MUCH ADO ABOUT A COWBOY
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5 Beatrice
I will not think of him.
The sharp snap of a knife chopping through the hard carrot resting on the countertop accentuates my thought.
I will not.
The command echoes with another rapid crack of the utensil hacking through the long vegetable, strangely reminding me of the length of a certain someone. I continue to chop with fervor, allowing the blade to smack against the cutting board as I dice the length into centimeter chunks, imaging disembodying the cruelness of Ben with each cut.
A kitchen sounds like the perfect place for a woman.
How dare he? My brain screams as I reach for another carrot and continue my surgery of the passive vegetable, dismantling its firm length with each sawing snap.
If there is anyone who knows my deep-rooted fears, it is Ben, and he just threw it in my face. While I expect no less from his lacking wit, I never expected him to say something like this to me. He knows. He knows how I feel. There is no place I want to be less. Being a wife seems like the epitome of prison to me. My mama was my example. A good wife follows rules, propriety, and expectations, and I want none of that. Never have. Still don’t. Living with Aunt Toni has changed my impression some. And, something in my heart pinches at the thought of standing in a kitchen owned by Ben—one we might have owned together.
Continuing to mince the guiltless carrot and start on another one, I force the thought to exit my mind.
I will not recall what he offered me. How I said no.
“Bea?” A softness in his typically rough voice sends a cool ripple over my skin, and I shiver despite the heat inside me. I close my eyes, willing him to disappear. Holding my breath, I hope I’m only imagining his presence. Unfortunately, I sense him standing in the doorway of the kitchen. My eyes flick open.
I will not allow him to control my feelings.
A movement to my left brings him into my peripheral view, and choosing to ignore him, I continue hacking at carrots, hoping he takes the hint to leave me alone. Instead, he steps closer and I inhale, attempting to sound bored with his nearness. However, I’m not prepared for the mistake the intake of breath brings. His scent consumes me, and my eyes involuntarily close, holding the fragrance of him in my nose. Manly. Earthy. Wild. Moist cedar chips after a rainstorm is his signature scent, and my fingers twitch to play in the mud.
“Bea,” he whispers, coming to stand behind me. While an inch or two remains between us, I feel him everywhere. His firm chest at my back. His breath on my neck. A thick hand covers mine to stop the rapid-fire chopping. I hadn’t even noticed I no longer had carrot to cut. Heavy fingers hold my hand still, pressing it against the board. His other hand slips down my opposite arm, stroking over my bare skin until he engulfs my hand, white-knuckled as it grips the counter.
“Beautiful,” His voice turns seductive as he sings another one of the many nicknames he has given me.
Beatrice is too old-fashion for such a modern woman, he teased. Beautiful suits you better.
I close my eyes again at the memory, allowing his voice to engulf me, his touch to surround me.
“I didn’t mean it, Bea. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Damn straight,” I bark, bucking my hips backward in an effort to press him off me. Instead, he counteracts, pushing forward against my ass and pinning me to the counter’s edge. The unmistakable length of him holds me in place as it leans along the seam of my backside. My eyes snap open as my core clenches, a pulse sprinting like the gates opening at a horse race.
“I have to say, though, there isn’t anything sexier than you in a kitchen, especially when you’re pinned to a counter.” The words ripple over me, like a trickle of rain, and I quiver at the thought of him taking me against the granite. His palm releases my hand that held the knife, slipping upward until he reaches my shoulder. He squeezes while his nose nuzzles the other side of my neck. My head falls back as if I suddenly have no control. I’m overwhelmed by his touch, his breath, his scent.
“Ben,” I whimper. His nose travels upward, behind my ear before he whispers, “There’s my sugar.”
And I freeze. So many times, he muttered those words and I gave in to him. Too many times, he used the words against me. My body goes rigid. I need to get away from him. With my hand free, I reach for the knife. Clutching it, I spin to face him. His reflexes are swift from his military training, but then again, his reflexes have always been practiced. He encircles my wrist. Holding the weapon between us—with no intent to use it—I meet his eyes while the instrument shakes in my fist.
