Rider’s Block

3. Chapter Three

Chapter three

“Cowboy Take Me Away,” The Chicks

“ W hat the hell happened?” the angry cowboy asks when he finally gets close enough to see the damage I’ve done to my poor little rental. The angry, gorgeous cowboy. Dammit. Objectively speaking. Yep, just taking notes.

With him being this close I can tell he’s well over six feet. I’m a tall girl, rarely dwarfed by a man, but this guy makes me feel pint-sized. His shaggy brown hair is barely sticking out from a cowboy hat that is clearly well-loved, nothing showboaty or fake about it looking at all the sweat stains and sun-fading it’s got around the rim. His tight-fitting black shirt hangs on his shoulders and arms in a way that leaves no room to the imagination when it comes to displaying the immense amount of upper arm strength he evidently has.

Just taking notes. Are cowboys attractive? Yep! See, already an effective trip.

“Miss?” His face registers the slightest hint of worry breaking through all of that scowling anger, and it’s then that I realize I have yet to say anything.

“Sorry, just a little… It’s fine, I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t scare anything away. I just kind of lost control a little bit and looks like I blew a tire—”

“I can see that,” he says with a flex of his jaw. “But why were you hightailing it down a dirt road like that in the first place? The speed you were going it’s a wonder you didn’t flip off in the burrow.” His voice gets more irritated as he finishes the sentence, ending it with a jerky wave to the side of the road.

“I didn’t know—”

“Do you know how to change a tire?” he asks with unmasked irritation.

“I was just looking it up.” I hold my phone up trying to show that I have some semblance of life skills, but this man is making me feel about two inches tall… and not in the cute way. I'll blame my hours of travel for the feeling of my eyes starting to prickle. Involuntarily. I will not cry.

Looking at the buffering video in my hand, he rolls his eyes microscopically and comes to stand next to me at the trunk of the car. Somewhere in the back of my mind I register the fact that he smells like leather.

“Are you Olivia’s friend?” he asks with about as much enthusiasm as one would ask about getting a tooth pulled.

“Yes,” is all I can get out without a croak in my throat. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Where are you from again?”

Seeing as he hasn’t let me finish a sentence yet, I’m not inclined to continue, so I simply say, “California.”

“Figures,” he huffs as if it all makes sense now.

“I really am sorry,” I say, trying to bite back the lump that’s slowly forming. I will not cry! Honestly the fact that I have to keep repeating this to myself is ridiculous. I never cry! Well, not now anyways. It’s been a long time. And this jerkwad is just being rude.

He doesn’t say a word as he spends the next fifteen minutes changing the tire of my stupid, non-dirt-road-friendly rental. I stay close enough to help, should he ask for it, but far enough away to stay out of his way. I made the mistake of trying to hand him a tool once , but he was quick to point out it was the wrong one. I’ve kept to myself ever since.

This distance gives me a view I don’t want to necessarily see, as in a very attractive man with tight jeans bent over working up a sweat in the midst of a form of physical labor. Objectively. Still taking notes.

Trying to keep my eyes somewhat averted, I take in the scenery behind me.

Whenever I’d come to Colorado before, I’d go straight from the Denver airport to Breckenridge, a small ski town in the mountains my mom liked to take my brother and me to between Christmas and New Year’s.

Breckenridge is adorable. It’s friendly, it’s got great chocolate and cute stores, no dirt roads unless you’ve rented a cabin way off the beaten path…and it’s surrounded by mountains. But right now you wouldn’t know I’m a simple three-hour drive away from the biggest mountain range on the continent; all I see are grass plains extending for miles on end. In its own way, it’s actually kind of gorgeous. The appeal couldn’t be more different, but it still has an appeal nonetheless.

I’m broken from my thought process by a loud exhale and a few grunts as Mr.-cowboy-who-has-yet-to-give-me-his-name stands up. I’m shrinking under his shadow as he fully rights himself, adjusting the hem of his shirt and straightening his hat. “That should do it, but don’t drive that fast down gravel again, alright?”

