Total pages in book: 47
Estimated words: 44134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 44134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 221(@200wpm)___ 177(@250wpm)___ 147(@300wpm)
Cord rolls his eyes. “You’re already slicker than a minnow’s peter.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I love the way the men around here speak so freely with each other. It’s the one thing I’ve noticed about the group that Flint was all too eager to gather.
Clicking the camera, I catch the moment that the insult registers with Flint. It makes his eyes light up, and I mentally congratulate myself, already knowing it’s the perfect shot to put on the website.
Flint flips the bird, but thankfully, I’ve already lowered the camera, so I don’t catch the exchange.
“Can I get one final shot of you?” I ask as I turn to Cord. He’s been standing against the barn with his arms folded. It’s obvious from his posture that he’d rather hide the scars dotting his chest. He’s only here because the other guys are.
Before he can agree, there’s a murmur that goes through the crowd of cowboys. The sudden change in the mood has me looking up to see Bronco stomping around the back of the barn. I guess, he wasn’t at the farmer’s market today.
He takes in all of the shirtless men here with a frown, then his gaze zeros in on me with my camera. His frown deepens even more, his expression shifting from one of disapproval to fury. With a curse, he starts issuing commands and demanding the cowboys get back to work.
No one seems all that worried though because they continue to mill about. A few of them are even smirking in my direction, though I’m not quite sure why. I know I did a bad thing. I should have talked to Bronco first.
He marches up to me, crowding my space until I step back against the barn.
My camera lens is practically pushed against his faded flannel. He missed a button, and I want desperately to lean over and rebutton the shirt. But I don’t let myself do that. It seems intimate, something a woman would do for her lover.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bronco demands, the sunshine catching him perfectly. Would he think it weird if I asked him to stand still so I could grab a shot of him at this moment?
“Me? I’m just taking pictures of the beautiful scenery on the farm,” I answer with a sweet smile that I hope will disarm him.
Of course, it doesn’t. Bronco is used to seeing through people’s bullshit. He makes a noise that’s partially a scoff and partially a swear word. Then he grabs my elbow and pulls me away from the barn. His touch is firm and unyielding, his fingers rough and calloused.
“You are coming with me,” he growls into my ear.
A shiver skates its way down my spine. I can’t help the way my body responds to his rumbly voice. It has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the way he makes my heart flutter every time I see him.
He pulls me a few feet away, pausing to glare at the empty can of Crisco on the ground. When he realizes the other cowboys are still paying attention to us, he propels me down the dirt road and up the steps of his porch.
“Look, I can explain. The search results said it won’t burn their skin if they only have it on for a few minutes. I’m going to make them wash up, I swear.” I don’t mention that I’ll buy him more tubs of shortening. I’m not really sure it’s good for him to use it that often.
He grunts and doesn’t drop his hand from my elbow until we’re inside his farmhouse, standing in the living room. The space is filled with leather recliners facing a big screen TV mounted on the wall, and a fireplace to the right with photos. There are photos of veterans who have served beside Bronco.
My eyes go across the room where there’s a wall of fallen soldiers. These are the men Bronco served with, the ones who never made it back. I scan the wall looking for my brother, but he’s not there. He’s encased in a simple wood frame on a little side table. Bronco hasn’t put him with the living, but he hasn’t put him with the deceased either.
He points out the large window in the direction of the barn. “Why the hell are you taking photos of my men shirtless and covered in Crisco?”
“You said I could use the farm as a fundraiser,” I remind him, suddenly nervous. He could put the brakes on this whole thing. I mean, this is very different from what we agreed on. But if it saves the retirement community from bankruptcy, then I have to try.
“And for that you need the men shirtless?” he barks out.
“A petting zoo is a very complex thing,” I say.