by Suzanne Marie Calvin
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Devon Landry climbed out of her Ford pick up, dusty boots grating the asphalt parking lot at Fuel-B’s.
Grumbling, she adjusted the brim of the Broncos baseball cap on her head, realizing it was almost too hot for Levi’s anymore. But hell, it wasn’t practical to wear shorts out on the prairie and, besides, it meant shaving her legs, at least if she went out in public. No hardworking rancher had time for shaving legs (not that she’d want to). Or shopping for shorts. It was enough of a struggle to go bra-shopping once every couple of years – torture really – paling in comparison only to actually strapping one of them things on. She often fantasized about finding the sadistic jackass who invented the bra, so she could imprison his balls in a twelve-hour vise he would have to design his wardrobe around.
“Next time around, I come back without boobs,” she muttered to herself, the mid-back bra strap beneath her short-sleeved red T-shirt putting emphasis in her request. Referring to both breasts, she mused, “Having the girls has been a fun experience and all ...”
She kicked the door of the Ford shut, cramming a toothpick between her teeth, then stuffed both hands into her front pockets and shuffled past the fuel pumps, toward Fuel-B’s convenience store. Chips. She was out and she needed some now. Just another “perk” of having a woman’s body this go ‘round – wicked PMS cravings. It was poetic, really, if she’d come back as a man in this life, she might never have had the pleasure of understanding a woman’s affinity with chocolate.
The VW Bug rumbled into the parking lot, pulling up right alongside Devon’s Ford truck. Devon chucked a glance over her shoulder, slowing her pace down just a little, as the woman emerged.
She was tall, slim – maybe too slim – with brownish-auburn hair, and a nice enough mouth set in a grim line of determination. She whipped a pair of too-big sunglasses off of her face and tossed them onto the passenger seat of the Bug.
When she reached slender arms overhead, in a long, agile stretch, the bottom of her black T-shirt crept up from where it met low-slung jeans, revealing a flat abdomen and a silver-studded belt.
Devon swiped the perspiration from her brow and watched with a semi-interested smile. She’d never taken much of an interest in women with short hair, but this woman wore it so well, the fact that it wasn’t long and blonde wasn’t even a consideration. Those legs of hers seemed to go on for miles and, well, a body like that sure wore a pair of Lee jeans better than anything Devon had seen in a long, long time.
You’ve lived alone too long..., she considered. And it seemed like centuries since she’d gotten any kind of action that didn’t involve a battery-operated toy or her own hand.
The fact was, maybe she had lived alone too long. She’d been out on the ranch in Yoder for six years without a mate. Six wonderful years. Six busy years. Six enlightening years. And, sometimes, six lonely years.
Relationships hadn’t always worked out and not for lack of trying, certainly. But six years had given Devon time to get to know herself better and to figure out what it was she really wanted. Peace. Happiness. Maybe even a partner. The latter would happen in the Universe’s good time, Devon realized, but she tried helping it along a bit with daily meditations for someone to share the rest of her life with.
The VW woman grabbed a small purse, locked her car door, then slammed it shut. Twice. Because it popped back open after the first try.
Devon felt a little guilty for enjoying how the woman’s cheeks burned a hot, frustrated pink, as she moved with hasty, irritated gestures that foretold an inner fire her otherwise well-put-together exterior didn’t reveal.
Biting back a chuckle, Devon wondered how a woman who looked like she had some class would end up with such a piece of shit car. Not that Devon had anything against VW’s, but this woman’s car, in particular, seemed ready for the scrap yard. It was all but held together with duct tape.
Devon hadn’t realized she was still intently staring until the woman approached. The gal blew air through her bottom lip, slightly shifting the bangs that feathered across her forehead, then seemed to make an effort to pull herself together. Flashing a broad, friendly smile, she greeted, “Good morning.”
Tipping her hat a little, and brushing aside the image of the way her father used to do that, Devon managed a thick, “Hello there.” She reached for the door, insisting, “Here, lemme get that for you.”
The woman’s green eyes – incredible green eyes – gave Devon a quick once over. Her smile widened in gratitude and she issued a, “Thanks,” before sashaying into Fuel-B’s, leaving behind a tantalizing trail of mild, but delicious perfume, the kind Devon imagined lingered a bit, even after this VW woman was long gone.
It was all Devon could do not to focus on the woman’s backside in those jeans. Chomping down on the toothpick, she winced when it snapped in her mouth. Toothpicks were an oral fixation she loved indulging in and biting down hard was a sensory response that damned near anything might trigger. Today it was a nice ass in a pair of Lee jeans.
Muttering a string of cuss words, Devon headed straight for the chip aisle, reminding herself that living alone didn’t exactly mean living celibate. It was high time she took herself on a date.
Grabbing three bags of Lays, her boots shuffled toward the peg board, where her notice remained, a red thumb tack in each corner. It was evidence that she had already realized it was time to share her space with another living, breathing thing that didn’t walk on all fours, shed its coat, or mark its territory at will . . .
Wanted: Housekeeper/Ranch help. Busy Yoder rancher with 12-horse herd in need of live-in help to perform a variety of tasks, i.e. cooking, cleaning, laundry, etc… Room and board and negotiable salary offered. Contact Devon Landry at Dancing Horse Ranch.
