Читать книгу The Cowboy's Twins - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

THE THINGS YOU do for love...

Monitor receiver in hand, Spencer Longfellow took one last look at his sleeping seven-year-olds, slipped into his boots and quietly let himself out the back door, the line from an old song playing in his head.

The things you do for love...

Every single thing he did was for love. Love for his children. And love for his ranch.

He didn’t much love the idea of waking up the glamorous city woman at two in the morning. But a deal was a deal.

And he needed the money she was paying him.

With a nod at Betsy, the wife of one of his most trusted full-time cowboys, he continued across the yard. Blanket and pillow in hand, Betsy was on her way to his couch, where she’d sleep until Spencer and Bryant, her husband, were back from the barn.

If they didn’t make it back in time for breakfast, she’d get the kids up, feed them and put them on the bus for him.

It was routine. One he’d grown up with on that very ranch.

Hating the extra five minutes it was taking him for the detour to the cabin he’d given Natasha Stevens to use during her visits to the ranch over the coming weeks, Spencer reminded himself, once again, of the money.

If you’d have asked him two years ago if he’d ever allow a TV crew access to any part of his two-thousand-acre ranch, he’d have issued an unequivocal absolutely not. But a lack of rain had all but wiped out his hay crop—right at the time the cattle business he was building, while hinting at a success that could climb even higher than his hopes, was still in the fledgling stage.

He was on the brink of turning the land of his ancestors into a lucrative venture that would ensure the financial security of not only the twins but also their children and grandchildren. All while remaining true to those members of the family who had come before. Using heritage to build on the legacy.

He just needed an influx of cash...

Passing a few dark cabins, he stepped quietly.

Most of the guys who stayed on the ranch were single—and lived in the bunkhouse on the other side of the barns. A few, like Bryant, lived with their wives in cabins. Spencer was heading toward one of the larger ones—one outfitted with modern amenities including wired high-speed internet for those times when the wireless connection was in a mood.

A figure moved just outside the front door. Tall. Slender. She was in shadow, but there was no doubt in Spencer’s mind, the second he saw movement down the steps, that the body belonged to Natasha Stevens.

“I’ve heard of cowboys sleeping in their clothes, to be ready to ride on a second’s notice, but not a famous television producer,” he said, meeting her a few yards from the cabin.

“You called five minutes ago,” she said. He could tell she was grinning by the show of even, white teeth. “And I was prepared before I went to bed. It takes less than one minute to pull on jeans and a sweatshirt. Give me another one to pull on the boots...”

Her words trailed off as she kept pace beside him. He’d sped up to get to Ellie. And to keep his thoughts from lagging behind with visions of the city woman climbing out of bed and into jeans.

Natasha broke the silence in the crisp night air, her voice night-soft in spite of the miles of vast land around them. “You said she was going to calf tonight. You were spot-on.”

When it came to his precious cattle, he usually was. Came from breathing ranch air every day of your life. The whole heritage thing.

The closer they got to the big barn housing his dry cows, the faster he moved. As though he could outrun the fact that he was allowing a television crew to be a part of a live birth as part of footage that would be used on a cooking competition reality show.

He was a serious rancher who took pride in his work, not a drama monger looking for ratings. Not that he knew Natasha Stevens well enough to know if there was any drama, or monger, in her. It wasn’t her fault that her presence there—and the fact that he’d succumbed to it for the money—made him feel cheap.

“How much do you know about cattle?” he asked her as lights came into view. Bryant was the only member of his staff who’d be with them that night.

“Assume I know nothing,” she told him. He heard the click as she turned on her recording device—a compromise since he preferred not to be formally interviewed on camera. Reading from a teleprompter, as he’d be doing for his small portion of the filmed segments, was one thing. Answering questions without a script was another. He’d told her so, quite clearly, before he’d signed her contract.

To appease his conscience more than anything else, he gave her a brief rundown of America’s top cattle breeds. If he was going to do this, he might as well make the best of it—get the promotion out of it she’d promised him.

“Ellie’s classified as Purebred Wagyu,” he told her. “You’ve heard of Kobe beef?”

“Of course. It’s the best of the best...”

“Kobe’s a type of Wagyu.” He simplified it. “It’s tender with abundant marbling. Historically the cows have been fed beer to amp up their appetite, which allows for premium maturity standards.”

“Do you feed your cattle beer?”

He’d been experimenting with the process. Part of his new venture. If he could get a full herd of Purebred Wagyu grazing his lands, the twins would be set for life. At a cow per acre, that would be close to two thousand head at any given time. Being able to bring the Wagyu to production in less than a year per head...

But...he was way ahead of himself. Mostly he was raising Angus. Which were also premium steak producers.

“You’re asking for my secrets,” he told the show’s host, producer and founder. “Did you know that one of the reasons Wagyu are historically so tender is that they were massaged as they grew?”

“Now you’re messing with me.”

“Nope,” he told her. She didn’t know him well yet. She’d figure out soon enough that when it came to his cattle, he never messed around.

