a few feet inside the door, his gaze circling the room once before his deep set, denim-blue eyes stop and land directly on me. For a moment I’m stunned, like a gnat trapped in a bug zapper, the strong electric current penetrating my entire being.

  And then a loud gasp drags my attention from the man, my head snapping to the table of ladies. Felicity’s mouth wrenches open, as she gawks between me and the cowboy.

  “Cutter Lambert, you bastard!” Felicity wails as she stands in a huff, her hands flying in the air aggressively toward him. “You’d best be here to apologize for standing me up the other night.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. Seems that poor, wrecked Felicity there was waiting on the same man as me. Cutter Lambert, the horse’s ass in question, as Felicity and her little chirpy friends have so lovingly dubbed him. It appears that he is the same man I’m scheduled to interview this week for my article.

  “Evening, ladies.” The cowboy’s voice is deeper than a well’s.

  He tips his hat obligingly at the women, and then tilts his head to the side as he speaks to Felicity. “Darlin’, I can only apologize that you didn’t believe me when I said it was a one-time thing.”

  You can hear a pin drop as everything comes to a stands
till. And then without waiting for a response, the cowboy saunters over to my side, removes his hat, and gives me an appraising look.

  I can’t help the little bubble of thrill that gurgles in my throat and comes out as a squeak. It seems I’ve just walked straight into an episode of some television drama, with all the backstabbing and scheming characters that are out for revenge.

  This could make for a really great story.

  Swiveling in my bar stool, I tip my head back to look up at Cutter Lambert, whose broad shoulders and crisp scent, a hint of man and hay, overtake me.

  “You must be the devil,” I snort, offering my hand in greeting.

  He gives me a curious look, glancing over his shoulder at Felicity who is now so red she looks like she could burst.

  Quirking an eyebrow, his lips curve into what I assume is a knowing smirk. “Cutter Lambert. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Now if you’re ready, let’s get going.”

  The texture of his hand – rough and calloused – sends a shiver down my spine. This man knows his way around ropes and harnesses. And the thought thrills me, but before I can get out another word, he dislodges his grip and turns on his boot heels.

  I watch in disbelief as he threads a hand through his rusty-brown hair before replacing the hat on his head, leaving me fumbling to gather my bag and purse and fish some cash out to throw on the bar and rush out after him.

  “Now just you wait a minute, Mr. Lambert. You were the one who was late here, not me. This is very rude.”

  He throws me a steely look over his shoulder.

  “Cattle don’t care much about keeping to a schedule, ma’am. So, if you want a ride back to the ranch, you best get to hustling. I still have work to be done and don’t need to be arguing over something as arbitrary as time with a city girl.”

  And then Cutter abruptly turns and walks out the front door, leaving me gaping after him, along with Felicity and her crew.

  And I wonder if they are right and he truly is the devil.

  Cutter

  This day did not go as planned. But then again, when do they ever?

  Three of my six full-time wranglers came down with a stomach bug and stayed in their bunk house all day, puking their guts out while I had to play both nursemaid and lead cowboy with the rest of the ranch crew.

  With over fifteen hundred heads of cattle, and one-hundred acres of ranch and pasture land, every day is an adventure. Poaching, illnesses, weather – you name it. There’s never a dull moment when you’re a ranch owner.

  Well, technically part ranch owner. It’s not all mine quite yet. That title goes to my father, Lars Lambert, who is still alive and kicking and calling the shots from behind his mahogany desk on the estate.

  He and I don’t always see eye-to-eye on things. Not much of anything, really. Except on the financial health and productivity of our beloved, Longhorn Ranch. My birthplace and birthright. The land I love more than anything else in the world.

  But this harebrained idea of his has me spitting mad over the inconvenient interruption at the moment. I do not have time to be babysitting and handholding a city girl journalist for the next week. Avery Boone, who works for Gabe Farley, my old high school buddy, at the Billings Tribune is here to write some kind of article about the disappearing ranches in America.

  I wasn’t too thrilled even a month ago when Gabe called requesting the favor to have his reporter stay here for a week and interview everyone on the ranch. In fact, I’d originally told him hell no. But then dear ol’ dad stepped in and overturned my decision.

  “Son,” he said, his standard toothpick stuck between his lips. “This will be good for business. We need to generate awareness of what’s going to happen if these developers keep buying up all our pasture land. Ranching is a dying breed, Cutter. We need to do something to help.”

  And that’s how I ended up here, picking Avery up at The Corral, when I should be back at the ranch itemizing receipts and going through the books.

  I walk out to the truck as fast as I can, not looking back to see if she’s following me. I know she is because I can hear her annoyance with every step she takes. Well, good. I’m glad because she’s already an inconvenience and a disruption for me. And hell, had it not been for her, I wouldn’t have run into Felicity, the woman I’ve been trying to avoid for a week now.

