Dancing with the Cowboy: Iron H Ranch 2, page 1
DANCING WITH THE COWBOY
IRON H RANCH 2
KELLY MOORE
Copyright © 2024 by Kelly Moore
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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CONTENTS
1. Grace
2. Rylan
3. Grace
4. Grace
5. Rylan
6. Grace
7. Rylan
8. Grace
9. Rylan
10. Grace
11. Rylan
12. Grace
Epilogue
Whiskey River Road, Book 1 Coming Home
Chapter One
About the Author
Also by Kelly Moore
1 GRACE
The soft glow of the sunset filters through large windows of my art studio, casting warm hues over the canvas and transforming my array of art supplies into a scene more chaotic than a city street during a taxi shift change. The ambiance is serene, filled with the scent of oil paint and the quiet rustle of my paintbrush on the canvas. That is, until Rhay, my human equivalent of a glitter bomb, bursts into my bubble, chatting a mile a minute, and plonking her laptop on a palette of color, turning my neatly arranged hues into a Jackson Pollock.
“The bidding starts in five minutes. Why aren’t you bouncing off the walls?” She swipes a streak of lilac paint from my cheek, momentarily morphing me into a whimsical, war-painted princess.
“I’m thrilled at the prospect of finally finding Mustang Sally, I just don’t like the fact that I actually have to go on a date with a cowboy in order to see her again,” I shrug, trying to sound more John Wayne and less princess like.
“This cowboy isn’t just any cowboy. He’s the dreamboat type,” she taps the screen, biting her lower lip as if trying to decide between admiring him and eating him up.
“He’s handsome, sure. He’ll make for a beautiful piece of artwork in my collection,” I muse, already imagining him as a Renaissance statue, but with more clothes and a cowboy hat.
“City girls and their wild fantasies about lassoing hot cowboys,” she chews on her nail, scrunching her nose as if trying to crack the code to cowboy captivation.
“Not this city girl,” I continue, my brush dancing across the canvas.
“You aren’t fooling anyone. You’ve been a closet country girl ever since you traded your boots for a pair of silhouettes, and it’s taken you a couple of years to lose that southern girl drawl,” her hand lands on her hip in a flourish, as if she’s about to start line dancing at any moment.
“New York clients didn’t find my southern charm as appealing as you do,” I remind her, laying color on the canvas like I’m buttering toast.
She spins the laptop in my direction. “Just look at this. He’s the Rescue Horse Handler of the year in the state of Oklahoma. His warm smile practically jumps out of the screen. It says he’s a mix of Superman and The Horse Whisperer, but with better hair.”
My heart does a somersault, not for the cowboy with a gorgeous mop of hair, but for the thought of seeing Mustang Sally. What has she been through since I last saw her after my mom passed away? The idea of her in distress twists my heart like a pretzel.
Rhay, my best-friend, ever the detective and part-time cupid, has been on an operation to find Mustang Sally for longer than I’ve been trying to convince myself I hate country music. “The bidding is starting. Brace yourself, Grace Turner, it’s showtime,” she declares, fingers poised like she’s about to launch a missile rather than place a bid.
As the numbers climb, we’re holding hands and holding breaths, as if we’re about to witness the most dramatic rose ceremony in “The Bachelor” history. When the moment to bid comes, I take the leap, imagining the cowboy’s face not on a date, but on a canvas hanging in my studio.
The final seconds tick down with the suspense of a soap opera cliffhanger. Then, victory: the screen flashes, and I’ve officially bought myself a date with a cowboy.
“I can’t believe you’re going to go on a date with the human embodiment of a country song,” Rhay squeals, hugging me.
And all I wanted was to see Mustang Sally. “Maybe you should take my place. I’ll see Sally, and you can paint him yourself while you’re on a date,” I suggest, only half-serious.
“Ah, but this is your romance novel moment. You can’t just paint that; you have to live it,” she teases, already scripting my date into a Hallmark movie.
“Fine, but if he starts quoting country songs, I’ll paint him in abstract,” I quip, already plotting my artistic revenge. “Sally is the bigger picture here.”
“A little side adventure never hurt anyone,” she laughs. “You haven’t been on a date since…” her eyes roll upward, searching for a name.
“Bradford,” I interject. “He was insufferable.”
She snorts, “He loathed it when I called him Brad.”
Tapping the screen, I switch to the last picture I have of my mother and her favorite horse. “This is all that matters. I need to know that’s she’s okay. My mother would be so hurt if she knew what my father had done, and I should have stopped him.”
“How could you? You were living in Paris, attending art school. Besides, he didn’t disclose what he had done until it was too late.”
“I regret it’s taken me this long to find her.”
“Are you considering buying her from her current owner?”
“As much as I’d love to, I can’t keep a horse in the city.”
“Have you ever thought about moving back to Georgia?”