“Noted.” I try again to give him a smile, but he refuses to make eye contact. “I’ll head out then—”

“When you’re settled, come by the main house. Mom will want you to come over for dinner.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” I try to reject kindly. For all the cowboy hospitality I’ve read about he’s certainly not choosing to show me the real-life version of it. He wants my company for dinner just about as much as he wants to have his spleen removed. “I’ll come over to introduce myself and then head into town to grab a bite so I can get this checked out,” I say, kicking the back tire he just fixed. His eyes glower at the contact my tennis shoe makes with the newly replaced tire… and I inch away slowly.

When he finally looks up to make eye contact with me, I’m momentarily snapped speechless by his direct attention. Up to this point his hat has been hiding his eyes, which I now know to be honey-brown with green speckles, and they’re the kind of eyes that see straight through bullshit. I don’t even have bullshit for him to see through but I’m squirming at his assessment. He looks straight into my own eyes for a heartbeat before running his gaze down to my clothes and then back up to my face. I’ve had CAT scans that are less intrusive.

Sadly, his blatant perusal doesn’t piss me off or make me feel uncomfortable. Nope, that assessing stare just makes my skin heat up about a million degrees and I can feel my heartbeat picking up.

Just some leftover adrenaline from almost losing my life.

The last thing I need is to be attracted to a man who clearly wants nothing to do with me. Although I’d take hate over apathy, his particular breed of hate looks to be the kind that’s hard to recover from.

***

I finally find my cottage in a row of identical-looking structures. It’s kind of cute. And makes me feel better to not be so isolated in such a new place. The tiny cottage assigned to me is a bit comical in its attempt to be anything other than utilitarian.

Knowing they only rent it out periodically to people like me, I see the sprinkled attempts to make such a transactional space somewhat homey, but it would take more than a few inspirational quote signs and three throw pillows to do it.

Everything is either painted white or made with a washed-out wood. Oddly, the simplicity doesn’t bug me. My own house is cluttered to the brim with books and knickknacks that visually stimulate me, but sometimes the same setting for too long loses its edge, so when I make these kinds of trips I prefer to rent something different from my home in SoCal.

This place couldn’t be more different.

The view, however, makes up for the lack of internal decoration in spades.

I never knew endless amounts of grass could be so mesmerizing. I’m used to looking at the never-ending vastness of a body of water, and it’s strange to me that this view has a similar effect. I feel small, isolated… but at peace. The patio in the front has a tiny bistro table set that looks to be from IKEA and a recent addition to accommodate for the rare Airbnbers, but the way the sun setting casts a golden glow on the swaying tall grass, I can tell I’ll be spending a lot of time out here.

It takes me a solid forty-five minutes to unpack. I’m usually not the kind of person to immediately unpack a bag and make myself at home, but the Wi-Fi is a little slow and I don’t want to drown out my hotspot too soon on meaningless scrolling when I need to use it to write while I’m out here. Maybe a social detox for me would be good as well?

By the time all of my shirts and two dresses are hung, my pants are folded and properly placed in the rickety dresser, and my shoes are neatly stacked at the bottom of the closet, I’ve killed enough time before I should make my way down to the main house.

Fortunately, it’s easy to find. I passed the road on the way in before I sent my head spinning in the car and then again with The Cowboy . I’ve had to mentally refer to him as The Cowboy for the past two hours because he never did give me his name.

I park my tiny little car in a sea of massive work trucks. The only thing I’ve got going for me is that at least my car has some dirt on it.

Walking up the front steps of the gorgeous wraparound porch I stop for a second to admire the view here as well. It’s just like mine, but you can’t even see my tiny cottage because it’s on the other side of a hill. This house, however, has homey written all over it. White siding, dark green shutters, and rocking chairs to accommodate a whole slew of people. I haven’t even stepped inside yet and I already know this is the kind of place you go home with leftovers from.