“I’m holding a sharp implement, and I’m not afraid to use this on you.” I muster the lie without much conviction. “Get away from me.”
The corner of his mouth curls, a smirk slipping into place to mask his emotions. He has practice with this reflex—hiding his feelings—as well.
“Ah, spice, we both know your tongue is sharper than that blade.” He leans forward as if his mouth seeks mine. I swallow with the anticipation he’ll kiss me.
Do I want him to kiss me?
I’m holding a knife between us.
I don’t want him to kiss me, I decide.
He squeezes my circled wrist. “Cut me.”
The innuendo in the request makes my mouth water further. He wants me to open for him. My tongue will be our dueling weapons.
“Never again.” I exhale as I speak. My words meeting his mouth like the kiss we won’t share.
“Never say never, Bea.”
His smirk returns but not fully before I retort, “Why not? You did.”
The sharp intake of his breath steals mine. I went too far. The words sting. Stepping back from me, Ben blinks and turns his cheek as if I slapped him. Eventually, his head rotates left to right as if taking in his surroundings. He blinks again. His eyes cloud when they look at me, as if he doesn’t see me, as if he doesn’t understand where he is or why I’m here. He tips up his chin once, spins on his boot heels, and just like that, Ben walks out on me again.
+ + +
My mind races hours later. My body still electrically charged by the nearness of Ben and the near miss of kissing him. How wrong would it be to let him get to me again? It’s been years and yet those old feelings return like a tidal wave. The hyperawareness of him in the room. The desire to breathe in his scent. The vibration at my core, aching for his touch. I shiver.
My mantra repeats. I will not think of him. But the concept is becoming harder and harder the more he lingers at the Manor. I skipped out on brunch, suddenly losing my appetite after our altercation. By lunchtime, I’m starving for some of the stew I prepared this morning. As I near the kitchen, I hear voices.
“Can you believe it?” Toni speaks.
“I can believe it,” Leo retorts, pride filling his voice.
I stop and linger in the hall, my heart racing for some reason.
“It’s an honor that he’s asking, but I think it’s rather sudden. He’s only just returned,” Toni continues.
“Very true,” Leo agrees, “but I think this is an excellent offer. Who else would be able to handle her?”
Toni chuckles and my hand covers my stomach. Could they be talking about me?
Admittedly, I was rough when I first came here—ornery and difficult to say the least. I didn’t wish to live on a farm after growing up in the city, but with the death of my parents I was lost. I was only nineteen. I completed college at Toni’s insistence, but I never used my degree. How far could one get writing poetry? I wrote as a stress reliever. Eventually, the lovely words I once wrote about happily-ever-afters became dead to me. A broken heart and absent parents will do that to a girl, and my thoughts turned darker, desperate, and deep. I cursed the good fortune of other’s in my later poems and found solace in those who wrote of thwarted destiny. Mine had been, especially after Ben. I had dreams and they didn’t involve being someone’s wife, living off the land in Bard County. Yet, here I remain all these years later. No longer questioning why I’m here. No longer hoping for the return of empty promises.
“It will be a dream come true for her.” Toni giggles, her gleeful tone expressing her excitement.
“Might be a dream, but we can’t act until we know for certain he’ll ask her. I’ll be the first to encourage the connection. I’d be a fool not to,” Leo admits, and my breath hitches. Are they looking to marry me off? It isn’t unheard of to form a land alliance through marriage even in the twenty-first century. Are they so eager to get rid of me? Twenty-seven years old and I’d been here for long enough.
We just want you to be happy. Toni would try to assure me, as if a man was the only means for such emotion. There was a time when I was happy, and thoughts race to Ben. A picnic in the woods. An old beat-up pick-up truck. A small bed in the bunkhouse by the stable. I shake my head to rid the memories. That was once upon a time, and there was no happily-ever-after that followed.