“When I was growing up, I thought all I ever wanted could be found on our ranch in Cedar Hollow, until my parents’ bitter divorce. Mom converted the upstairs of one of the barns into a studio apartment so she could stay close to me and keep Mustang Sally. She bought me paint brushes and blank canvases to help me cope with the divorce, and that’s when I fell in love with painting. When I was a senior in high school, she submitted my work to several prestigious art schools, and I got accepted to the one in Paris. I cried like a baby, leaving the only place I knew as home. It took six months for me to fall in love with Paris and everything it had to offer. Mom died not long after that, and I decided there was no going back to the ranch. I haven’t spoken to my father since the day he told me he sold my mother’s horse.”
“I’m happy we finally tracked her down, but why not spice up your time in Oklahoma? Visiting her at the Iron H Ranch might lead to a roll in the hay with a hot cowboy and have you yearning for the country again.”
“Well, I’m all for supporting the ranch’s mission, but I won’t be swooning over any cowboys, thank you very much. This is where I belong, and I’ll be back the moment my week on the ranch wraps up.”
“You, my dear friend, are like a fish out of water in New York City, no matter how hard you try to fit in. Just look at the art around here.” She spins, gesturing dramatically. “It’s all screaming country life at you. You can try to deny it, but deep down, you’re a country bumpkin at heart. Come on, let’s be real. You and city guys? It’s like trying to fit a square peg in a round hole. Stay in this concrete jungle much longer, and you’ll end up the quirky recluse with a closet full of cats and a love for avocado toast,” she quips.
“I mean, who doesn’t appreciate a top-notch barn cat?” I chuckle. “But hey, let’s not get it twisted. I’m here for the career opportunities, not the city hustle.”
“Ah, but sweetheart, that’s not the same as you feeling at home here.”
“Why do I get the vibe that my bestie is trying to get rid of me?” I arch a brow.
“Because I’m the one who’s got your back when it comes to happiness, and trust me, it’s not all about the job.”
“I don’t need a knight in shining armor or a cowboy Casanova to sweep me off my feet. I’m perfectly content as is. Plus, I’ve got you for entertainment.”
She seizes my shoulders, spins me toward the screen. “Just look at those mismatched eyes. One blue, one brown. They’re like a hypnotic kaleidoscope. Enjoy your rented Romeo.”
“You’re making it sound like I bought him off a shelf. I just donated to a charity, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m off to help you pack and find something scandalous to wear,” she blows a theatrical kiss and sashays out of the room.
I gaze at the photo of my date, then shift my attention to Mustang Sally. “I hope she hasn’t forgotten me,” I murmur wistfully.
2 RYLAN
Washing the day’s grit from my hands, I watch it swirl down the sink. It’s been a good day. The Iron H Ranch rescued two more abused horses, and I’ve already lined up good homes for them.
Slipping out of my dusty boots and giving them a quick cleaning, my phone buzzes with a notification. Retrieving it from my back pocket, I swipe through to find an email from the charity organization. Grace Turner, from New York City, has won the date with me, her generous two-thousand-dollar bid contributing to the charity’s cause.
A grin spreads across my face. “Well, this will be interesting.” A city girl on the ranch. I should be touched by her kindness and generosity, but let’s face it, high heels on a ranch? It’s a recipe for disaster. Still, I’m curious. What did she see i
I don’t know why I agreed to this in the first place, other than the fact that I’d do anything for these animals. They saved my life as much as I’ve saved theirs. “I’d rather go on a date with a horse,” I laugh to myself.
Tanner emerges from the stall he’s tidying, slapping me on the back with a gloved hand. “Dude, that’s tragic,” he says. “Choosing a horse over a date? You seriously need to expand your social circle.”
“I don’t know how you got out of participating in this fund-raiser,” I grumble.
“Simple. My survival instincts kicked in when I thought about facing my wife’s wrath,” he laughs.
“Yeah, I reckon she’d have a fit if she caught wind of you gallivanting on a date,” I grunt, giving my Stetson a tug.
“You might want to invest in some fresh boots if you plan on cutting a rug,” he nods towards mine.
“What’s wrong with these?” I glance down at my feet.
“Are you kidding?” he smirks. “Those boots have seen more barnyard action than a rodeo clown. And your jeans? Let’s just say they’ve got more stains than a barbecue apron.”
“Who am I trying to impress, anyway? It’s a fundraiser, not a romance novel audition.”
“You never know. There are tales of city gals falling head over heels for country boys.”
“Not this cowboy.”
“You don’t ever fancy to settling down?” He leans against a hay bale.
“Perhaps someday, but not to a city girl. I’ll be content spending my days on my own horse ranch.”
“Good grief, Hawk, you sound like a retiree at thirty,” he chuckles. “What the heck did they do to you in the Army? Messed up your noggin.”
“Yeah, well, that’s why I prefer the company of horses over people. My mind’s clear, it’s just this dang leg giving me grief,” I grumble, massaging the soreness from my thigh. “But I’m not going to complain. Several of my buddies lost their limbs. I was one of the lucky ones.”
“I’ve still got a few more stalls to clean. Maybe try dialing down the grumpiness and acting your age on the big date,” he calls out as he walks out of the barn.
“It’s not a real date,” I holler after him.
