My Texas Cowboy – A Western Interracial Erotic Romance

My Texas Cowboy western interracial romanceWhen Jess walked into the barn, she saw a solid American male before her.

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His name was Jake Simpson and he was the ranch owner’s eldest son. Jake had three brothers: Frank, Pete and Mark. But Frank worked in Austin and didn’t come around much. Mark had his own place over in the eastern part of Texas. Pete was still helping out at the farm, but he was gone for days at a time dealing with bankers. This left Jack, the youngest of them, to run the ranch on a daily basis with his dad.

Jess had found out the situation on the first day she arrived at the Double Barrel Ranch. The older Mr. Simpson (“Always call him Mr. Simpson!”) had sent one of his employees to pick her up at the local airport in a beat-up Ford truck. Jess was a little shaken from flying on a Cessna twin-engine, but it was the only flight she could get to the remote area where the ranch was located. She hadn’t felt like driving the distance after flying to Dallas. After what she’d been through, a short airplane ride sounded like a good idea.

But the airplane ride had involved a steep climb to a thousand feet followed by a sudden drop when the pilot was in range. On the ground the pilot had visibly smirked when he got the luggage out of the compartment.

“First time in the air?” he’d asked her, pilling the suitcases on a cart.

“First time flying with you!” she’d snapped back.

Waiting for her luggage, Jess had made straight for the women’s room to check her face. At least her mascara wasn’t messed up, but she was forced to do some quick repairs and freshen up. The last thing she wanted to do was meet Mr. Simpson looking like a slob. She checked her jeans and top: both were simple, but practical. She knew just enough about living on a farm to dress for the trip.

Jess had spent a few summers of her twenty-six years on her Dad’s place in Argentina located out on the Pampas. Unlike the other Hidalgos’ down there, he was descended from a long line of Indians and Spanish Conquistadors. So, although he’d divorced her mom when Jess wasn’t a year old, she’s spent the odd summer in the back hills near the Andean Mountains.

But now her cash was about to run out and jobs for landscape architects were few in the current economy. Momma’s latest boyfriend, Mr. Simpson, had suggested she fly down to the ranch for a visit.

“You might like it,” Her mom had said. “The Texas weather beats Ohio. Take a week off from job hunting and see what you think. You might find a cowboy.”

The last remark came close to terminating the trip. Jess had paid her own way through college, refusing any help from her parents and she didn’t need her status-seeking mother to tell her what to look for in men. Just because momma had connected with Mr. Simpson while she was working for an art dealer didn’t mean her daughter had to be on the make. If Jess was going to find a man, it would be on her terms.

Funny how both momma and Mr. Simpson had grown up in the same part of Texas.

An hour after landing she was headed down a dust-ridden highway with a driver named Ramirez.

Jess had learned some conversational Spanish while staying at her father’s place in the summer, but hadn’t needed to use it much. She’d forgotten most of what she’d learned. But it was plain to see she had her father’s blood from her short stature and coal black hair. Her eyes were brown and plenty of her facial features leaned toward American Indian.

So when Ramirez first saw her, while he was holding the “Welcome Miss Jess” sign, he started speaking to her in rapid-fire Spanish. Jess had stared at him and told him in her broken Argentine dialect how she thanked him for addressing her properly, but would prefer to converse in English.

Which was fine. At least the ranch hands would know she knew enough Spanish to know when they were talking about her. Most other Latino’s assumed she knew some, but not how much.

She’d encountered Jake on the day she arrived. A secretary in the big house where Ramirez took her informed Jess Mr. Simpson was out inspecting an irrigation system and would be back shortly. Bored after an hour of looking at magazines (her cell phone couldn’t get a signal), she’d decided to walk outside and look at the property.

“I’m going out and get some air,” She’d told the secretary, whose name was Ellen.

“Mr. Simpson will be here shortly,” Ellen told her looking up from her desk computer. “I was just talking with him on Skype.”

Amazing how every aspect of the new millennium has made its way to this ranch, Jess thought, looking at all the electronics in the office.

Jess walked down the concrete walk in front of the big house and looked around. Her shoe heels were starting to bother her feet on the hard surface and she regretted not changing. It was still early in June, but the temperature outside was steadily rising. Still, she didn’t think it would be too difficult to just take a walk.