A different source of contentment fills me now, and what puzzles me is my aunt and uncle know my vision. I’m an independent, entrepreneurial woman. Sure, I wanted to work for some publishing house in New York City before I graduated from college, but the beauty of dreams is the ability to change them. When I returned to the ranch after graduation, waiting out the job offers which never came to fruition, my interests traveled in a new direction. My new plan involves improvement to the ranch estate and my own small business aside from cattle ranching. I no longer write romantic poems but dream of hosting romantic moments. Weddings at the ranch. Adventures through the mountains. And my personal passion—Starlight Farm—a trash-to-treasure business with a physical store to match my online presence. Making a home a romantic retreat.
“He’ll propose everything at the barn dance this weekend,” Leo says and my back hits the wall behind me.
“Maybe we should warn her.” Toni pauses. “Although warning is the wrong word. Maybe hint to her a proposal is coming, so she may respond accordingly.”
“Excellent idea, Toni,” Leo says. He typically kisses my aunt when she says something to which he agrees, and I imagine him doing so at the moment. He dotes on his wife—as a man should—according to Uncle Leo himself. Still, my heart gallops in my chest, my thoughts race.
Could Ben really propose to me again? Would I accept?
I don’t have an answer, but butterflies whirl in my belly, and I’ve lost my appetite again.
6 Ben
I take a dirt bike out to the back fields of Princeton’s property. It’s here that I do my best thinking and all my mind can think about lately is Bea. Her body and mine. Her mouth on mine. I recall all the times we were together, and I want to hate those memories, but I don’t. They haunt me.
The dust flies and I feel like I have wings as the engine whirls loud in my head, drowning out all things. I love this land. I grew up on it, but I didn’t live here. I lived in the one-main street town, above a beauty shop. My mother raised me on her own. I didn’t own horses like Princeton, but I wanted one. We couldn’t afford it. Thankfully, my best friend shared. He was generous in many ways, and I owed him. I worked the land alongside Princeton, his father thinking he needed an education with his hands before he could take over the property. I liked working with my hands—getting my fingers dirty and constructing things. I planned to build my own home one day. A house on land with lots of property. Not a room over some business inside a building.
I speed toward a corner of the lot—the one where a large oak sets. To my surprise, I see someone on a horse racing toward me. Long blonde hair bounces in the wind behind her. Bea loved her horse, Trixie. I recall taking rides on her together. Suddenly, Bea shifts as if she sees me, and heads to her left. I shift gears and follow her, my heart racing like the wheels under me. The chase with Bea was one thing I loved most about her. I was always after her. And she wasn’t difficult to catch.
She’s picking up speed and I see her head turn, searching for me behind her. She’s throwing down a challenge. She wants me to follow. I’ll be faster on this bike than her old horse, and I shift gears again. Trixie’s sprinting but I’m gaining ground. Bea guides her to round the tree and I chase her until an idea hits me. I do a donut, kicking up a load of loose dirt and spiral back to catch her on the other side of the tree.
Her head twists again as I surprise her. I can’t get too close or the bike will spook Trixie, but I’d love to outrun her. Bea faces away from me again and I imagine her laughing, enjoying the race, the freedom to be wild. This land kept her untamed, but she didn’t want to stay here.
“I’m going to make something of myself,” she said, hinting at her name in print. “Anything to get me out of here and keep me in one place.”
She’d had an unstable life, moving from place to place with her military daddy. She also never wanted to be her mother, who kowtowed to her father. “I’m going to be an independent woman of means.” I had no doubt she’d be whatever she wanted to be someday.
For a blink of a moment, I thought that someday might be with me.
“I don’t want to be tied to the land.”
The land was my passion. I’d gone to school, majoring in ranch economy. Princeton’s father promised me a job once we graduated. We entered the military instead.
For some reason, I slow my speed, allowing Bea to outrun me. I skid to a stop and watch her gallop away. I’d have kept up the chase on a horse, and the thought reminds me I’m close to my dream. I’m searching for land purchase. A horse needs a home, just like the filly racing away from me.
