Ranch Manny - B.A. Tortuga Page 0,41
I want a puppy that sleeps with me.”
Susannah squealed. “Me too! Like a hound dog. My friend at my old school has one of those.”
“Oh, Dad-O!” Jakob turned those eyes on Trace. “Could we have a puppy?”
“I think that’s something your Daddy Brent and I have to discuss. Puppies are hard work.” Oh, good man.
“Totally have to talk it over with all the adults, kiddo. Including Curly, since he’s the resident dog trainer.” More because that would be another loud, messy disruption of the routine, but that wasn’t something to say to the kids.
“Okay.” Jakob sighed softly, and Suzy went over and hugged him.
“It’s okay, Jakob. We’ll just ask Santa at Christmas.”
Brent did not laugh or snort. Still, by Christmas, things might have settled enough for it to happen.
Who knew?
“Santa doesn’t always bring what you want,” Jakob told her. “Sometimes he brings what you really need instead.”
“Good man.” Brent glanced over. “But it can never hurt to ask.”
“Yeah? Okay. That gives us time to plan.”
He blinked at the boy. “Plan?”
“Uh-huh.” No one could make you feel as stupid as a kindergartener with a plan. “One of us has to ask for the dog. One of us has to ask for a dog bowl. One of us has to ask for a dog bed.”
“I will ask for the bowl,” Caro agreed. “You have to ask for the dog, Jakob. You’re old enough to feed it.”
“Imma ask for a bed, and the baby can ask for a collar!” That little girl’s eyes lit up. “Oh, is it Christmas?”
“Not yet, baby girl,” Trace said. “But you can start thinking about it. It will be a while, but you know how Santa needs time to make things, and puppies need time to grow enough to come with him.”
“God, you’re good,” Brent murmured.
“It gets harder when they’re eight.”
“I bet.” He’d had a lot of advice about enjoying the kids now, while they were still malleable and dear and not conniving buttheads.
“It’s okay. Lots of things are easier too. You have to be present, huh?” Trace beamed at him. “Thank you for the goodies. That’s too cool.”
“You’re welcome. You need anything before Curly and I head out?” He didn’t want to leave Trace with the cleanup.
“Nope. I’m going to make that pie while the kids are watching Coco through their eyelids. First, though? Someone needs her bottle.” Trace grabbed the bottle and formula. “Y’all put your plates in the trash and go use the bathroom before movie time.”
“Yessir!” Jakob led the march, his cape flaring out. Brent would bet it and the hat would be gone before the movie began.
“Let me grab your cookies. The lemonade’s already in the fridge waiting.”
“Are you like Mary Poppins, man?”
Trace shot back with “My dick’s way bigger.”
Brent brayed like a damn donkey, the sound bursting out without his permission. “But are your balls?”
“You know it, cowboy.” Trace handed him cookies and lemonade. “Supper’s at six.”
“We’ll be in. So will Bald Harold.” He let his fingers brush Trace’s so he could have a little happy touching fantasy. “Later.”
“Yes, sir. Beer after bedtime tonight maybe?”
“You know it.” That was something he was coming to crave, that downtime with Trace.
“Boss! We’re burning daylight!” Curly called.
He winked at Trace, but he had to go. Work to get done.
Cowboying to do.
A man had to pay for his pork chops.
Chapter 12
Trace sat down for the first time all day.
He was fucking exhausted, and he wasn’t sure how people had done it—feeding chickens and rabbits, gathering eggs, milking goats, raising kids, cooking, cleaning, laundry. He started at six in the morning, and it was damn near nine at night, and he wanted to die.
He’d quit too, if he wasn’t stupid for these kids and their dad.
God, Marlboro Man wasn’t his type, normally, but…damn.
Damn.
Brent was…hot. Kind. Working just as hard as he was.
And built like the proverbial brick shithouse. Seriously. The man had come in today without a shirt on, rainwater dripping from him. It slid down and caressed muscles that Trace had never known actually existed outside of those International Male catalogs. Seriously, from nipples so hard they could cut glass to the trail to glory that disappeared into those damp Wranglers. Uhn.
Trace had never been so happy for a late-afternoon thunderstorm.
“Hey,” Brent said softly, padding up behind him where he sat on the couch. “Beer?” A cold one appeared as if by magic before his eyes.
“Thank you, sir.” He was just about exhausted, but he’d find a few minutes for his favorite fantasy, second only to