Next to the house was a barn. It couldn’t be the only barn for the cattle. Besides, the pilot had pointed out the cattle pens as they flew over the ranch on the way in. So why was this barn here? Some sense of nostalgia for the pioneer days? Perhaps there would be a sodded-roof house next to it for the same reason.

She tossed her shoulder-length black hair to one side and continued down the walkway.

The smell hit her as soon as she reached the barn. It was a smell she remembered from her summers on the Pampas: cow. No mistaking, there was nothing like it. At least this wasn’t as powerful as the smells in Argentina. Something told her the manure disposal system was a lot different in Texas.

She saw a light inside the barn and decided to look around. The lighting was faint and contrasted with the bright Texas sun. She could hear the sounds of cattle moving around in their stalls. Jess looked down at her heels and decided to take a chance. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Her father had threatened to spank her when she was ten for going around his barn because it was where the gauchos were working. No daughter of his would be hanging around those low-class types.

And it was when she first noted the cowboy.

He was tying a rope around a metal post and stroking the nose of a cow, while talking gently to it. Jess was riveted.

He wore a Stetson hat and was shirtless, probably from the heat in the barn, which was higher than the outside. He had on a pair of well-used jeans and western boots. He looked to be about a year older than her and could use a haircut. Leather work gloves protected his hands as he finished a complicated knot. He turned in her direction and smiled.

He even had a kerchief tied around his neck. She was in heaven.

But it was the sweat that captivated her. A thin layer of it covered his body and was dripping off his nose when he bent over. She could smell his manhood even from the front of the barn. Then Jess felt a little tingle in her loins. Uh-oh.

“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted her from the distance. “Are you Jane’s daughter? Dad said you might be coming in today.”

Jess was quiet for a few seconds, and then the spell broke. In the eternity that spanned those three seconds she had a vision that involved a hay pile, the cowboy and herself.My Texas Cowboy Western romance small

“Yes,” she finally responded. “Jess, my name is Jess.”

“Pleased to meet,” He responded. “Jake. Jake Simpson. Dad’s youngest.”

He smiled at her again. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“And pardon my appearance,” he said when she didn’t move.

Jake picked up a work shirt from a nearby hay bale. He put it on. Slowly.

The vision now fading before her eyes, Jess walked over to the cowboy and introduced herself properly.

“Your father invited me down for a week,” she explained. “I’m between jobs right now and needed a break.”


“I’m not married.”

“No, I mean, did your mother come with you? I’ve haven’t seen her in over a month.”

Jess put her hand to her mouth. The cowboy was making her feel like a little girl in front of one of her father’s gaucho’s. She half-way expected Don Peron, her father, to storm in there any second and order her out.

“I really must be getting back to the house. Your father’s coming in any minute and he’s expecting me.”

This close she could feel the heat radiating from Jack Simpson. He’d taken his hat off and she could get a good look at the sandy-haired young man. He smelled of hard work and the open range. One look into his big blue eyes revealed a hundred years of land wars over water rights. Texas has been a hard land. It still was and it made hard men.

“I need to get back to work,” he explained. “Lot to do before dinner time. I’ll see you around six.”

And so saying, he picked up a saddle from the floor of the barn and walked off.

Jess stood watching him go.

“I’ll see you later,” she half said to herself. “Cowboy.”

When Jess returned to the house, a pick-up truck was parked out front. Climbing out of the driver’s seat was an older man in his fifties, whom Jess took to be the elder Mr. Simpson, her mother’s boyfriend. She hadn’t had the opportunity to meet him before, but momma was always flying out to the ranch for one reason or another. She was always in a better mood when she came back.

Four young Latino men were stepping out of the truck bed. Everyone was decked out in work clothes. They began moving the water cans out of the truck bed, stacking them up on one side of the truck before noticing Jess. At that distance, none of them could tell anything other than a pretty woman was approaching.

“Hey, girl,” one of the guys yelled in Mexican-accented Spanish. “You must have a pretty momma!”

“Watch your manners, boy,” She yelled back in her broken Argentine version.

The workers looked at each other and broke out laughing. She could make out the Spanish equivalent of “Guess she told you!” as they picked up the water cans and moved to the barn.

The older Mr. Simpson watched them go and turned to her.