Seeing me stopped, Bea brings Trixie to a cantor and then a halt. She circles back, looking in my direction. There’s a pull between us. A need to draw together, but I’m still raw from our interchange in the kitchen. I’ll never tame her, although I’d enjoy the challenge. Then I reconsider. I’d never want to change her. I like her wild.
+ + +
The night of the masquerade we stand in Princeton’s kitchen tailgating—a sort of pre-party before the party. The semi-costume party is a tradition for the Donne’s. The celebration is a nod to traditional barn dances with a touch of mystique, hence some type of disguise to “mask” the individual attendees.
My eyes drift to John perched against the kitchen counter, dangling his beer. He joined Princeton and me in enlisting, dropping out of college to do so, but his unit was separate from ours. Special ops spoke to his darker spirit and wilder emotions. I fear the things he saw made him colder to the world as a whole. Battle can do that to a man, and John’s bitterness seems to feed off the spoils of war. Hailed as a hero like the rest of us, he did not revel in the honor. Returning to Bard County has made him squirrelly for mischief.
Not for the first time, I wonder what his connection could be to Bea. Innocent enough, they grew up near one another, but the way he seeks her out in a crowd suggests something deeper, something I don’t want to consider. When he catches me staring in his direction, I straighten the aviator glasses on my face. I hate the heat they produce on my cheeks, but I’m willing to play Prince’s game tonight. The sunglasses at night are my concession to a mask. I owe Prince everything. He saved my life in more ways than one. Attending the barn dance is the least I can do, and the last thing I want to.
“So, what you’re telling me is, you hope to win the heart of a girl by someone else pretending to be you?” John clarifies Clay’s plan as Clay explains his mission for the evening. Clay’s youthful face brightens at the prospect, but John’s darkens. An edge to his jaw, John wears a solemn expression permanently etched on his face, giving him an appearance of always thinking, always planning, always plotting.
He has a collection of friends Prince doesn’t approve of but tolerates. Boris, being John’s sidekick, stands amongst us, listening as John repeats the plot. A sinister snicker slips from his mouth as he eyes Boris, a bald-headed man with a singular earring, reminding me of Mr. Clean or an ancient pirate. He worships John as a mastermind of tricks. The two thrive on havoc.
“Exactly,” Clay offers, too willing to share this farce with others. Evil lingers across John’s face and I recall his expression when he saw Bea the other night. Her eyes were focused on his—prey ensnared by a snake—and I wonder once again if they have history. The thought makes my stomach flip.
John claps his hands, rubbing them together while Boris chuckles beside him.
“Sounds promising, and downright mischievous.” A spark in John’s blue eyes matches that of Prince’s, although Prince’s normally hints at guilt-free trouble, whereas John’s looks dangerous.
“A wedding sounds like just the thing,” Boris replies, looking at John like they share a secret. John nods to agree.
Just the thing for what? I wonder.
Turning to address Prince, John says, “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.” Sarcasm and menace linger in his offer. Prince is so naïve when it comes to his brother. He longs for a blood-like relationship between them. John seems to wish the opposite of his sibling. He tolerates Prince’s attention but does not appreciate it.
“If you have tips on love, brother, I’d love your help,” Prince admits. John smiles, and Prince responds, missing the wickedness on his brother’s lips.
“I’m always hopeful of happily-ever-after,” John replies and I snort. His eyes shoot to mine but quickly retract.
“Shall we?” Prince offers, waving toward the door, hinting the time has come to travel across the field to the Donne family barn.
+ + +
The wooden structure is decked out in miniature white lights hanging on cords which drape across the large space, cutting off the high ceiling, and lowering the space to a more intimate area. The dimness of the lights adds to the mystery of those attending. It isn’t too hard to decipher who is whom despite their masks, based on body structure, but some people dress more costume-like than necessary and the disguise helps with their anonymity. Leo’s crew isn’t hard to discern. Hero is the brunette, and Margaret the dark one with wild curls spilling around her face. Toni’s white hair cuts at her chin, which leaves the long, luscious blonde hair, tumbling over angular shoulders as none other than Bea.