I barely manage one singular knock on the door before I’m greeted by a woman who I don’t know if I could actually use words to describe. She’s gorgeous, in her early sixties judging by the silver in her hair, and she looks like she makes the best lemonade in three counties… but could also take down a bear with just her hands at the same time.

And suddenly, I want to be just like her.

“Eric said Olivia’s friend was here! Come in, come in, you must be Amelia? I’m Nancy.” She has me wrapped up in a strong hug and ushered through the foyer in ten seconds flat.

“Thank you so much for letting me rent the cottage,” I say as I look around the living room. The entire back wall looks like it’s made from glass, making the grass view the focal point and in the teeny tiny distance I can see the beginnings of mountain peaks.

“This view is amazing,” I say, unable to help myself state the obvious. But with the beaming excitement in her eyes, I can tell she’ll never tire of compliments for this place.

“It’s why we picked this spot.” The smile she has on her face is pure pride. “Eric said something about you going into town for dinner, but seeing as you’re already here I’m hoping you can stay. I made you a plate.” She points her hand at the massive dining room table that looks to be set for about a dozen people. I don’t have time to count, but it’s more place settings at one table than I’ve seen in a while.

“I don’t want to trouble you—”

“Oh nonsense, we love a full house! And besides, you should have one of the boys follow you to take your car in. These roads aren’t very kind to spare tires.” Her knowing wink makes me feel embarrassed for about two seconds before she adds, “But who hasn’t fishtailed out here? Just the fact that your car remained on the road means you handled it well.” She pats my back and shows me to the kitchen.

“If I’m going to stay for dinner, can I at least do something to help?” I ask, trying to hide my envious glances at her kitchen. What she doesn’t know is that selfishly I’ve written about a Wolf stove in two of my books and have yet to actually get to use one, so the fact that I’m staring right at one has me mentally salivating and I would do just about anything to get to turn those big red knobs.

“How are you at making mashed potatoes?”

“Adaptable and willing to execute your version of it.” I know firsthand that mashed potatoes are a personal thing, everyone does them differently and I’ve yet to try a version I don’t like, so I’m more than happy to adapt.

“Wise answer,” she responds with a wink before handing me a bowl to start peeling.

I’ve just finished peeling the potatoes, boiling them, and mashing them with shredded sharp cheese, sour cream, and onions—as Nancy instructs—when a loud ruckus booms through the front door. For the second time that day, I find myself struck silent as a herd of cowboys makes their way to the living room. I can’t tell anyone from anyone with all of the matching wranglers and cowboy hats in front of me. They’re all talking amongst themselves, rowdy and familiar, and I feel a pang of loneliness I haven’t felt in a long time.

“I didn’t think you’d catch up to that runaway, but you snagged ’im,” someone in the middle of the group says as he nudges someone further back I can’t see.

“That’s just stupid, Trevor, Eric never misses,” someone in the front calls back. Nancy mentioned Eric too, and I’m thinking my grumpy cowboy actually has a name.

Well, not my grumpy cowboy. Just the grumpy cowboy who happened to chastise me into next year, but that’s alright. Everyone makes their way to the table and from the back of the herd, the man who I presume to be Eric emerges. He’s by far the tallest, and even though that alone would make him stand out, everyone clearly respects him, tossing glances over their shoulder waiting for him to reply, as if his reply is the most important thing they’ve heard all day.

But being the man of few words that he apparently is, he merely nods his head in agreement and sits down at the table. He’s just as I remembered him, but with a friendlier gleam in his eye. He looks like he likes these people. Hates me, but likes them. Awesome. I love being on people’s hate list. Always gets me going.

As if he can feel my revelation sinking in, he looks up and makes contact with me from underneath that cowboy hat of his, and his jovial demeanor falls like a fly zapped in electricity. His annoyance emerges front and center again. Goody.