  But because of Avery, I ran smack dab into the middle of that shit storm.

  “Hey, where’s the fire? Can you slow down, please?”

  I turn abruptly and stop, gravel from the parking lot spraying under my boots. She must’ve been running to catch up to me because she smacks into my chest with a startled, “Umph.”

  I’m not prepared for that sweet scent of hers that causes my heart to speed up. I take a step back to dislodge from her touch.

  “Listen, darlin’. I ain’t slowing down or giving you a free pass while you’re here. You either keep up with me or get the hell out of Dodge. I’m only doing this as a favor to my father and Gabe. But I’ve got zero room within my schedule for your city-ass to slow me down or get in my way.”

  I think I’ve stunned her speechless based on the wide-eyed expression and gaping mouth. And for a second, I feel sorry for saying that to her. She doesn’t deserve my vitriol. I don’t even know her. Maybe I’m being unfair.

  I grunt out a sigh.

  An apology is just about to leave my mouth when she lays in on me, her sharp-nailed finger pointing into my breastbone digging as hard as a spur on a boot.

  “How dare you, Cutter Lambert. If you didn’t want to do this then you should’ve manned up and said so before I got here and interrupted your schedule.” She throws in air quotes with her dainty hands.

  “And a word of unsolicited advice - if you can’t manage your workload then perhaps you need to consider hiring more help or organizing your schedule better. Regardless, you’ve committed to allowing me to shadow you for the week, and all I’m asking is for you to slow the fuck down because at the moment, I’m not wearing the appropriate attire to chase you down.”

  She lifts a leg and wiggles a foot and sure enough, my eyes travel the length of her petite body and notice for the first time the way she’s dressed. And there’s no hiding my body’s reaction, because goddamn, she is one sexy lady.

  A dark navy pencil skirt hugs her curves tight, barely skimming the top of her knees. A basic white blouse keeps her looking professional and all proper, with the exception of the low-cut V that falls open to expose just the right amount of peek-a-boo cleavage to prove she is one ample-bosomed-woman.

  And as my eyes veer further south, I notice the three-inch heels of her pumps, showing off bare, tanned legs that would look pretty fucking good up in the air as I drill into her pussy.

  Great, just what I need for the next week. Unfulfilled fantasies over taking this woman over my knee and demonstrating just what kind of distraction she is to me.

  I heave a sigh of indignation, my hands landing on my belt buckle, fingers twitching to do something. Anything. “Not my fault you didn’t come properly dressed for the great outdoors.”

  “Oh my god, she was right. You are a horse’s ass,” she wails, shaking her head and placing her hands over her face in frustration.

  I can only assume she’s referring to Felicity and something she may have said before I arrived. Regardless, it’s not too far off the mark. I never said I was anything else. My job isn’t to make people like me. It’s to run a ranch and keep my family business afloat.

  “Call me what you want, but let’s do it in the truck. Hop in.”

  I open my side of my old beat-up Chevy and jump in behind the wheel. She remains standing in the middle of the lot as I slam the door, hanging my arm out the open window and banging on the side.

  “In or out, ma’am. Time’s a’ wasting.”

  When I dare to glance in my driver’s side mirror, Avery hangs her head in indecision, her shoulders lifting and dropping in calculated rhythm. It’s dark, but I can still see her soft-pale fe
atures have turned a flushed cherry-tomato red color, contrasted against the light, yellow hue of her hair that drapes across the tops of her shoulders.

  And then I see it. The light trembling of her chin and lips, as her eyes close tightly.

  Fuck. My mama raised me better than this. I shouldn’t be taking out my frustrations on a woman I’ve never met before.

  The truck door creaks loudly, the metal parts clanging and groaning against the hinges, as I jump out of the front seat.

  Without a word, I pick up her luggage and throw it in the truck bed before opening the passenger door, holding it out as invitation and apology.

  “Ma’am, if you’re ready…”

  When she opens her eyes again, the angry flare she flashes at me feels like a punch to the gut.

  “Stop calling me ma’am. My name is Avery, thank you very much.”

  And with that, she hoists herself up onto the cloth-covered bench seat and doesn’t say another word the rest of the way home.

  Leaving me to wonder whether it’s safer for my well-being to have a sassy woman like Avery Boone calling me out as a horse’s ass or remaining silent the entire ride home.

  Because I don’t know a whole lot about women, but I do know when a woman stews in silence, there’s bound to be an explosion of temper after too long.

  And I’m a little worried I just might like that a bit too much.

  Avery

  “You seriously call this guy a friend of yours?” I huff into the video screen from my perch on the small bed, situated neatly in the corner, equipped with a handmade quilt and dainty pillows.