Blindfolded, I would recognize her body—curves that roll like hills and breasts as sharp as the peaks of the mountain anchoring our community. Her hips curl like the rivers of this land, and I want to plunder her field, turning her soil over and over and over. I swipe at my brow, wiping off a bead of sweat, and cursing myself for the stupid analogy. Bea wasn’t any more a piece of country land to be owned. She wanted to be a world-famous poet, living in New York. The thought made me wonder once again why Bea was still here. She’d told me, in no uncertain terms, being a wife, tying her to land, was the last thing she wanted.
And yet, she remains. But why?
My thoughts disappear the moment the crowd cheers for us, and Prince stalks forward as if no one could identify him. Yet, he owns this barn. He owns this town. Everybody loves him for his easy nature and kind heart. However, his kindness might backfire tonight. There’s really no fooling anyone as to who we are, especially as Prince’s stature is dark and wide to Clay’s fair and lean, but all in good fun people pretend to not recognize one another. Prince stalks directly for Hermione, wrapping an arm around her waist, and dragging her to the dance floor. The band strikes up a rowdy country tune and the party members whoop with the song.
Bea pulls back from the crowd, slowly slipping to the edges, viewing the revelry but not partaking in it. It’s how I found her the first time I met her. She stood out, not because she was on the periphery, but because she shines above the others. Her blonde hair beams like a beacon in the darkness of night. She doesn’t want to be one of them and the independence sang to my soul.
“Not enjoying the dance?” I mutter, sauntering up next to her, bumping her shoulder with mine. Adding to my disguise, I wear my old black cowboy hat and I’ve let my beard grow thicker the past couple days. In the heat, it itches. It’s the furthest I’ll go to play the charade tonight, but I’m certain Bea recognizes me.
“Not finding anyone I want to dance with,” she replies, a tease in her tone as she lifts her plastic red cup to her lips. My eyes draw to the roll of her throat as she swallows, and it makes my mouth dry. My lips twitch to skim the smooth skin at the edge of her shoulder. She likes that spot. The spot where her neck meets her clavicle, and if I nip her there…
“And why aren’t you dancing?” she interrupts my fantasy of pressing her against the wall behind her like I once did and filling her until she screams my name.
“Couldn’t find a willing partner,” I tease, scanning the festive crowd, recognizing any number of women who would be willing to two-step with me, but there was only one woman I wanted to tangle legs with.
“I find that hard to believe,” she mutters, her words directed to the inside of her cup.
“So hard,” I snort, hinting at the length in my pants, but then I rethink my comment. “Why’s that?”
“Are you familiar with Ben Dickton?” Her lips twist at the emphasis she puts on the mockery of my name, but my cock enjoys the taunt. He jolts to attention, feeling the call to this woman. Does she not know it’s me? Or are we following the night’s intention—a night of false mystery?
I’m confident she knows it’s me, but decide I’ll play along in pretending.
“And who is Ben Dickton?” I question, washing my voice in the heaviest southern drawl I can muster. I can’t wait to hear what she has to say about me, and my teeth snap on my following statement. “He sounds like a cock.”
Her head spins to me, and midnight eyes narrow from behind her silver mask. I’m thankful she can’t see mine through the tinted lenses.
“He’s a total dick.” The sharpness to her tongue doesn’t surprise me, but the venom in her voice does.
“Why’s that?” I parrot. My voice cracks, and I’m uncertain what more I could have done to make her hate me. We had the close call in the kitchen, but she made it clear—while holding a knife—she was over me.
She exhales and I want to draw in her breath, draw in her lips. The idea would be a colossal mistake, but still, my mouth tingles to taste hers again.
“Mr. Dickton wrote the book on dancing…around issues, that is…and playing the field…and multiple partners.” Her cold tone shocks me. My breath catches. Is she implying I played her? Played around on her?
