Page 10 of Bronco
Cord sends Flint a look that seems to indicate they’ve come to an agreement.
“Could we do it soon?” I press. The less Bronco knows about this, the better my odds of success are.
Cord is the one grinning now. He grabs a greasy rag and wipes his hands on it. “Like the man said, for you, anything.”
So, this is weird. But I’m not going to question good fortune. Not today.
I beam at the pair. “Perfect. The sunlight outside of the barn right now is perfect, if you can pause for a few minutes on this project. Maybe grab some props. Rope would be good. Oh, and bring your Stetsons. I’ll meet you there in five minutes.”
Forty minutes later, I’m surrounded by almost a dozen hot cowboys. I think it’s fair to say that I’m living my best life.
Flint flexes his muscles and says something about his massive guns.
I smile as I click the button on the camera again. Every photo is another few thousand dollars between Aunt Elaine and a bankruptcy filing that would put a hundred retired seniors out of their homes.
There are eleven other cowboys out here, but not a single one of them is the one I really want to see shirtless. Bronco is supposed to be down at the farmer’s market this morning.
I click another photo of Flint. I’ll get these photos edited and upload the other cowboys this afternoon, so plenty of lonely women can try their luck with the other guys. But Bronco? He’s all mine. I don’t plan on putting him back on the auction block again.
“I think I need some more shortening over here,” Flint says.
To get that freshly glistening look for the guys, I had to raid Bronco’s pantry. He’s now down an entire tub of Crisco. Maybe another one with the way Flint is going. This man loves to ham it up for the camera.
Cord rolls his eyes. “You’re already slicker than a minnow’s peter.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. I love the way the men around here speak so freely with each other. It’s the one thing I’ve noticed about the group that Flint was all too eager to gather.
Clicking the camera, I catch the moment that the insult registers with Flint. It makes his eyes light up, and I mentally congratulate myself, already knowing it’s the perfect shot to put on the website.
Flint flips the bird, but thankfully, I’ve already lowered the camera, so I don’t catch the exchange.
“Can I get one final shot of you?” I ask as I turn to Cord. He’s been standing against the barn with his arms folded. It’s obvious from his posture that he’d rather hide the scars dotting his chest. He’s only here because the other guys are.
Before he can agree, there’s a murmur that goes through the crowd of cowboys. The sudden change in the mood has me looking up to see Bronco stomping around the back of the barn. I guess, he wasn’t at the farmer’s market today.
He takes in all of the shirtless men here with a frown, then his gaze zeros in on me with my camera. His frown deepens even more, his expression shifting from one of disapproval to fury. With a curse, he starts issuing commands and demanding the cowboys get back to work.
No one seems all that worried though because they continue to mill about. A few of them are even smirking in my direction, though I’m not quite sure why. I know I did a bad thing. I should have talked to Bronco first.
He marches up to me, crowding my space until I step back against the barn.
My camera lens is practically pushed against his faded flannel. He missed a button, and I want desperately to lean over and rebutton the shirt. But I don’t let myself do that. It seems intimate, something a woman would do for her lover.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Bronco demands, the sunshine catching him perfectly. Would he think it weird if I asked him to stand still so I could grab a shot of him at this moment?
“Me? I’m just taking pictures of the beautiful scenery on the farm,” I answer with a sweet smile that I hope will disarm him.
Of course, it doesn’t. Bronco is used to seeing through people’s bullshit. He makes a noise that’s partially a scoff and partially a swear word. Then he grabs my elbow and pulls me away from the barn. His touch is firm and unyielding, his fingers rough and calloused.
“You are coming with me,” he growls into my ear.
A shiver skates its way down my spine. I can’t help the way my body responds to his rumbly voice. It has nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with the way he makes my heart flutter every time I see him.
He pulls me a few feet away, pausing to glare at the empty can of Crisco on the ground. When he realizes the other cowboys are still paying attention to us, he propels me down the dirt road and up the steps of his porch.
“Look, I can explain. The search results said it won’t burn their skin if they only have it on for a few minutes. I’m going to make them wash up, I swear.” I don’t mention that I’ll buy him more tubs of shortening. I’m not really sure it’s good for him to use it that often.
He grunts and doesn’t drop his hand from my elbow until we’re inside his farmhouse, standing in the living room. The space is filled with leather recliners facing a big screen TV mounted on the wall, and a fireplace to the right with photos. There are photos of veterans who have served beside Bronco.
