A Cowboy in Manhattan

“Washers?”

“Wide, round disks of metal.”

“Right.” Trying not to shiver from the wet and wind, she opened the lid to the toolbox. The stormy day was complicated by the fact that the sun was now sinking behind the hills.

“Can you see anything?” he asked.

“Not really.” She reached in to feel her way around instead.

“Don’t!” Reed shouted, and she immediately stilled.

His voice moderated. “Some of the things in there are sharp. You could cut yourself.”

“I can’t see,” she apologized.

“It’s okay. Close the lid.” He waited while she closed it and flipped the catches. “Now, can you pick up the box and move it over here?”

Katrina stood, bent down and gripped the handle of the metal toolbox with both hands. Then she pulled up with all her might. Nothing happened. She screwed up her determination and tried again.

It lifted a couple of inches off the ground, and she moved it forward before dropping it down.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Reed warned.

“I’m good,” she gasped. She lifted again, swinging it closer. Then again. And again.

“You’re doing fine,” he told her.

“This is pathetic.”

“For a cowboy, yeah,” he agreed. “For a ballerina, we make allowances.”

“Thank goodness I’m going back to New York City.”

There was a breath of silence before he spoke. “Thank goodness.”

“I’m almost-” Her feet slipped out from under her, and she landed in an undignified heap on the muddy ground, brown water spraying around her. “There,” she finished, seriously regretting her decision to come along on this trip. Exactly why did she think she needed to be alone with Reed?

“You okay?” he asked.

“Define okay.”

“Are you injured?”

“No. Bruised, yes.”

Reed stretched out his arm, his fingertips almost made it to the handle of the toolbox. Katrina gave it a hard shove, sliding the box, and he grasped the handle in his fist, lifting it and moving it to where he could search for a bolt.

“I can’t believe you carried that thing all the way up the hill,” she told him.

“I have size, muscle mass and testosterone on my side.”

“You’re incredibly useful.”

“And you’re incredibly pretty.” He glanced at her. “Well, not right now.”

She clenched her jaw. “I hate being pretty.”

“What’s to hate? You bat those beautiful blue eyes and the world falls at your feet.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“That’s not how I see it. That’s the way it is.”

“You think the world gives me a free ride.”

His opinion didn’t surprise her. She’d known all along that was how he felt, that she was some decorative plaything. He was as bad as Quentin. Though she supposed she should credit Reed with trying to keep his distance. At least he didn’t think it was his right to sleep with her.

“I think your world is a completely different place than mine,” he said.

“Do you think yours is better?” She honestly wanted to know.

“I think it’s harder,” he admitted, still searching through the toolbox. “I don’t think everyone can make it out here, and I think-”

“You think it’s easy becoming a professional dancer?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“I was about to say, I think people stay cleaner in your world.” He seemed to find what he was looking for, pulling an object out of the box and squinting at it in the dusk.

“I work hard,” she told him defensively.

“You should work at getting rid of that chip on your shoulder.” He returned to the repair.

“I do not have-”

“Admit it, Katrina. You think you’re better than the rest of us.”

“I-”

“You live in the bright lights of a big city. You dress in designer clothes. You hobnob with the rich and famous. You eat in the best restaurants. And every few years, you come back to Colorado to go slumming.” He reefed hard on the wrench.

“That’s not fair.”

“And for some reason, this time, you’ve decided I should be part of your down-home experience.”

Katrina’s jaw dropped open. Reed thought she was slumming it by kissing him? Was he crazy?

“Thanks, but no thanks, Katrina.” He rose, collecting some of the scattered tools. “I’ll keep my self-respect, and you can run back to those champagne-swilling dandies at your snooty cocktail parties.”

Katrina lurched to her feet. “Wow,” was all she managed. She stared at his slick, half-naked body, powerful and magnificent in the waning light. “Did you ever get that wrong.”

He bent to fiddle with something on the pump contraption, and the piston came to life with a rhythmic, sloshing sound.

Apparently satisfied, he closed a sheet-metal cover and fastened it. He gathered up the remaining tools, shoving some of them back into his tool belt, putting others in the box and securing the lid.

He stood and looked around at the dark surroundings. “We have to get back.”

He waited for her to stand and start moving, then he took the lead, making his way along the ridge, heading toward the steep trail that led to where they’d parked the truck. Thankfully, he took it slower this time, and Katrina didn’t have to struggle quite so hard to keep up.

But when they came to the top of the trail, Reed stopped abruptly. The top of the bank had sloughed away, and the trail had turned to a rivulet of mud and water, coursing down in the direction of the road.

“I don’t think so,” said Reed, holding out his arm as a block between her and the edge of the bluff.

“What do we do now?” she asked, peering into the gloom of the aspen grove, listening to the whoosh of the water below them.

He set the toolbox down, well back from the edge, and he stripped off the leather tool belt, plunking it on top. “I’m not dragging you through the bush in the dark, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, wondering if it was a lie. Just how difficult would it be to make their way back through the thick woods?

“There’s a line shack about a mile that way.” He gestured with his head in the opposite direction of the well. “We’ll wait it out there.”

That seemed like an only slightly more palatable option.

“It’ll be pitch-dark by the time we get there.” She was already having a hard time picking her way across the uneven meadow. And she was cold and wet and miserable.

“Yes, it will. So, up you go.” He scooped her into his arms.

“Hey!”

“You’d rather walk?”

“Yes!”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got leather boots and long pants, and I’ve been hiking these hills my entire life.” He adjusted her in his arms.

“You can’t carry me a whole mile.”

“I could carry you twenty miles without breaking a sweat. And even if I couldn’t, I’m not letting you risk your ankle.”

“This is ridiculous,” she huffed.