“I was loy—” Her eyes meet mine and I pause. Arguing with her about my dedication would spoil my desperate disguise to pretend I’m not me and have her speak freely, because all those years ago, I wasn’t certain what I did to destroy her faith in me. I decide to keep up the ruse a bit longer as she’s speaking to me. Referring to myself in third person, I continue. “He sounds like his skills include more than moving across the dance floor.”
“Oh yes,” she mutters. “He knows how to dance. On a floor. Against a wall. In a bed.” Her eyes shift and I don’t miss the direction. The barn wall is filled with memories, so is the dance floor and the loft above. Fuck it, there isn’t a place I can look without knowing Bea’s naked body graced it with mine. Then another thought occurs. Who else has shared the pleasure of her body in these places?
“He sounds like a god to me,” I mutter, the drawl growing thick in praise of myself.
“Yes, an Ass-donis,” her voice mocks.
My eyes blink. My aviators itch on my nose, but I don’t move. I stare at the silhouette of her face. Her pert nose, her lush lips, her slightly pointed chin. I want to suck on her jaw.
“Tell me, stranger.” She draws out the moniker. “How many dance partners does one need in a night?”
“One,” I answer too quickly, but the truth is the truth. I only need one partner. Her huffy response to my answer has me wondering.
“And how many do you prefer?”
This swings her head to me again. “I need no one,” she mutters, her eyes narrowing, but something isn’t right. Maybe it’s the mask, but her eyes aren’t sparking. A mist covers them. I want to raise my aviators to get a better look but don’t wish to expose myself. The air hums between us, and I realize only inches separate us. My eyes lower, noting her deep intake of breath as her chest rises and lowers. Any closer and I’d feel the soft drag of those heavy breasts against my chest, rustling against my tight tee. The thought stiffens me more, if that’s even humanly possible. She’d feel what she does to me and know how much I want her. Maybe she needs a reminder.
My hand lifts to her cheek, cupping her heated skin. It’s warm in the barn. I draw over her jaw with my thumb, ending under her chin and tipping her face upward. It would be a mistake to kiss her, but damn it, the need overwhelms me.
“I don’t need any one,” she whispers, possibly reassuring herself. Her breath tickles my lips, and my eyes dip down to her mouth. Quickly looking up again, I find her eyes questioning, uncertain.
She must know it’s me, I argue.
“Good thing I’m not anyone, then.” My mouth crushes hers as I finish my statement. Lips crash lips as I tug her toward me by the palm on her cheek. My arm wraps around her, pressing at her lower back to pin her against me so I can drink in her taste, swirling my tongue to lick up each drop of her honey-flavor. She’s been drinking something sweet. I want to bathe her in whatever it was and then lap every bit of stickiness off her body. My dick presses into her low belly, and my knees bend to drag my length lower. Our height doesn’t match up but I’m desperate for our parts to meet.
The tip of me, covered by tight jeans, presses against her core, and I swallow the gasp escaping her at the connection. She responds to my mouth on hers, following my lead and diving in with the same gusto to devour me. Her hands slip up my bare arms before circling my neck, dragging her body upward, against mine.
Bring me home, beautiful, I mouth against her lips, willing her to understand what I want.
“Ben,” she mumbles against my tongue, the vibration tickling as she acknowledges she recognizes me. I tug her harder against me but hands on my shoulders counter act my intention.
“Ben,” she stammers with firm palms slipping to my biceps, forcing me to break the connection. I blink but she can’t see my eyes. No, my brain screams while my heart races and my dick weeps. “I…”
She doesn’t complete the thought and my stomach drops.
“What, beautiful?” The nickname shocks her, and her head snaps back as she struggles to place distance between us.
“I don’t to dance,” she whispers. The comment puzzles me.
“You love to dance.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“I’m a good teacher,” I tease, leaning in for her mouth again but she pulls back and I still.
“I know. But I don’t want to learn anymore lessons from you.” The whispered comment stings and I release her completely. She stumbles back, allowing more than inches to divide us.
“Sugar, we should talk.”
“There’s nothing to say.” Then she steps around me, leaving me stunned with a stiff dick, confused heart, and her flavor on my tongue.
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