Chiseled - A Standalone Romance (A Super Sexy Western Romance) Read online

  I felt like a complete heel for the way I'd acted at dinner last night, fighting with Mama and being rude to Bethany Foster. It had just caught me by surprise to see her pull up on the ranch yesterday in her little blue hybrid car with all her college stickers plastered all over it. At first, I thought maybe she was a colleague of Thomas’ coming to talk to him about work. Then, when she stepped out of the car, it made my heart skip a beat and I had smashed my thumb inside the stapler on my desk.

  Her golden, shoulder-length hair shimmered in the sun, and her eyes were as blue as the sky above. She was tiny with a petite frame, but her breasts were full and round, and I’d felt a stirring I hadn't felt in a long time. I had wanted to go out to greet her, but of course Brett beat me to it. He may be the baby of the family, but he was always determined to do things first, like he had something to prove.

  It was all for the best. I was up to my neck in bookkeeping and couldn't really afford to leave the office out by the barn just to shake hands with a girl, no matter how pretty she was.

  So, I buried my head in my work and forgot all about her. That was until I headed into the house for dinner and heard the sweet sound of her voice at the dining room table.

  I hung my Stetson up on the hook by the door and smoothed my hands over my hair. A quick glance in the mirror across the room disappointed me, and I struggled to straighten my tie and button my jacket. My brothers got to enjoy the comfort of wearing jeans all day, but I had a lot of meetings with important bankers, investors, and clients. I'd discovered that I got a lot more respect when I met with them looking like a businessman, rather than a cowpoke.

  That's why it had been so important to Dad that I get a degree in business to hang on the office wall.

  "Times are changing, son," my father, James Hutchinson, had said to me before he died. "Men no longer conduct business with a handshake in the back of a barn. Now it's all done on computer by executives who have never even stepped foot on a farm. They take one look at a man like me and think I'm a know-nothing, redneck, hillbilly fool.

  “You're going to end up running this ranch one day, and you need to be able to negotiate with them on their terms. Go to college, get a degree, buy a fancy suit, and show them that Hutchinson men are as good as anyone else."

  So I had, and when I came home, Dad and I ran the business side by side while my brothers worked outside with the cattle. It was terrific, and the Hutchinson Ranch thrived – until the day someone shot Dad in the chest. It had been two years ago, but it still felt like yesterday. The pain, the shock, the horror, and the heartbreak were all still raw and fresh, although nobody talked about it.

  Instead, we worked the ranch, raising Angus cattle and selling them by the pound to some of the top meat processing companies in the country. Things weren't the same without Dad, though, and about eighteen months ago, the ranch started losing money. I found bigger buyers and made better deals, but the ranch still wasn't showing a profit. In fact, this last quarter, we lost even more money than the one before.

  It wasn't making sense, and worrying about it kept me awake at nights. There was something I was missing. Some important detail that was slipping past me; or maybe the market had turned and a cattle ranch just couldn't be as profitable as it once was.

  It didn't matter why. The fact remained that if I couldn't turn things around and get this place to start turning a profit, the Hutchinson Ranch wouldn't be able to sustain itself.

  I had talked to Mama about it. I didn't want to, but she caught me pacing in the night and forced me to confess.

  "What's wrong, Colton?" She'd crept up on me in the kitchen around 1:00 a.m.

  "Nothing. I just thought I heard a noise," I’d lied.

  "Yeah, I did, too. Turns out it was you pacing a hole in my floor."

  "Sorry." I smiled with chagrin as I looked down at the old worn hardwood floorboards.

  "I know when something's on your mind, and you've been walking this kitchen floor every night for the past two weeks. When are you just going to fess up and tell me what's bothering you? You know I'll find out, anyway."

  "Nothing, really," I’d lied again, even though I knew it was futile. She'd get the truth out of me just like when I was a kid and had broken the window of Dad's truck with my B.B. gun.

