Chancy's Cowboy. Lass Small

      Jim narrowed his eyes and asked suspiciously. “One of them I’ve read about?”

      “No. A real one! She’s coming to stay a while. She’s Cliffs sister!”

      “Well, what do you know about that!” And he was taken aback. “Are you using the gladiolas?”

      “No. I thought the bluebonnets and the firewheels with a little of the fern would be so pretty.”

      He gasped in true shock, “You’d cut them bluebonnets? They don’t last! They’re fragile.”

      “She’s special. Her name’s Isabel and she’s my first woman visitor. I’m so excited.”

      “Don’t cut the bluebonnets ’til just before she comes. They wilt. They’re the real McCoy and they don’t take to being cut. It’s like men and bulls. Cutting takes a lot out of them.”

      She sighed with great forbearance. “See if you can watch your language when my guest is here?” That was a questioning statement. It appeared to share the knowledge instead of stridently directing. She was not at all subtle.

      Jim squinted his eyes and said, “You could take some of the daisies. They’ll last longer.”

      And she had the gall to reply, “Tomorrow.”

      The gardens were for bouquets. They had always been there. But since Chancy didn’t particularly care about bouquets, Jim had become used to his flowers being pretty bouquets—outside. To have the flowers—cut—off—thataway wrenched his heart and joggled his feeling of ownership. Chancy was intruding into his territory.

      Jim followed her around gasping and protesting, and she heartlessly put bouquets into his arms and appalled him completely. The garden looked like it had mange. Like a miserable dog that had splotches of hair missing.

      

      Inside the house, there were bouquets everywhere! Even on the backs of the toilet tanks. That was different.

      At the supper table, Tolly inquired with great tact, “Perhaps there are too many bouquets?”

      “No.” She was sure.

      And Jim smothered a pitiful groan.

      One of the hands said, “I can’t see Will.”

      And she retorted, “You don’t need to see Will. Look at the bouquet.”

      “I see flowers all the time, everywhere this time of the year, outside.”

      And Will had to mention, “I feel like I’m laying on the ground, half dead, and on my way out of the universe. It’s like a funeral.”

      Chancy was snippy. “It’s a welcoming to a visitor.”

      “This woman. What’s she like?” And their eyes squinted with suspicion.

      Cliff replied, “She’s my sister.” He’d already called her and warned her about the flowers. He’d told Isabel, “Be kind. She’s very pleased you’re coming. The flowers are overwhelming. Be tactful.”

      His sister had sighed and replied, “Somewhere along the years, you’re going to repay me this time I’ll be with her.”

      And Cliff said something stupid. He said, “You’ll love her.”

      Any man saying that to any woman sets her back up—just like that! Men are unpredictable and almost always stupid. No tact. None at all!

      Three

      Chancy was up half the night being sure everything was clean and neat and tidy. With their cleaning crew, her effort was useless. But she needed to know if the flowers were still alive. She about drove the bouquets beyond retrieval. She fiddled and arranged and poked at them so much. Too much.

      But she won Cliff’s heart. That realization depressed him. He wasn’t ready to be won. He was just barely thirty.

      He had some years yet to play and look and decide for himself. It wasn’t in his cards to be won this soon without a little more sampling and fooling around. He sighed and was bitter.

      He moved in his bed and was glad his bed wasn’t above hers because, this way, she couldn’t hear his restlessness. If she did, she’d smile a sly smile knowing he lusted for her.

      He listened but there was no sound at all from upstairs. She was probably out cold. What other ‘she’ was there? He sighed with remorse to be caught so young.

      Of course, he was only just thirty. That was a little long in the tooth to be caught by a woman who was only twenty years old. Barely. Yeah. He wanted her bare. Rubbing against him, hungry with a greedy mouth and excited hands.

      She didn’t even know how to flirt. She thought all men did was work. It apparently never occurred to her to smile or slide her eyes over or brush against him.

      His body got more excited at just the idea.

      Whoever would ever believe a man, his age, would be locked in the big house in an apartment of his very own. How was he supposed to bond with the crew? To find out what was going on with them and where all they went when they left the place?

      He didn’t yet know where the women were around there. He only knew that one woman was where he was, and she was an innocent who was excited almost witless because another woman was coming to visit!

      What if she just liked—women? There were people that way. She’d never once turned her head and looked back over her shoulder at him. She’d never even brushed against him. And he gradually realized that she didn’t know how to tempt a man. It was hard to believe, but it was true. She actually did not know!

      Other than just being around a man, she didn’t even know what to do...next. Now that was an interesting thing to realize.

      And he wondered if any man in the entire universe had ever had to be the first to make a move on a woman. How did a man indicate that he was open to an approach? Cliff had never had to do that.

      She wore his shrunken trousers. How did she dare to put her bottom into those red-hot pants? Her hands touched those pants. Her bottom was inside them. Her soft breasts pushed against his old shirt.

      By George! She had one of his shirts! Now how had that happened? He’d inquire: Just what’re you doing in my shirt?

      And she’d tilt her chin up and look at him over her cheekbones as she sassed: “You didn’t put it all the way into the basket and latch it. The crew had washed it, so now you can’t wear it, but it fits me.”

      That’s what she’d say. She was stealing his shrunken clothes because he couldn’t wear them, but she could. It was like she didn’t have anything to wear. But she could wear his old, faded, used clothes.

      Ambrose waggled and grew bigger. Ambrose. He’d named his sex when he was fourteen. At best, Ambrose was great bonding, at worse it just waggled and ached. Like now. And the monster was getting selective. It only got hot for her.

      What if she wasn’t interested in him? What if she could be interested but not serious about him? What if she looked on beyond him...to another man?

      Cliff became moody and pensive. There he was, and it was the perfect time for a woman to ask, “What’s the matter?” and he had to be lying there all alone. But he and Ambrose were only moody and pensive about one woman...not just a woman. That one.

      He sighed and flopped over in bed and snarled at Ambrose for being so damned pushy. He heaved up out of bed and pulled on jeans and boots. Then he crowded Ambrose into where he was supposed to be and had trouble buttoning his pants.

      He went outside and looked around, bare chested and restless. He stomped over to the barn, and the horses became upset and annoyed.

      Tom came inside the barn with a rifle and asked; “What the hell’re you doing in here?”

      And