Not ever.

* * *

“WAGYU’S MARBLING IS UNIQUE, not only because it adds juiciness and flavor to the beef, but also because the fat contains an acid that is friendly to heart health...”

Natasha’s long legs made it easy for her to keep up with the handsome cowboy’s strides. She just wasn’t used to tromping across dusty ground in new cowboy boots in the middle of the night.

Though she’d lived on the West Coast for most of her adult life, she’d never succumbed to that particular footwear—having just purchased her new shiny red boots for the show. She’d figured boots were boots. Not so.

She clearly should have practiced walking in them before trotting across uneven ground in the dark. That she didn’t think to do so earlier was definitely unlike her.

Truth be known, everything about this endeavor was unlike her. Taking her proven, successful show on the road? To a ranch?

What had she been thinking?

Their Palm Desert studio had been working wonderfully well for years.

Just because Angela had thought it would be a good idea hadn’t been reason actually to do it. While she highly respected and relied on her stage manager, she disagreed with her often.

“...the marbling is also of particular note because it has the highest USDA rating, meaning it’s veined throughout the meat. I’ve got pictures of the various grades. Remind me to get them to you.”

“I’d like that, thank you.” That’s right, focus. At least Angela had found her a top-rate rancher in Spencer Longfellow.

Though she suspected her stage manager/jack-of-all-trades assistant had chosen the dark-haired, dark-eyed rancher as much for his good looks—and his female audience draw—as anything else, Natasha respected his focus.

His drive.

His warm, virile energy was just something she’d work around. As soon as she got her footing.

His cattle quality lecture stopped as they reached the barn. Her first step from cool darkness to brightly lit warm barn was a shock. And probably why the cowboy at her side, dressed in jeans and a dark plaid button-up, taller than her five-feet-six by several inches, suddenly seemed so...desirable...to her.

In so many ways.

Giving herself a mental shake, she followed him across a hard dirt floor, past wooden doors and gated stalls housing other dry cows, she’d been told during her tour of the ranch earlier that day.

She didn’t need a man. Or his strength. Didn’t even want one. Her strength of character—okay, her innate need to run her own show, whether it be on television or in her home—was like a coffin in waiting for any relationship.

“Through here,” Spencer said. Opened wide a double size wooden door and moved so she could see inside.

Bryant, in jeans and a sweatshirt, sat in a corner of the stall, by the door. He nodded at her, sipping from a cup of coffee.

Ellie stood a few feet away, swinging her tail.

“Nothing yet?” Spencer asked, focused on his prize cow.

Pursing his lips, Bryant shook his head. She knew he was Spencer’s age since they’d told her earlier in the day that they’d gone to high school together.

Having never seen a live birth before, of any kind, Natasha had only her imagination to feed expectation. A cow standing, seemingly calm, in a bed of hay wasn’t anything close to what she’d come up with.

She wanted to ask if they were sure this was it...the moment of birth...but was able to clamp her lips together, holding her tongue hostage. They knew their business.

And if someone had made a wrong call on this one, they’d all know it soon enough.

“Come in.” Spencer held the door open wider and motioned to her. “Over here.” He pointed to the corner opposite of Bryant. “Stand, or sit in the hay,” he said. “You should be fine, but with animals, one never knows. Stay alert. And be prepared to get out of the way.”

She nodded, not sure if he was irritated by her presence or merely concerned with the birthing process.

Ellie’s tail swished. Lifted. Natasha stared, wondering if she was about to see a calf appear, but saw only a slight oozing.

She glanced away.

“If you need to leave, do so.” Spencer’s words were harsh. But his gaze, when she caught him catching her slight discomfort, was warm. His grin even more so. “It’s all part of nature,” he said. “But it could take some getting used to.”

She supposed, since he was doing so, they were allowed to talk.

“Did you have to get used to it?” she asked. For the show. Get to know the rancher. Not just the ranch. Humanize it. She knew what her audience would respond to.

“Not so much.” He shrugged, glancing back at Ellie.

“Spence was barely out of diapers the first time he was present for calving,” Bryant said. “Ain’t that right, bro?”

“Yep.”

Natasha wanted more. A lot more. Because her viewers would want more.

Down on his haunches, he seemed to be studying the cow’s hindquarters. She heaved. Natasha saw a speck of black behind her tail. And then it was gone.

“What...” She broke off. Both men were staring at the cow. Bryant, next to Spencer now, rubbed her belly.

Bryant glanced back at Natasha. “That was a hoof,” he said. “You’ll see the front hooves first. Then the nose and head will appear. She works the hardest to get the front quarter birthed. Then, if all goes well, a lot of the rest will slide out.”

“All is going to go just fine,” Spencer said, standing. He moved to the cow’s head. Petted her. “Good girl, Ellie. You’re doing great.” The tenderness in his voice struck her with an impact she didn’t fully understand. “You’re a good mama,” he told her, continuing to stroke the upper flank of the cow.

Almost as though she understood, Ellie collapsed to the ground, lying on her side, as she heaved again.