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Rowan taught me how to ride.
We started in the paddocks. When Clay tried to help teach me, he was asked to fuck off.
I'd gotten to know some of the ranch hands and found that Rowan spent more time with them than he did with the uppity people in the ranch house.
"He's not like them others," Sissy, one of the female hands, told me. "You know, those who come from California and buy a ranch, then get someone else to do the hard work? Hell, no. Rowan does all his own hard work, if you know what I mean."
"No, I actually don't," I said apologetically as I drank some beer. "I know very little about ranching."
Sissy guffawed, and when she did, I felt Rowan's eyes land on me. He was sitting at the other side of the table, but I could feel his presence like he was next to me.
I'd been invited to a bar with the ranch hands to celebrate Eddie's nearly hundredth birthday, everyone joked. We'd driven in several trucks to Livingston, which was north of the ranch. The town seemed as if it had been plucked right from a Hollywood “Wild West” set, with the Yellowstone River flowing through it, and a picturesque small-town ambiance.
When we walked up to the bar, Bronco's Rest, I felt like I was indeed on a movie set. It was the go-to spot for local ranch hands after a long day. Its wooden walls with old rodeo posters and photos of local ranching history, creating a rustic, welcoming atmosphere. The bar offered a selection of local beers on tap, and a menu of hearty, home-style meals.
Our table was loaded with beer mugs and foods. The hot wings with blue cheese, fries, fried chicken…. I think pretty much everything on the table, including the coleslaw, was designed to peel off your stomach lining or give you a coronary.
I loved every minute of my small-town bar experience. This is what I'd thought my Montana adventure would be like. Not the froufrou scene of the ranch house, but here with the real people who accepted me without judgment.
"Never thought a Brit would be the type who'd hang with us," Sissy said, after some time had passed, and I was very much part of the conversations, though sometimes they frowned at my use of British idioms. Rowan stepped in then to translate, to my amusement.
"Why not?" I asked.
"Just…I don't know." Sissy shrugged, and I guessed she thought I appeared to be too much of a snob.
"How're you likin' Montana?” one of the hands asked me.
"Are you moving to Montana, then?" another wanted to know.
"I'm going back to London in a few days." In five days to be exact. I was happy to head back home. I was also sad to leave all this behind forever. Maybe, someday, I could come back as a tourist, and visit. But I was under no illusion that my friendship with Ace would last. He'd proven himself to be a man without much integrity.
Rowan, on the other hand, didn't call me a gold-digging whore any longer, but I had a feeling he still thought it. I was careful around him, but my heart, unfortunately, had not been. His kindness had swept off my feet. I knew that affection was my Achilles heel. When you hadn't had much of it in your life, and you hungered for it, craved it. And when it was given, your mind played tricks on you.
The jukebox at Bronco's Rest hummed to life with Boot Scootin' Boogie by Brooks & Dunn. Its upbeat tempo filled the room with an infectious energy that seemed to pull everyone onto the sawdust-covered dance floor.
Rowan grabbed my hand with a mischievous grin, and soon, we were among the other dancers, our bodies moving in sync with the lively beat. Our dancing was a playful mix of steps and spins, with laughter bubbling between us. It was effortless, and it made me as exhilarated as it did afraid.
"You dance like a dream," Rowan told me with a laugh as he twirled me.
"You lead well." I was flushed and happy.
I hadn't had time to party as a teenager. It was hard to do when I had two jobs and bills to pay all on my own. Beyond a drink at a pub with mates or a movie, I hadn't had much of a social life. This was the first time I was dancing with a man, instead of with Yasmine on a Saturday night, when we wanted to blow off steam in the privacy of our rooms.
Boot Scootin' Boogie gave way to Chris Stapleton's Tennessee Whiskey. The change in melody wrapped around us like a soft, velvet night.
Rowan's hands held my waist, guiding me closer, our steps slowing to match the soulful tune. We swayed gently, the rest of the bar fading into a blur. As we moved as one, I felt an undeniable compatibility, a harmony that extended beyond the dance floor.
"When are you leaving for London?" Rowan asked.
This was the first time since the debacle a couple of weeks ago when he'd found me working with Clay's shoulder that he'd mentioned anything about me leaving Ledger Ranch.
"This coming Saturday. My flight leaves Billings for Dallas at seven in the morning."
"You bought your own ticket." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
"Yes."
"You okay on money for that?"
