Summertime on the Ranch by Carolyn Brown (leveled readers txt) 📗

“I feel special,” she said.

“Darlin’, you are far more than just special,” he whispered softly before he closed the door.

This wasn’t her first rodeo when it came to pickup lines. She had worked in bars all over Nashville and fended off lots of guys when they brought what they thought was a game good enough to sweet-talk her into bed. What Dalton said didn’t affect her as much as his tone, and the way his warm breath caressed her neck when he spoke.

He drove through Terral, passing the elementary school on the right, Mama Josie’s café on the left, and then he crossed Highway 81, and drove through a cattle guard with HT welded onto the gate.

“What does that stand for?” she asked.

“Hard Time Ranch,” he answered. “The owner is a friend of mine, and he doesn’t mind if I cross his property to get to my hidey hole down by the river.”

She envisioned a place where they’d have to crawl back into a cave of some kind and hoped to hell there were no spiders or field rats in it. “The river, huh?” She pulled her phone from her purse, found the song they’d listened to the night before, and played it.

“Yep, and I do love that song,” he answered. “We’re going to the river to sail our vessels. I’ve got them ready in the back of the truck, along with our supper in a basket.”

She turned around and looked out the back window, but all she could see was a big basket and some chunks of wood. Maybe he was speaking symbolically instead of having a real vessel to sail.

The truck rattled and groaned when he drove down a rutted path toward the river. She was amazed when they passed a herd of white-tailed deer and a wild hog with a dozen little piglets following behind her. They flushed a covey of quail out of the path, and she watched them fly away, and then a bobcat with a couple of kittens watched them go by.

“Aren’t they the cutest things ever? I wonder what Grammie’s new babies would think of one of those,” Becca said.

“I’m not sure you could tame one of those any better than a cowboy can a wild Irish lass with a temper.” Dalton grinned.

“So, you think I’m a wild lass?” she asked.

“I saw a little of that in you last night, and truth is, I kind of liked it,” he admitted.

“I’m glad you like me just the way I am,” she said, nodding.

He braked and brought the truck to a stop. “Honey, I wouldn’t change a single thing about you. We’ll walk from here. It’s not far. I’m taking my boots off. I like to feel the sand beneath my bare feet like when I was a kid.”

She kicked off her shoes and tossed them in the bed of the truck along with his boots. He shoved the wood and some string down into a paper bag and picked up the basket. “See that willow tree over there with the limbs hanging in the water?”

“It’s beautiful,” she gasped.

“That’s where we’ll have supper. Would you bring the quilt? I’ve kind of run out of hands.” He pointed toward the cab.

She reached over the side and picked up the patchwork quilt. This just might be the most interesting date she’d ever been on in her entire life. The river was peaceful, flowing along, just like it had been since the beginning of time. A pungent aroma filled the whole area, and the willow branches swayed in the warm evening breeze.

When they reached the huge tree, Dalton set the basket and sack down and parted the thick limbs. “Welcome to my secret place, Becca McKay.”

She carried the quilt inside the opening and spread it out on the sand. “It’s lovely, Dalton. Thank you for trusting me enough to bring me here.”

He picked up her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Thank you for trusting me, period. Have a seat and we’ll have our supper, and then we’ll go sail our vessels.”

“Are you serious?” She eased down on the quilt.

“Yep, I brought homemade sailboats and string so we can guide them down the river. Sometimes I fish right here, but tonight, I want us to float our little boats and think of that song about the river.” He sat down and opened the basket. “Another confession. I haven’t dated much. Last time I actually asked a woman out was probably for my senior prom in high school.”

“Really?” she asked.

“I want us to be open and honest with each other,” he told her.

“I’ve dated a lot, but I’ve never been picked up in a bar,” she told him.

“Then we’ve had two different lifestyles.” He handed her a cold bottle of root beer and then laid the rest of the food out between them on the quilt. “The sugar cookies from last night and the bananas are for dessert.”

Supper was a ham-and-cheese sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, and sweet pickles that they ate with their fingers right out of the jar. Every bite tasted better to Becca than if she had been eating filet mignon in a five-star restaurant.

“I can see why this would be your favorite place,” she said. “It’s so quiet that I really can hear the tree frogs.”

“Sometimes they argue with the owls and the other birds roosting in the trees for center spot,” he said.

At that moment Becca could feel peace surrounding her heart, much like the drooping branches of the weeping willow tree circled around her and Dalton.

“If this works out between us, we should come here once a week and leave all our troubles, arguments, and disagreements in the river,” she said.

Dalton leaned over the food between them, cupped her face in his hands, and brushed a sweet kiss across her lips. “That’s what I do when I float my little boat down the river. I put all my worries on it and give them to the