The Texas Blue Norther. Lass Small

her being a woman except that his hand had been tugged from her armpit and that hand had curled around her breast.

      How cheeky of him to have done that. He had no upbringing. He probably was an orphan and not schooled at all.

      If that was so, she might could—use him! She just might do that. She’d be kind but she would see if she could use him. She’d look him over and see if she could endure him—enough. It would be an experiment. Out in the blowing storm that carried a load of snow. the snow was getting deep.

      She asked, “Are we lost?”

      “Not yet.”

      An interesting reply. Not-yet. Did he plan for them to become “lost” while he had his wicked way with her?

       Well, now, Lauren, not every man sees you as a tasty morsel. He probably has five women waiting for him plus a wife and fourteen children.

      Or he might not really care for women. That could be. Think of a curious woman being in a cabin in a storm with an indifferent man.

      Perhaps there would be a TV? She didn’t have her purse. It was back in her roofless, exposed and vulnerable car. In her purse was her tatting. Her tatting had saved her sanity any number of utterly boring times.

      What did the man behind her look like? The man who was holding her body on the horse with him. He breathed. She could hear him breathe. It was as if keeping her balanced was a chore.

      It was interesting that the horse wasn’t bothered by the storm. She sneaked a glove-filmed hand from its shelter, leaned forward and brushed the snow from the horse’s mane.

      Somehow, that jarred Kyle’s hand from her armpit again and it was again on her breast. As she stiffened and leaned back, he said, “Sorry.”

      And he again tucked the hand into her armpit. He had a little trouble, and he had to move her breast over so that he could get his hand where it was supposed to be. But he accomplished that discreetly with his wrist.

      Lauren considered thoughtfully that, if he was at all tolerable, he would probably be easy. She would see.

      The horse plodded on through the snow. She again asked, “Are we lost?”

      And he again replied, “Not yet.”

      She began to anticipate the line shack. That was what Kyle meant. He would have a line shack somewhere as his place.

      She had seen several line shacks in her time of learning to ride. Long riding trips had involved becoming familiar with line shacks. They were neat and tidy and warm. The facilities were primitive but clean. There would be a protected place to rest the horse.

      The only fly in the ointment was they might not be alone in the shack. There could be other refugees sheltering from the storm.

      With the thought, Lauren began to reason with her guardian angel who was a nuisance at best.

      They came to a barbed-wire fence. She glimpsed the fence from the side of her blanket covered face. In TEXAS such fences are called bob wire. When she was little, she thought the fences all belonged to her Uncle Bob. She had been grown before she knew an “r” was in the labeling.

      She had never considered having to cope with a fence. She frowned at it. It was tall and securely made. It was five strands instead of the normal three strand indication of property.

      Trees were in the distance. That was nice. The horse seemed to be a little perkier. His steps were a bit quicker. Her breasts shimmered somewhat and so did her stomach.

      Rock hard Kyle seemed relaxed and indifferent.

      The snow became a little heavier. With the fence, the line shack could very well be occupied. Wouldn’t that be a snit! Here she was planning a seduction—right after she confirmed that Kyle was worth a one night stand—and now they were getting back to civilization.

      How droll to match a barbed wire fence with civilization.

      She glimpsed…a barn? It was inside the fence. There were horses ahead of them! Where had they come from? Horses never sought shelter unless the storm was severe. There were too many loose horses, and the barn was too big for a line shack.

      They were not going to a line shack? How discouragingly disappointing. Well, damn. This great opportunity for a discreet seduction of a basic man was fizzling. She wouldn’t know-anything. She was right back where she’d started. No, she had a topless car full of snow…out somewhere on beyond. Which direction? She hadn’t kept track.

      However, if they’d had their backs to the storm all this time, they were east of her car.

      They came to an entrance in the fence, which had a cattle grid. The other horses went over the grid with distaste. Their horse walked over it with familiarity and some interest. No words were exchanged. Kyle was silent. How like a man to do something like this and thwart a willing woman. How snide of him.

      Well, he probably wasn’t interested in women. Or he could have a lover. He could be committed.

      He turned east again after going through the gridded gateway. And ahead, nestled in trees, there was a house.

      A whole house.

      The horse took them through a second gate. That, too, had the cattle guard and the horse went over it with some frisky movement.

      She inquired politely, “Do the round tubes on the grill have electricity in them?”

      “No,” Kyle responded. “The horse just knows it’s going into forbidden territory and he needs to show off.”

      “Oh.”

      No one came out to greet them. The place was deserted? It was a big old, old, old house. It was rather elaborate and had been meticulously expanded. It spread as does any place which must house more and more people. How many would be there?

      The house had been cared for. It had been repaired and repainted and plumbed. The steps were sturdy.

      The front porch was perfect. It had a table and comfortable chairs off to the side, back under the roof of the porch. The porch was on the southeast side of the house. That got the summer gulf breezes.

      The northwest was where the storms came with threatening clouds black and mean…and more snow.

      There were the leafed pin oaks and the bare-leafed pecan trees and some of the nasty, scrawny mesquites. No one walked barefooted under mesquites. The thorns were mean.

      There were not-yet-leafed hackberry trees and barely budding lilac bushes.

      And there were bluebonnets. Those precious weeds were a spring flower and the TEXAS state flower.

      They really did look like bonnets crowded on a hat rack. And they were blue. But if you looked closely, there was a pink-purple that was accurately put. And there was a perfect cream. That was looking closely. Otherwise, a field of bluebonnets was a marvelous sea of blue and green magic.

      Also disappearing under the snow, there were the Indian paintbrushes and the firewheel. There were poppies and buttercups. And the mesquite trees weren’t yet leafing out. They’re generally the last tree to do that, and they are the biggest natural nuisance in TEXAS.

      The oaks’ new leaves had pushed off last year’s leaves. The trees did that in one day or night. When it happened, it seemed to be all at once. There was the sound like rain as the discarded leaves slithered, sliding down the roofs like heavy droplets.

      Lauren looked around, seeing the snowy setting. It was unusually quiet. The snow softened sound. No one came out to see who was there. She asked Kyle, “What is this place?”

      He dismounted, and he looked up at her as if judging, then he replied, “It’s okay.”

      He reached up his hands, and she slid sideways into them with long practice. He lifted her down and put her on her feet in the snow.

      She had the choice of a barn, which had horses, or a vacant house.