Thus far, she’d had three calls in two months. One from a pregnant teen looking for a way out of her parents’ home. Another from a traveler who only planned to be in town a few weeks. The last was a Spanish speaking man who may have done well with the horses, but had no understanding of the normal routine of maintaining a household.
Arching a brow at the notice, she considered taking it down. If it hadn’t been answered in two months, it probably wouldn’t be answered anytime soon.
The VW woman’s voice caught her attention. Devon pivoted on the heels of her boots and faced the check-out stand. The gal’s brows were pulled together in frustration, her eyes blazing, her body taut. One hand rested on her hip, while the other still clutched her purse. She was speaking to Melanie, one of the teen-somethings who worked summers at Fuel-B’s.
“What do you mean Hal Henry won’t hire women?”
Melanie shrugged, studying the purple polished nails on her right hand, replying in the disinterested way any teenager might. “That’s just what I heard. My brother’s friend’s cousin’s working for Hal and he said that man won’t hire women for fence work. Says they’re too slow.”
“That sounds like discrimination!” the woman gasped in alarm.
Devon had to bite her tongue to quell a hearty peal of laughter that scrambled up her throat. Rolling her eyes, she thought . . . . Listen, babe, don’t tell me about discrimination . . . But kept her mouth shut, not wanting to spoil the show just yet.
Again Melanie shrugged, nonplussed that the VW woman’s inalienable rights seemed at issue, then flashed a metal-bracketed smile. “We’re having a sale on jerky today, two for a buck, want some?”
The woman gaped at Melanie as if she’d just spoken Martian, and Devon was hard-pressed not to laugh. Sizing up the VW gal’s deadpan stare, Devon figured her for a woman with a witty, if not sarcastic sense of humor, something Devon was a sucker for.
Melanie grabbed two packaged strips of jerky from a bucket by the cash register and waved them in front of the woman’s shocked face.
The woman bit into her lower lip, looked away blinkingly for a second, then came back with, “I don’t eat meat.”
“Well, hell . . . neither do I,” Devon muttered, having been vegetarian since her short, but eye-opening bout with cancer a few years back. Maybe she’d found the perfect housekeeper. Or at least someone who wouldn’t be cooking beef brisket once a week.
“Listen,” Devon began, almost startling both the woman and Melanie with the punch of that single word as she stepped into the conversation. “I’m not sure if Melanie’s right or wrong about Hal Henry, but the fact is, I’m looking for help at my ranch in Yoder.”
“Yoder?” the woman repeated, quirking a curious brow. “I’m a recent California transplant. I’m not sure where that is.”
Devon grinned, feeling her cheeks warm, and tried not to fixate on the smooth way the woman’s lips moved over her teeth. Something about her mouth was fascinating. “It’s only about 15 miles from here.”
“Oh.” The woman lowered those green eyes of hers for a second, her forehead puckered in what appeared to be concentration – or apprehension. “But I don’t even know you.”
“You don’t know Hal Henry either, do you?” Devon came back with a broader grin.
When she flashed a playful wink at Melanie, the young girl giggled and chirped, “Devon’s in here all the time. She’s not like some insane psycho freak.”
Laughing, Devon patted a hand over her heart. “Aw, gee, thanks Mel. You sure know how to make an old fart’s day.”
Melanie chortled, her blue eyes wide, “You’re not old, Devon. Not that old, anyway. Not like my parents or anything . . .”
Still chuckling, Devon quipped, “I’ll bet you’d be surprised.” Then, back to the woman who still stood there, perplexed and indecisive, “Listen, come check my place out. Come meet the horses. We can talk about what I’m looking for. If it’s something you think you’d be interested in, then great. If not, no hard feelings.” Winking again, she added, “But I’ll not just give you room and board. I’ll double what Hal Henry was going to pay you. Everyone knows the guy’s a cheapskate.”
The woman’s eyes went wide and Devon felt as if she could fall right into them.
Swallowing hard, the woman summoned a reply that took a few seconds, but was delivered with something deeply earnest that Devon couldn’t quite put a finger on.
Extending a slender hand, void of rings, she said, in a professional tone Devon had to bite her tongue not to chuckle at, “Thank you for the offer. I would love to discuss it with you further,” as if Devon had just offered her an executive chair in a high profile company.
Devon took her hand, noticing how much larger her own was wrapped around those cool, slim fingers. Noticing even more the spark that jolted up her arm as she held the woman’s hand . . . a familiarity she couldn’t place . . . probably past life. Devon was a firm believer in reincarnation.
Clearing her throat, she managed, “So, do you have a name? Or should I just keep referring to you as the VW woman?”
The woman quirked a brow and laughed. “Funny.”
Devon’s grin broadened again. It was a rare gift when anyone actually got her sense of humor, or even rarer if they appreciated it. This woman was either a little warped, or merely being polite.
“It’s Sophie. Sophie Keane.”
“Sophie,” Devon repeated with a nod, liking the way it sounded. “And Keane . . . Is that Irish?”
When she lifted her chin, there was a flicker of interest in her eyes. “As a matter of fact it is. Good catch.”
As Devon watched Sophie sashay out the door of Fuel-B’s, tossing a smile over her shoulder in Devon’s direction, she felt her heart step up a notch, and she realized . . . Darlin’. . . you took the words right outta my mouth . . ..