Tanner’s a good guy, one of the first people I met when I came to the Iron H Ranch. He’s got a work ethic that could put a mule to shame and a heart of gold. We used to bunk together before I got my own space. Whenever my night terrors would wake him up, he never spilled a word to anyone but always offered to lend an ear. I’d just grunt and tell him to butt out, but Tanner being Tanner, he’d flash that grin and ask again the next day.
This job, it’s been a lifesaver. Horses have been in my blood since day one. My folks still run a sprawling ranch down in Texas. They practically begged me to return home after my army stint, but I needed time to heal and find my own path. Ended up stumbling upon Ruby, Oklahoma, during my travels and decided to stick around for a spell. That was four years back. The owner, who lost his own son in the war, took me in and taught me the ropes of handling abused horses. He claimed I had a knack for it. Turns out, he was right. Helping these four-legged friends somehow eased the turmoil in my mind, and those nightmares pretty much packed up and left town.
This 250-acre ranch has become my sanctuary as much as the horses, my slice of heaven. The memories of my Army days are fading, except for the occasional twinge in my leg where the shrapnel left its mark. Physical scars aside, the wounds inside have healed, and for that, I’m truly thankful. This place, along with these majestic creatures, played a pivotal role in my recovery.
With a bucket in hand, I scoop up some feed and swing open the stall door. “Here you go, girl,” I say with a smile, running my hand through Sally’s mane. “You did great today.”
Sally, the stunning black mustang, joined the ranch just over three weeks ago. It’s clear she had a rough ride before finding her way here. I’ll never understand how someone could mistreat such a noble creature, or any animal, for that matter. Despite her past, Sally has a gentle spirit. When she arrived, she was dirty, emaciated, and in dire need of hoof care. A thorough bath revealed her true beauty. With some TLC and nourishment, she’ll be back to her majestic self in no time. She’s the kind of horse I’d love to call my own.
3 GRACE
The ranch is encased in pristine white fences, and scattered round bales of hay dot the fields, evoking a nostalgic longing for the clean, sweet scent of freshly cut hay. It’s a smell you don’t encounter in the hustle and bustle of the city.
Across the vast expanse of pastureland, criss-crossing trails weave through the landscape. Tall trees provide a welcome canopy, offering shade to a few of the horses beneath their branches. A horse trailer sits parked near the main house, its ramp echoing with the rhythmic thump of hooves as horses are led to the stables.
Stepping out of the cab, I’m greeted by the sounds of horses neighing and the familiar taste of dust lingering in the air. Shouldering my bag, I carefully navigate the gravel, mindful not to get my heels stuck, as I retrieve my suitcase from the trunk.
The main house stands tall, a three-story white farmhouse exuding cleanliness and grandeur. As I ascend the steps of the wrap-around porch and push open the heavy wooden door adorned with a carved horse’s head, I’m welcomed into a spacious great room illuminated by floor-to-ceiling windows. The furniture, crafted from golden pine, is accentuated by warm rust-colored hues.
A middle-age woman with long strands of gray hair, wearing an apron with a dusting of flour, extends her hand in greeting. “You must be Grace,” she says warmly. “I’m Mabel. All the men are out tending to the horses at the moment. Allow me to show you around.” Her soothing southern accent washes over me, but I resist the urge to let my own Georgia drawl slip out.
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, following her.
“We’ll start in the kitchen. I need to stir up the pot of chicken and dumplings I’m cooking for supper.”
The kitchen is massive, filled with stainless steel appliances. It looks like it could feed a battalion of men. As we pass by the large center bar, I run my hand over the smooth white quartz countertops. “Very nice.”
“I’ve been toiling away in a kitchen since I could barely reach the stove, but this here’s the cream of the crop,” she beams.
“I know you said all the men are working, but am I the only guest here this week?”
“Well, reckon we got a handful more folks tricklin’ in come Monday. Seems like most the gals who put their bid in for a date are people from around these parts.”
“So, how often does this charity event happen?”
“Once a year, darlin. And who’s the lucky fella you snagged a date with?” She slips off her apron, sudsing up her hands.
“Rylan Hawk,” I reply.
“Well, ain’t he just a pretty sight to behold? Though, mind you, a cowboy might prefer to be called rugged over pretty. But lordy, them eyes of his could captivate a soul for eternity,” she sighs dreamily, hand over her heart.
“I do recall those various hues in his online picture.”
“Reckon that’s why he caught your eye.”
He had nothing to do with why I’m here.
She swings open a pair of barn doors. “All this stretch of land you’re seeing belongs to the Iron H Ranch. That big structure there,” she gestures, “is the main barn, home to twenty-five horses. Yonder are the bunkhouses.”
“They’re spitting images of the main house, just pint-sized.”
“Everyone of them boasts a cozy porch. A few are snug enough for just one, while others can house three to six cowboys. Got their own kitchenette and bathroom to boot.”
I venture further out onto the second wrap-around porch on the main house, greeted by a lineup of rocking chairs and a swing bench, almost identical to the front porch, just with a different view. Looks like the perfect spot to lose yourself in a book. “So, where’s my room?”
“You’ll be holing up in the bunkhouse yonder, at the very end. No fretting now; it’s a single, just for you.”
I’ve been trying to place her accent. It’s not from Oklahoma. “What part of Alabama are you from?”
