In Love With A Cowboy (BWWM Romance) by Tasha Jones, BWWM Crew
Authors: Tasha Jones, BWWM Crew
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the two of them, I felt more at home than I had in a long time.
I swung by the law offices, but they were closed. Of course. Why would anyone be working overtime in Westham? This wasn’t Houston where lawyers had six-day weeks. I sighed and turned away from the closed door. What was I going to do on a Saturday in a town that I hated with a lot of people I didn’t know?
I climbed into my car and drove down the road. I slowed down in front of Casa Bonita, thinking for two seconds that I should drop in and say hello, but I decided against it and sped up again. I wasn’t going to make a nuisance of myself. Just because I wanted to see her again in a non-sexual way didn’t mean I had to force myself on her every second of the day. I wanted to look cool, suave, sexy. I chuckled at the idea. I was wearing jeans and a collared shirt, in green, that the salesman had said suited my skin tone. Whatever that meant. I wore classic cowboy boots, and felt like my old self again. How I was before Houston.
I drove the narrow bumpy road out of town that looped behind the supermarket and then out towards the hills that lay in the horizon. The road was hardly used anymore, and I understood why. There weren’t a lot of people that wanted to revisit the ruins of the old town that was Cosmos Valley.
Halfway to the Valley I saw stables, a big sign that told me horses were for rent. Tourist attraction, but I was drawn to it. I pulled in and a big round woman with smile creases around her mouth stepped into the morning air.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I was wondering if I could rent a horse?” I said. She eyed my car like it was strange that I asked for an alternative mode of transportation.
“You ride?” she asked. I nodded.
The horse she offered me was midnight black with big liquid eyes. It breathed hot breath against my hand and I scratched its neck before I got on. The western saddle felt comfortable under me. I brought the reins over its neck and it turned. The woman had been watching and she raised her eyebrows. Maybe she understood now that I could ride.
I left the yard on the horse, and walked down the road toward Cosmos Valley. It was right on horseback. The way it used to be when I was younger.
When I arrived in the part of town where I grew up it was all but a ghost town. It consisted mainly of forgotten farmland, once cultivated by farm hands that were making a living, but since then the farmers had all moved to better patches of ground around the newer Westham instead. I followed a dusty path up to an old farmhouse. It had been empty for almost ten years now, and it was starting to show decay. The front door’s brown paint was flaking and the windows were dusty where they weren’t broken.
In the front yard, where I’d spent so many of my childhood days, the grass was an ugly brown now, and the sad stump of the oak tree stood alone in the middle of it. The wood was ragged and spiky toward the one side.
I slid off the horse and let it graze on the barely-there grass. It didn’t seem to mind. I leaned against it and sighed.
My dad had gotten drunk one night, worse than the other nights. He’d had so much to drink none of us had understood how he could still be standing upright. He’d hit my mother, and Dean had grabbed his hand, knocking him to the ground. We were seventeen, both old enough and big enough to take him on.
But there was something psychologically scary about a drunk that dominated you your whole life. When my dad staggered to his feet again after that, we knew we had to run. We’d fled, and both of us had climbed the old oak tree. My dad wouldn’t have been able to get into it in his state, no matter how steady he looked on his legs.
We’d climbed all the way to the top where the plank had been fastened. It had been our version of a tree house and we’d spend nights up there in the summer.
Dad had known just as well as
I swung by the law offices, but they were closed. Of course. Why would anyone be working overtime in Westham? This wasn’t Houston where lawyers had six-day weeks. I sighed and turned away from the closed door. What was I going to do on a Saturday in a town that I hated with a lot of people I didn’t know?
I climbed into my car and drove down the road. I slowed down in front of Casa Bonita, thinking for two seconds that I should drop in and say hello, but I decided against it and sped up again. I wasn’t going to make a nuisance of myself. Just because I wanted to see her again in a non-sexual way didn’t mean I had to force myself on her every second of the day. I wanted to look cool, suave, sexy. I chuckled at the idea. I was wearing jeans and a collared shirt, in green, that the salesman had said suited my skin tone. Whatever that meant. I wore classic cowboy boots, and felt like my old self again. How I was before Houston.
I drove the narrow bumpy road out of town that looped behind the supermarket and then out towards the hills that lay in the horizon. The road was hardly used anymore, and I understood why. There weren’t a lot of people that wanted to revisit the ruins of the old town that was Cosmos Valley.
Halfway to the Valley I saw stables, a big sign that told me horses were for rent. Tourist attraction, but I was drawn to it. I pulled in and a big round woman with smile creases around her mouth stepped into the morning air.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I was wondering if I could rent a horse?” I said. She eyed my car like it was strange that I asked for an alternative mode of transportation.
“You ride?” she asked. I nodded.
The horse she offered me was midnight black with big liquid eyes. It breathed hot breath against my hand and I scratched its neck before I got on. The western saddle felt comfortable under me. I brought the reins over its neck and it turned. The woman had been watching and she raised her eyebrows. Maybe she understood now that I could ride.
I left the yard on the horse, and walked down the road toward Cosmos Valley. It was right on horseback. The way it used to be when I was younger.
When I arrived in the part of town where I grew up it was all but a ghost town. It consisted mainly of forgotten farmland, once cultivated by farm hands that were making a living, but since then the farmers had all moved to better patches of ground around the newer Westham instead. I followed a dusty path up to an old farmhouse. It had been empty for almost ten years now, and it was starting to show decay. The front door’s brown paint was flaking and the windows were dusty where they weren’t broken.
In the front yard, where I’d spent so many of my childhood days, the grass was an ugly brown now, and the sad stump of the oak tree stood alone in the middle of it. The wood was ragged and spiky toward the one side.
I slid off the horse and let it graze on the barely-there grass. It didn’t seem to mind. I leaned against it and sighed.
My dad had gotten drunk one night, worse than the other nights. He’d had so much to drink none of us had understood how he could still be standing upright. He’d hit my mother, and Dean had grabbed his hand, knocking him to the ground. We were seventeen, both old enough and big enough to take him on.
But there was something psychologically scary about a drunk that dominated you your whole life. When my dad staggered to his feet again after that, we knew we had to run. We’d fled, and both of us had climbed the old oak tree. My dad wouldn’t have been able to get into it in his state, no matter how steady he looked on his legs.
We’d climbed all the way to the top where the plank had been fastened. It had been our version of a tree house and we’d spend nights up there in the summer.
Dad had known just as well as
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