  Still, I felt an obligation to protect her from the truth. Mama would be devastated if she learned I had run the family ranch into the ground. Dad had entrusted the administrative side of the business to me, and I had failed him. We were deep in debt, and soon we would have to sell everything off bit by bit just to survive.

  Mama had given me that look of hers – the same one she used on all us boys when we were being less than honest about something. I’d cracked immediately and told her the whole ugly truth.

  "Well, if we have to sell, then we have to sell, but there's still time. If anyone can find a way out of this, I know it's you." She'd kissed my cheek, like I was still a little kid.

  Now, just a couple of weeks later, she's hired an artist to paint pictures of the ranch so we always have something to remember it by. What a huge waste of money at a time when we needed to watch every penny. What's worse is Mama did it as a safeguard for when I fail. Talk about a slap in the face. It was hard not to feel pissed off by such a betrayal. Did she have faith in me or not?

  The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I felt. I needed to get away. Passing through the house, I searched for my hat so I could make a hasty retreat.

  "You're in a hurry. Don't you want something to eat first?" Mama called out to me from the kitchen. She was holding a coffee pot in her hand and my favorite mug in the other.

  My brothers were all seated at the dining room table, piling bacon and eggs onto their plates from the platter Mama had set in the in the center, while Bethany sat between them, looking like a delicate flower in the middle of a bramble bush. Our eyes locked for just a moment, and I had to turn away.

  "No thanks. I've got an early phone call I have to make." I spotted my Stetson on a hook and grabbed it on my way out the door.

  I headed to the office Dad had built next to the barn, picked up the phone, and got right to business. We needed more supplies, and I wanted to get the order in.

  The call really could have waited, but I needed an excuse to get out of the house. I couldn't sit at a table with everyone staring at me after what had happened last night, least of all the pretty blonde artist.

  No sooner had I hung up the line than Brett came in with a mug of coffee in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other. He set them both down on my desk and then plopped himself down in the chair I kept for guests.

  "Mama says you've got to eat," said he announced, as if I didn't already know that's how she'd react. There was no passing on a meal as far as Mama was concerned, no matter what the excuse.

  My stomach rumbled at the smell of her cooking, and despite myself, I picked up the eggs, bacon, and cheese on toast and took a hearty bite.

  Brett propped his feet up on the edge of my desk and said, "That Bethany Foster sure is hot. Did you see that dress she's wearing today?"

  In fact, I had. Despite my attempt to exit the house quickly, the sight of her sitting at the table had been impossible to ignore. Her blonde hair had been pulled back into a sexy ponytail, and she'd been wearing a pink sundress with lace around the neckline that framed her cleavage to perfection. Everything about her was feminine, delicate, and sweet.

  In answer to Brett's question, I just took another bite of my sandwich and acted like I hadn't heard. In typical fashion, my baby brother just kept on talking, listing all the physical attributes he liked about her best. Finally, it was more than I could take.

  "Aren't you going out with the pastor's daughter?" I asked pointedly.

  "Nah. Things with her are moving too slow. Bethany's from the city. Those girls know how to have good time, if you know what I mean."

  Irritated, I knocked his boots off my desk, and his feet fell to the floor with a harsh thum
p, making him sit up in his chair.

  "You can't try to have sex with someone Mama hired to work here," I glared.

  "It's not like she's an employee of the ranch. She's a freelance artist with a mind of her own. Mama said she needs someone to guide her around the ranch so she can pick the most scenic views, so I volunteered. Now, if she should develop feelings for me during her stay here, what kind of host would I be if I turned her down?"

  The implications of Brett's warped fantasy were clear, and for some reason, it pissed me off.

  "Shut up, and get out of here," I barked at him.

  "Okay, don't be jealous. She's my age, not yours," Brett said with a cocky grin. "No way would she be interested in a stuffed shirt like you when she could have a real cowboy like me."

  "I'm not jealous. I don't have time to hit on women. I just have a lot of work to do, and you're in the way."

