Page 33 of Westin

“Westin really made all of this?”

“Everything but the chickens. Those they make up at the main house.”

“The man grows more and more fascinating with each passing hour.”

Bowie snorted. “We all have our talents, Ms. Adams. You’d be surprised by some of the things I can do.”

“I know you’re quite adept at flirting with rich tourists. I witnessed that all afternoon!”

He laughed a little, nodding. “I won’t deny that. But I can cook, too. I make a good meatloaf. You can ask the other guys about that.”

“I’m sure you do.” She patted his arm lightly to reassure him before breaking into the baked potato that had come with her plate of chicken, sighing as she sank her teeth into the soft, cooked flesh. She didn’t even miss the butter and sour cream. That’s how hungry she was.

“You enjoy our little tour of the paddocks today?”

She glanced at Bowie. “The first time, or the second?”

“The second, of course.”

“Yes, I did. I especially liked watching you rescue that woman who stepped on a steaming cow pie!”

“Happens every time. It’s like those city ladies just go looking for the damn things.” He sighed. “I’ve worked on this ranch for over five years, and I never once stepped on one. But these ladies… there’s always at least one.”

“Can’t help themselves. The idea of being carried by a big, burly guy like you is just too irresistible.”

He smiled even as his cheeks darkened a little. “Yeah, well, maybe that is it.”

Lea set her dinner plate aside and picked up a piece of warm fruit between her index finger and thumb. She popped it into her mouth, syrup dripping down her chin. She closed her eyes, surprised by just how sweet and succulent it tasted as it burst over her tongue. She sighed, shooting a look at Bowie.

“It’s good. I know. But don’t tell him that, because he’ll never let you forget it!”

Lea laughed, feeling light for the first time in a very long while. When had she last just sat and had a meal with someone? When had she enjoyed her food as much as she was enjoying it right now? When had she been this relaxed, this without worry? She couldn’t remember.

She finished the fruit, savoring every bite as best as she could, but finding it hard not to eat it like it was about to be taken away from her. When it was gone, she was almost disappointed.

“Here.” Bowie handed her a beer, slipping it out of an inner pocket of his jacket along with one for himself. Lea almost refused. She’d never been big on beer, and she made a point of not drinking whenever she was working. But she wasn’t working right now, was she?

The beer was cold despite having been so close to his body, and it tasted of unbaked bread and everything that had been good about her childhood. Once again, she found herself thinking about her grandparents’ farm and the long summers she’d spent there. It was the perfect place for a child to grow up: lots of sunshine; good, honest work; and lots of space for developing a proper imagination. It was funny, though. She hadn’t thought of her grandparents or their farm in years. Not until this morning. And now she couldn’t stop thinking about it all.

“Remington puts on a roping show when dinner’s over,” Bowie told her. “He should get started here in a few minutes.”

“Remington’s a roper? Does he do the rodeo circuit?”

“Used to. He has a couple of pretty impressive belt buckles, but he gave it up when he started working here. Doesn’t talk about it much.”

“Seems like none of you talk about much.”

Bowie took a long swallow of his beer. “It’s the stereotype. If we talked about ourselves, we wouldn’t fit that image that all women have of the modern American cowboy.”

Lea nodded. “Makes total sense.”

He winked, and she couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up out of her throat.

The show started a few minutes later, Remington approaching the crowd silently with a lasso that he quickly used to rope a small child who was trying to get too close to the fire. Everyone cheered as he freed the child and proceeded to give a short lecture on roping and why it’s an important part of a cowboy’s repertoire. Lea sipped her beer as she listened to his words, unaware she’d finished the whole bottle until Bowie slipped it out of her hand and gave her a new one. She was halfway through that when Westin slipped up to the rear of her, taking a seat on the hay bale behind her, close enough that she leaned back against him, taking some of the pressure off her poor thighs, and enjoying the heat of his closeness.

“Having a good time?” he asked warmly against her ear.

“Having a blast.”