“What was that all about?” He asked in his Texas drawl. “Reckon I need to pick that lingo up someday.”

Mr. Allen Simpson was a long tall Texan from the LBJ mold. He removed his hat when Jess walked up to him and held out a hand, making a brief introduction.

“I got the word from Ellen when you arrived. Ramirez said you know a little Spanish, guess he neglected to tell the rest of the guys on the pump detail.”

Ramirez had been laughing the loudest. She could only imagine what nonsense he’d told the rest of the men about the gringa he’d met at the airport.

“It’s not the first time someone didn’t think I knew Spanish,” she explained, “but usually they see me up close and assume I know a lot more than I do.”

“How’s your mom?”

“Busy. She’s stuck in Worthington all week. Next week she’s going to an auction in Columbus. Some nice pieces of jewelry just came up from the Liz Taylor estate.”

“And your job hunts?”

“Not so good. Trying to make a living as a landscape architect isn’t the best way to get by.”

They walked back to the house, the gravel crunching under their shoes. She was astonished at how tall the older man was in his boots. He towered over her, but then most people did. Still, he was a good six inches taller than his son.

His son. That image of her and him in the hay came back to her. This time there was a fire next to them. Not a barn burning, but a campfire. Then why would there be hay next to a camp fire? She couldn’t figure it out. The real flames were the ones licking up between the two of them. Jake was planting kisses all over her face and….

The vision faded and she was back to earth with Jake’s father.

“The barn,” he was saying. “Did you get a chance to look at the barn? Ellen said you went outside for some air.”

“What?” Jess responded, coming down from the phantasmagoria. “Oh the barn. Yes I did go in the barn. I met your youngest boy, Jake.”

“I hope he was on his best behavior.”

“An absolute gentleman. He said he would be joining us for dinner.”

“Glad to hear that. The kid sowed his wild oats years ago, but seems to be settling down.”

They walked up to the big house, crossing the open front porch and thorough the double doors to the air conditioned inside. Mr. Simpson held the door open for her, knocking the dirt from his boots before entering the house.

“Ellen,” he called out to his secretary. “Show Miss Peron her room. I need to use that wizard box for a few minutes.”

“Mr. Simpson never has adjusted to the modern age,” Ellen explained to Jess as they walked down a hall way lined with paintings of Apaches and Navahos. “I declare, sometimes I have to show him just how to turn it on. I hope he doesn’t mess anything up again.”

Jess would later learn that Ellen was a retired school teacher who lived in the nearby town and commuted in every day. She was the one responsible for all the electronics in the office. Ellen was in her 70’s, weighed about 90 pounds and could shoot the eye off a rattlesnake at a hundred yards. It wasn’t only the men Texas made tough.

Jess found her suitcases already placed in the guest room. It was a small, but comfortable, room with its own writing table, bathroom and TV. She was still recovering from the effects of the flight out and sat down on the firm bed. Jess went to the mirror over the dresser and began combing her hair. Her mother had always been jealous of her hair. Momma’s family was Irish and hers tended to the auburn side. Jess favored her dad’s part of the family and was the color of anthracite coal.

As she sat on the chair in front of the dresser, she thought about Jake Simpson again. What had he done to her? She’s been around farm workers before. Something about the myth of the cowboy, it was even big in Argentina, where the cowboys wore different clothes, used cow skulls for chairs and drank matte with a silver straw. She hadn’t seen her dad in years, but understood his farm was still intact. Even with all the changes in the Argentine governments. Don Peron had wisely stayed out of all the craziness which inflicted that country in the 1970’s. His father had even threatened to personally kick some Montero’s butt who showed up at the farm.

She knew her father had finally remarried to a much younger woman and was working on a new family. He had two small children, but she’d never met her half-siblings. Why had her parents separated? Her mother had never remarried and was now chasing after this rancher. What fascination did she have with these cattlemen? One too many episodes of Dallas?

Jess had always felt her father still pined away for her mother. On her summers in Argentina, she would see her father look at Jess, sigh, and stare out the window. He kept a picture of her mother in his office and one of the three of them together, taken at Jess’ christening, in his bedroom. Even the help around his farm referred to Jess as “La Senora” when she visited. She once heard one of the gauchos comment: “There goes a man with a broken heart” while watching her father at a distance.

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