  "All right. Well, since you're not objecting, I'm going to go check on Bethany and see if she's ready for her tour." Brett winked to make sure I got the gist of his intentions and left.

  Frustrated, I grabbed the papers in front of me on my desk and crumpled them into an angry wad before throwing them across the room. The paper ball rebounded off the closed office door and rolled back to land at my feet. I picked it up and threw it in the trash can by my desk with a defeated sigh.

  Brett was always hitting on women and blustering about his conquests, so why was I so irritated? He was right. Bethany would never be interested in a guy like me, and even if she would, I didn't have time for a girlfriend. I had too much work to do. The fate of the farm was on my shoulders, and I was letting everybody down.

  I stared at my computer, trying to concentrate on my work, but it was impossible. All I could see was Bethany's face. I needed to get away; I needed to ride.

  Turning off my computer, I stormed from the office into the stable past the barn where the one female who always understood me stood waiting. Whiskey, my dark-brown quarter horse, had been my companion for the past five years. Whenever I needed to clear my mind and feel like myself again, all I had to do was let Whiskey take me away, galloping across the ranch, with the sun on my shoulders and the wind in my face.

  That's what I needed now, and so we rode away.

  Chapter Three: Bethany

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh country air. The smell of fresh-cut hay was on the breeze, and the sunlight dappled through the trees. Opening my eyes, I took in the view of the endless blue sky, not mired by smog or tall city buildings, and the lovely green pastures beyond.

  My paintbrush moved along the canvas, and slowly, the image of the ranch house began to take shape, nestled between the trees with the tall, flowing grass waving in the breeze. The painting had depth, movement, and a feeling of abundant life.

  My first commissioned piece was coming together nicely, but I couldn't say the same about my search for Frank Hill. I'd driven into Riverbend on my second day at the ranch and gone to the general store. They didn't have much in the way of art supplies, but that wasn't the real reason I was there. I needed to know about the townspeople and if he really lived there.

  The private investigator I'd hired in Chicago had discovered Frank Hill had a post office box in Riverbend, but he still couldn't find a residential address. If he had a phone number, it was an unlisted one.

  So, I'd placed ads in the communities surrounding Riverbend, advertising my services. When Margie called and offered me job creating five paintings of Hutchinson Ranch, just a few miles outside of Riverbend, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to go there and look for him myself.

  I hadn't thought through just how difficult that would be, however, even in a small town like Riverbend. The first few days I was at the ranch, I looked for as many excuses as I could to go to Riverbend. I walked up and down Main Street, browsing in the shops, talking to the residents.

  I tried to keep it casual, asking, "Are all your customers lifelong residents of Riverbend, or is there anyone around who moved here recently, maybe even from the city?"

  "You ask a lot of questions," one shopkeeper complained. "Are you an artist or a journalist?"

  "I'm just trying to get a feel for the area. It helps me when I paint to understand the history of the area, especially for something as personal as painting someone's home."

  "So the Hutchinsons are really considering selling their ranch," the shopkeeper mused, and I got the feeling he was happy about it.

  "What? No!" A young woman, about my age, came out of the storage room and slumped against the cash register. "The Hutchinsons are leaving?"

  "I don't know that for sure," I felt the need to reassure her. She was pretty, with red hair and pale-blue eyes. Her nametag said Alyssa, and she was clearly worried about the ranch. I said to her "Margie hired me to make a painting for each of her sons. I don't know why."

  It became clear afterwards that all the townspeople of Riverbend knew all the personal business of everyone else, including the residents of the nearby ranches. If I kept asking around town about Frank, someone would tip him off. If he was there, he could disappear again.

  In the days since, I stayed on the ranch and concentrated on my art instead. Brett took me all around the ranch, showing me the fields and sheds, taking me for a walk along the outer reaches of the property line, and ending back at the barn.

  "I'll need a place to set my paintings at the end of each day so they can dry," I told him.

  "Why not in here?" Brett suggested, indicating the old barn near Colton's office. "If you set your stuff in the back corner, no one will disturb it. It's warm and dry, and you'll have plenty of room."

