Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 505(@200wpm)___ 404(@250wpm)___ 337(@300wpm)
I also meet a number of the hired hands Chad employs on his ranch, two of whom are working on fixing up a section of fence that’s one more rainstorm away from falling, and another who is tending to a pregnant cow named Matilda. Most of the hands, he explains, are hired right out of high school, since Spruce has such a big agricultural program full of teens and young adults wanting experience in the field, not to mention so many members in the FFA—Future Farmers of America. Some of the hired hands are even still in high school, earning side money by tending to the pigs, the sheep, and the chickens—but only when Jo isn’t around, of course. I also get to meet a so-called Old Man Mitch who has been Chad’s right-hand man and ranch foreman since the day Chad’s father was incarcerated. It was weird for them at first, Old Man Mitch working with a cocky eighteen-year-old to run the ranch, but in a few years they figured out a system, and now they’re downright chummy. Chad looks at him like a second father of sorts, and Old Man Mitch loves being his official ranch foreman, even if he always seems grumpy and extra demanding of the hired hands, holding them to a very high standard of work ethic.
After leaving the barn and the pens and the fields, Chad and I head back toward the house for a bite—but not before stopping halfway in the middle of a stretch of pasture (free of any of the hired hands) to teach me an important lesson in rogue animals.
“You’re going to what me?”
Chad grins, swinging his lasso over his head. “It’s just a game. A little game I wanna play.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Nope.”
“C’mon, Lance. No one’s around.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“What is it? You scared or somethin’?”
“I am not gonna play your diabolical little rancher game, Chad. What am I supposed to be, exactly? A runaway cattle?”
“Just take off runnin’ that way. I’ll give you a big head start.”
I watch that lasso of his as it swings around and around over his cowboy-hat-covered head of messy hair. It’s hypnotizing—and a bit intimidating—to observe as Chad works that lasso in the air, forming a perfect circle of rope that spins and spins and spins.
I frown at Chad. “I swear, if you tie me up with that thing …”
“Don’t pretend like you ain’t gonna like it.” He winks, looking all cocky and muscled in his sleeveless plaid shirt, tight dirty jeans complete with a brown belt and big buckle, and cowboy boots. His hands are swallowed in a pair of giant workman gloves, too, which he had put on when he assisted one of his hands in the stables.
He’s a striking vision of rancher godliness.
A man ripped right out of my deepest, darkest fantasies.
And I still won’t let him do what he wants to do. “Chad, I told you, I ain’t gonna—”
“Ain’t?” He taunts me with his tone of voice. “Did I just hear an ain’t come outta your mouth?”
I stammer ten times before managing to speak. “No.”
“Shoot, is the Spruce comin’ back to you? Am I wakin’ up your roots, bubba?”
I glare at him. “I’m no one’s bubba.”
“Then go on, Lance. Get runnin’. I wanna show you how good I am with this rope.”
“Chad …”
He snorts. “Alright, let’s sweeten the deal. How ‘bout this. You go and try to get away from me. And if you make it to the house, then I’m all yours for the rest of the day. Your total slave. Do every and all things you damn well request of me.”
I lift an eyebrow. Already, the sweet and deliciously evil ideas are running through my head as my hungry eyes graze up and down his body. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“But!” He’s still swinging that lasso in the air this whole time, his biceps bulging in the effort as he keeps it swinging around in an impressively perfect circle, never once breaking or lowering or becoming unstable. “If I do lasso you, then you become my toy for the rest of the day to do whatever I want with.”
My heart races at his words.
Why does losing also sound like winning?
“Do we got ourselves a deal, Goodwin? Or you gonna be a big ol’ chicken?”
I cross my arms. “I’m not a chicken.”
“Should I name one of ‘em after you?”
“No.”
“Lance-Bock!-Bock!-win? C’mon. That’s a good one.”
Oh, fuck it. “Alright, Chad. You got a deal.”
He grins. “Attaboy.”
“But you might want to deal with that big charging bull one of your ranch hands set free behind you first.”
Chad stops lassoing at once, his eyes wide, and quickly spins around. “Where??”
I take off running.
It isn’t long before I hear Chad shout: “Hey!”
I’m running fast with a big smile over my face, and the hot, summer air beating past my cheeks and throwing my hair in all directions. Funny thing is, he doesn’t realize that I go running often enough to have an incredible amount of stamina. I’m likely a far faster runner than he’d expect of me. Hell, I already know I’ll make it to the house long before he even—