Loud bawls came from the twenty-two heifers inside the corral. Wendi Rennert stopped mid swing in her repairs. She looked up and saw the heifers staring at a spot behind her. Lifting the hammer over her head, prepared, she whirled.
Lumbering toward the welcoming heifers!
She might have spent the last ten years away from the family ranch, but she knew enough not to stand between a bull full of testosterone, bent on doing what nature intended, and cows that were either in heat or nearing said condition. Backpedaling and keeping an eye on the near ton of libido, she took note of its massive chest, broad, straight spine, solid legs, and long, swaying penis. Behind the penis, heavy, thick testicles rocked in time with the bull’s movements.
He was quite endowed.
“Go! Get the hell out of here! Where did you come from, damn you? These aren’t your heifers. They aren’t!”
If the mostly chestnut-colored beast heard her, he gave no indication. He remained zeroed in on the wooden fencing she’d been working on. Cursing herself for having taken down every railing between the anchoring four-by-fours in this one section, she bent and snagged a dirt clod.
“Damn you! You have no right.” She hurled it at the bull’s head.
The clod struck a short horn and disintegrated. The bull didn’t slow. As he plowed through the opening she’d inadvertently supplied for him, she noted the brand on his right flank. A lazy, looping W
That was the Wagner-family brand, but her neighbors didn’t keep bulls. Well, at least they hadn’t back when she’d called rural Harney County, Oregon, home. They’d either had them brought in or relied on artificial insemination. Of course, they might have changed their practices while she’d been gone.
The beast was now in the middle of the herd, bouncing up and down as he snorted and bellowed. Just like a man! Show him some females, particularly fertile females, and he lost what few brain cells he possessed. Fighting the urge to fling the hammer between his legs, where hopefully it’d do the most damage, she reached for the cell phone in her front jeans pocket. She started working her way through her address book before she remembered she hadn’t had a need to call the Wagners—or, more precisely, Mike Wagner—for years and didn’t have their number.
Wendi looked over at the herd. Her heifers had no dignity, no modesty. The maiden cows were nervously prancing about, but several who’d figured out what bulls were good for had already turned their backs to him, their tails raised. So much for wondering whether they were in heat.
“Damn it! You ladies are supposed to go the AI route. I’ve already paid for the semen.”
Throwing back his head, the bull bellowed. She watched as he hurtled his heavily muscled body forward, rising onto his hind legs at the same time. His front legs landed on the back of the nearest cow; a moment later, his rear end rolled forward. From where she stood, Wendi couldn’t see the actual mating, but it was happening, damn it!
So what was she supposed to do? Trying to stop a couple of dumb animals in mid-fuck made sense only if she had a death wish. From the looks of the interloper, he was in prime condition, not worn down from earlier servicing. So he’d come here hot and horny, had he? Unless someone hauled him out of her corral, he’d stay put for as long as he could stand—or, more precisely, mount.
The two were still going at it, oblivious to their attentive audience, when she put one and one together. She needed to go into the family farmhouse, look up the Wagners’ phone number, and tell whoever answered that they’d better come collect Stud Studly.
She was halfway to the house when movement caught her attention. The Wagner ranch sat west of her family’s ranch. She didn’t make the connection, though, until she realized someone on horseback was coming her way. The horse was cantering, the rider barely moving in time with the easy gait. Wendi lifted her arm to block the sun and saw a sight that took her back in time. She’d started riding a horse before she could even walk. She’d loved everything about her childhood—the ties to the land, empty vistas, the scent of earth and cattle, sleepless nights spent helping with calving, harvesting hay, hot summers and icy winters.
But then she’d grown up and left.
She knew that figure. More than that, her body knew the feel of his hands on her, his lips on hers, his cock powering into her then virginal channel.
With the cattle bawling in the background, she kept her gaze locked on the tall, rangy man astride the roan. She couldn’t tell whether Mike had gotten any taller since she’d last seen him, which had been shortly before she’d graduated from high school, but his shoulders were definitely broader. He sat upright, his muscled arms close to his body and the reins easy in his hands. Now that he was pulling to a stop next to her, she noted the faintest of lines at the corners of his gray eyes, skin so deeply tanned the color seemed permanent. Under his well-worn cowboy hat, his midnight-colored hair sought freedom. The memory came to her of how she’d once run her forefinger over his narrow nose and broad chin. She wondered whether they would feel the same as they had back when she’d been discovering the difference between the sexes.
What about his cock? Her pussy spasmed. Would her cunt remember its contours?
“Wendi,” Mike said and inclined his head. “Wendi…what’s your last name now?”
His looking down at her from the back of the horse made her feel small, something that didn’t often happen to her with her five-foot-ten frame. “I took back my maiden name after my divorce.”
His one eyebrow lifted. “Did you?”
“Yeah.” She looked over at the heifers, then back at him. “I didn’t expect to see you. My folks told me that your folks said you’d moved to Tennessee.” That you’d gotten married.
“I had. But I’m back.”
. No mention of a wife.
She’d been so incredibly naive the night they’d walked into the family barn and into each other’s arms. She’d been shaking so much she’d been unable to unbutton his shirt, but he hadn’t been in much better shape. For a girl who’d grown up watching everything from chickens to pigs procreate, she’d had no inkling that sex could be so scary, so unnerving, so—everything. Suddenly, it dawned on her why he was there.
“That’s your bull, isn’t he?”
“I named him Fred. I couldn’t think of another name when I had to register him.” Mike shrugged and inclined his head back toward the direction he’d come. “He got loose while we were unloading him and two other bulls over at the Thurston spread.” Mike looked over at the corral and shook his head. “Looks like I got here a little late.”
“You could say that. We’re not keeping most of those heifers, so even if I’d wanted him here, I’m not after high-mating loads. I saw his testicles. He’s huge. Get him out of here.”
“Not while he’s busy, I’m not. One thing I’ve learned in the past couple of years: never try to interrupt a bull when he’s humping.”