  "Thanks."

  "I'll help you carry your easel and canvasses in here if you want. I know they're heavy."

  "You really are a great guy," I smiled.

  He leaned against the wall just behind me, flexing his muscles as he drew close to me. "What do you say I show you where the lake is tonight? It's prettiest in the moonlight, but not as pretty as you."

  He leaned in to kiss me then, and I pushed him back with a strong shove. "Whoa. What do you think you're doing?"

  Brett looked shocked and completely embarrassed. "I thought you liked me."

  "As a friend. Not like that. Besides, don't you have a girlfriend?"

  "The pastor's daughter? No, there's nothing between Emma and me."

  "Then why did you know exactly who I was talking about?" He didn't have an answer for that, but I spared him the attempt by taking his hand in mine and squeezing it like a close friend.

  "You're a nice guy, Brett, but you come on way too strong. Stop with the act and try to figure out who you really are as a man. Then you'll be able to have a real relationship with a girl who likes you for who you really are – maybe even the pastor's daughter."

  He pulled his hand free from mine. He looked down and concentrated on rolling a rock on the ground with the toe of his boot as he contemplated what I'd said.

  "What if Emma doesn't like the real me?” he asked tentatively.

  "Then she's a fool," I said, and Brett cracked a small smile. Touching his shoulder I said to him "Give her chance. I don't think you'll be disappointed."

  "Thanks." Brett flashed me that grin of his, and I smiled to myself as I watched him leave.

  Alone in the barn, I looked at my completed painting one last time. It was a view of the ranch house from across the pasture. It didn't quite capture the majesty of seeing it in real life, but it was an adequate representation, and I was satisfied with the realism.

  For some reason, I thought it would appeal to Brett. I'd caught him standing at the edge of pasture staring back at the ranch house with a wistful expression on several occasions. When I'd painted it, I'd thought of him.

  Now I just had to create a painting for each of his four brothers. It was a daunting task, but I was enjoying the challenge. Margie had told me she wanted each of her sons to have something that would make them feel like they were still home,
and that's exactly what intended to give them.

  I plucked up my sketch pad and headed out of the barn. The sun was mid-sky, and I wouldn't need to help Margie prepare dinner for hours. I enjoyed spending time with her in the kitchen.

  My own mother had never been much of a cook, but I'd always longed to have the kind of relationship with her where we could stand side-by-side in the kitchen, preparing food and talking with each other. Although I had only known her about a week, Margie was becoming the mother I'd always wished I'd had.

  As I left the barn, Colton was just leaving his office across the way. His dark suit contrasted nicely against the blue sky behind him, making for a striking image.

  He walked the short distance to the stable where Whiskey waited for him. He put his hands on the animal's long face and stroked it tenderly. She leaned into him, and it was easy to see the deep affection they shared. When he scratched behind her ears, she whinnied appreciatively. Then he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out some sort of treat that he fed to her.

  She nuzzled his hand when it was gone, wanting more, and he chuckled lightly. It was a pleasant sound, and I realized that it was the first time I'd ever heard him laugh. While his brothers were light hearted and constantly joking and teasing one another, Colton was extremely serious, as if he had something important on his mind.

  Of course, I knew that was because he had an enormous weight on his shoulders. The ranch was in financial trouble, and he felt responsible for saving it. I couldn't imagine what it must be like to be under that kind of pressure. I wouldn't have thought he had a care in the world, seeing him now with Whiskey.

  When he had first come out of his office, his posture had been so tense. Now, after spending just a few moments with Whiskey, he was relaxed and happy.

  I liked seeing him that way, and I was moved to start sketching him. My hand started moving across my sketchpad, creating his eyes as they gazed at his beloved horse. The softness of his smile contrasted with the strength of his jawline. His nose was just a little bit crooked, like maybe it had been broken long before, and I knew there was a story there. The minor imperfection added to the perfection of the whole, and I couldn't help but admire what a handsome man he was.