them reconnect with… I don’t know, an innate need for kindness toward other living creatures. So, let’s go Annie Oakley,” He laughs, tugging on the two long braids that hang over my shoulders.
He snags a cowboy hat from a hall-tree before we leave, not the nice black hat he wore when I first met him, this one is greyish-tan, sweat stained and infinitely sexy as he settles it on his head and tugs it into place. The color rushes to my cheeks as I watch him perform this small ritual and he laughs and plucks a feminine version from the rack and settles it on my head.
“Whose hat is this?” I ask, reaching up to adjust it and surprised that it’s a good fit. It seems brand new but my gut twists as I imagine other women, the red haired veterinarian or some other filthy, sex-hungry slut, keeping a hat at Holt’s house.
“It’s yours, I was hoping you’d come back with me so I bought it, just in case,” He grins like a big/little boy, plants a sweet kiss on my lips, opens the front door and sweeps an arm toward his truck as if my gilded carriage awaits. “Now let’s go, we need to get a horse and saddle under that pretty ass of yours.”
*
The tall iron gates that mark the entrance to the largest ranch in Texas are spectacular— hand-wrought and forged in fire. Worked into the center of the filigree design is the famous brand that marks every animal owned by the McCauley family—a heart within a diamond. We pass through the gates and under an equally impressive iron arch with big, scrawling letters proclaiming that we have indeed arrived at El Rancho del Corazon Perdido .
“Big gates, big sign,” I say, stretching my arm across the empty space between us to rest my hand on Holt’s thigh.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas you could say,” he says, covering my hand with his. “Nearly a million acres, and it could get bigger if Campbell caves in and marries Cassandra De La Garza, as per his father’s wishes. The De La Garza’s are about the only landowners who’ve refused to sell out and be swallowed up by the Corazon Perdido. This place makes my twelve-hundred acres look piss-poor, doesn’t it?”
“I love your place, this is way over the top,” I say as we pass herds of Longhorn and Hereford cattle grazing in green fields as that stretch as far as the eye can see. The land is prettier here, with thick-trunked oaks, their branches so long and heavy that many of them are supported by steel cables or wooden posts that are propped underneath. Barns and stables dot the landscape, long and steep-roofed, some are old and built from the same limestone as Holt’s grist mill. Others look new and are crafted from russet-stained wood set on dry-stacked stone with sloping copper roofs.
On the seemingly endless road that winds across the Corazon Perdido a cloud of dust appears on the horizon. When it draws closer Holt stops the truck and a black Range Rover pulls up next to us with a stern-looking but oh-so-very-handsome man behind the wheel. He gets out of his SUV and is suddenly standing at my window motioning for me to roll it down. This is unmistakably the head honcho, the ultimate alpha dog, leader of the pack, owner of the world’s most infamous ranch—Campbell McCauley.
He’s pure Texas male, hot and alluring in his rich-rancher off-white cowboy hat, starched jeans, button-down shirt, expensive cowboy boots, and even more expensive—make that INSANELY expensive—watch. He pushes his hat back a bit, lifts his sunglasses and I suddenly understand the few short texts Gigi sent to me and Penn over the last few weeks— ( OMG, OMG! OH. MY. GOD. BROTHERS!!!!! Fucking SWOON!!! Details too hot to text, pray for my wicked soul!!! Later, Sister girls, XOXOXO, Gigi .) He’s a heartbreaker, that’s for sure, and I wonder if Gigi knows or cares that he’s engaged.
His eyes flash an unreal shade of blue-green as he lifts his smooth-shaven chin in a silent greeting to Holt. “Gotta run into town and drag
He snags a cowboy hat from a hall-tree before we leave, not the nice black hat he wore when I first met him, this one is greyish-tan, sweat stained and infinitely sexy as he settles it on his head and tugs it into place. The color rushes to my cheeks as I watch him perform this small ritual and he laughs and plucks a feminine version from the rack and settles it on my head.
“Whose hat is this?” I ask, reaching up to adjust it and surprised that it’s a good fit. It seems brand new but my gut twists as I imagine other women, the red haired veterinarian or some other filthy, sex-hungry slut, keeping a hat at Holt’s house.
“It’s yours, I was hoping you’d come back with me so I bought it, just in case,” He grins like a big/little boy, plants a sweet kiss on my lips, opens the front door and sweeps an arm toward his truck as if my gilded carriage awaits. “Now let’s go, we need to get a horse and saddle under that pretty ass of yours.”
*
The tall iron gates that mark the entrance to the largest ranch in Texas are spectacular— hand-wrought and forged in fire. Worked into the center of the filigree design is the famous brand that marks every animal owned by the McCauley family—a heart within a diamond. We pass through the gates and under an equally impressive iron arch with big, scrawling letters proclaiming that we have indeed arrived at El Rancho del Corazon Perdido .
“Big gates, big sign,” I say, stretching my arm across the empty space between us to rest my hand on Holt’s thigh.
“Everything’s bigger in Texas you could say,” he says, covering my hand with his. “Nearly a million acres, and it could get bigger if Campbell caves in and marries Cassandra De La Garza, as per his father’s wishes. The De La Garza’s are about the only landowners who’ve refused to sell out and be swallowed up by the Corazon Perdido. This place makes my twelve-hundred acres look piss-poor, doesn’t it?”
“I love your place, this is way over the top,” I say as we pass herds of Longhorn and Hereford cattle grazing in green fields as that stretch as far as the eye can see. The land is prettier here, with thick-trunked oaks, their branches so long and heavy that many of them are supported by steel cables or wooden posts that are propped underneath. Barns and stables dot the landscape, long and steep-roofed, some are old and built from the same limestone as Holt’s grist mill. Others look new and are crafted from russet-stained wood set on dry-stacked stone with sloping copper roofs.
On the seemingly endless road that winds across the Corazon Perdido a cloud of dust appears on the horizon. When it draws closer Holt stops the truck and a black Range Rover pulls up next to us with a stern-looking but oh-so-very-handsome man behind the wheel. He gets out of his SUV and is suddenly standing at my window motioning for me to roll it down. This is unmistakably the head honcho, the ultimate alpha dog, leader of the pack, owner of the world’s most infamous ranch—Campbell McCauley.
He’s pure Texas male, hot and alluring in his rich-rancher off-white cowboy hat, starched jeans, button-down shirt, expensive cowboy boots, and even more expensive—make that INSANELY expensive—watch. He pushes his hat back a bit, lifts his sunglasses and I suddenly understand the few short texts Gigi sent to me and Penn over the last few weeks— ( OMG, OMG! OH. MY. GOD. BROTHERS!!!!! Fucking SWOON!!! Details too hot to text, pray for my wicked soul!!! Later, Sister girls, XOXOXO, Gigi .) He’s a heartbreaker, that’s for sure, and I wonder if Gigi knows or cares that he’s engaged.
His eyes flash an unreal shade of blue-green as he lifts his smooth-shaven chin in a silent greeting to Holt. “Gotta run into town and drag
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