Rope 'Em Page 8

  Logan’s chair squeaked and Ethan could feel his big brother’s eyes on him, but he refused to look.

  “So, Ethan.” It was Logan’s wheedling voice. “You know . . . the guests love her, too. Mindy and I had a thought about that.”

  “Oh?” What fresh hell was this?

  “Official demonstration helper and living history liaison. Apparently she’s also got some experi—”

  “Nope.”

  “You didn’t let me finish.”

  “You want her to help with the rope demo. Nope. She’ll lose a hand or something.”

  Mindy made a disgusted noise. “Ethan. Stop being such a drama queen. It’s not that hard. She’ll be helping Lamar and Logan, too. And it may help you sell some halters. Suck it up.”

  Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday . . . then Friday was the start of a Giddyup weekend. For four days he could suck it up. But then it would be time to blow off some serious steam.

  Of course it always depended who showed up to the event. Trekking out to Bolero took more planning than a trip to the local club in San Antonio or Dallas; they got some completely new faces each Giddyup but also a lot of dedicated regulars, and none of those familiar visitors offered quite what he was in the mood for at the moment. He’d be doing a suspension demo early Friday evening with the wife of one of the regulars, but after that he wanted to play.

  Preferably with some nice red-gradient rope. Yeah, he could definitely start on that tonight.

  * * *

  Victoria could tell Ethan was tiring of the “caught red-handed” joke.

  His own fault for neglecting to glove up while conducting his latest dye experiment. All it took was one time; she’d been there. Sometimes it was just too much trouble to find the gloves, or just too tempting to get your hands on the material. Whatever he’d been using—different reddish hues of fiber-reactive dye, apparently, but she wasn’t sure what brand or quality—seemed to have particularly miraculous skin-staining properties. His cuticles, in particular, were a lovely deep wine shade. His fingernails, however, looked like something from a horror movie: such a bright red he looked almost like his nails had been peeled off. The rest of his hands were pink, either from the lingering dye or from his various efforts to remove it.

  She’d seen him trying regular soap, pumice hand cleaner, and saddle soap at the ranch on Tuesday. After he’d come back from his clinic Tuesday evening, she’d smelled a sharp whiff of something like nail polish remover—she didn’t know why a vet clinic would have acetone, but he seemed to have tried it at some point. And heaven only knew what else.

  If he’d used a specialized dye remover right away—in the past she’d used one called ReDuRan, but there were others out there—he’d probably have been able to get most of the stuff off. As it was, anything he did now would probably only set the dye further or damage his skin. Too bad he hadn’t asked the one person on the ranch who knew.

  When Victoria showed up at the ropewalk Wednesday afternoon to go over her role in Thursday’s rope-making demo, she hadn’t seen Ethan immediately. But she’d noticed that the drying rack—a long line of fence posts behind the rope walk area, with pegs and hooks for hanging the rope—sported some pretty unfortunate experiments. The lighter ends of some of the ropes were a lovely, rich, true red. But all the darker ends were muddy, brownish-purple messes, and it was clear Ethan had no idea how to blend from one color to the next. He’d blown quite a bit of hemp on the experiment, and she wondered if it was the first such disaster or only the latest in a series.

  She examined one of the shorter lengths, testing for wetness with a fingertip before picking it up. When she unraveled the dark end slightly, she could spot the deep red core. He’d tried to go over the true red with the wine color and lost the best of both shades. If he was going for a smooth blend from one shade to the other, that sort of dip-dying would never work with the colors he seemed to have in mind. He needed to learn some color theory. And learn that gravity and varying dye viscosity could be his best friends.

  Still, she admired some of his other finished work. Solids, a few two-toned jobs, a couple of color-blending experiments that had gone better than the reds. Now that she’d connected Hilltop’s upcoming private event with the fabulous Giddyup kink fests she’d seen people talking about on Kinkbook, she couldn’t wait to see what Ethan could do with all that pretty rope.

  A crunch on the gravel behind her signaled that someone had joined her.

  “Um. Hi. That’s not part of the demo,” Ethan said. “That was a personal project.”

  “I can see that.” She carefully draped the rope back over its pegs and turned, unable to resist glancing at his hands. Yep, still pink and red. “It’s been hard to miss.”

  “Please don’t say it.” He closed his eyes, looking weary. His eyelashes were insanely long. The tips were lighter than the rest, like the hairs on an expensive paintbrush. “Don’t say the red-handed thing.”

  “I wasn’t,” she reassured him. “I was going to say that it’s clear you love dyeing rope. And you ought to know by now the rule is ‘no glove, no love.’”

  He frowned down at his hands, lifting them and examining the backs, then the palms. Then he pointed to one of his cuticles. “See that shade?” When Victoria nodded, he continued. “Marguerite liked it so much she ordered a custom-dyed halter for her palomino. Who arrived at Bewliss’s yesterday, apparently.”

  “That’s the stable in town, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, at least you have the halter-making excuse built right in. Most bondage rope makers probably have to come up with elaborate explanations for why they’re always walking around . . . blue-handed or whatever the case may be.”

  “That was close. I don’t know if I should let that one slide.”

  She nearly broke, then, and told him the whole process he needed to use—and why she knew all that. Part of studying textile design was studying the history of textiles, and she’d loved that part of her education so much that one of the few pieces of equipment she’d kept other than a sewing machine was her portable spinning wheel. But watching him try to work it all out reminded her of her own current struggles. And he seemed to enjoy having a project to focus on.

  “How about you set up some twine on these hooks and show me how to slide this traveler down the walk instead?” Oops. She might have given too much away there.

  Ethan looked startled, then pleased. “You’ve been studying up.”

  That was certainly true. “I have.”

  “That’s great! I usually get some volunteers to help crank, then work the traveler myself, but I guess you could do that part. Let’s give it a whirl.”

  Together, they set up the components and managed to produce a decently uniform ten feet of six-millimeter jute rope. Once Ethan had knotted the ends, he turned to Victoria with a challenging eyebrow raise, holding her gaze as he found the rope’s center by feel and then pointed to her with the bight.

  She shrugged and offered her hands, wrists pressed together. “I thought we were doing a demo for the vanilla guests.”

  He chuckled and slipped the rope quickly around her wrists, wrapping them together. “We could role-play an outlaw kidnapping the rancher’s daughter. That’d get their attention. Or a rancher’s daughter apprehending the outlaw, I guess, if that’s more your thing. My preference is for the other direction.”

  The rough jute scratched her skin, making her catch her breath. It had been far too long. “I’d be the one getting tied up, but I’m really not in to role-play. You should grab their attention with bright colors instead. Off, please.” He hadn’t knotted the wrap into place; when he let go, she was able to slip the rope free herself. “We could even show the dying process. I could help with that. Get it set up in the background while you’re working on the ropewalk. We could have samples at different stages in the process. Then maybe you could sell some in bundles, as souvenirs. Not everybody wants a rope halter, but I’ll bet some of the folks would b
uy a length in their favorite color for craft projects.”

  He was already shaking his head. “Not a chance. I know you have health insurance, but I don’t think Logan wants the paperwork involved in having an employee covered in scalding dye. Or inhaling a bunch of soda ash, which is a chemical that goes in at a certain part of the dying process. It’s not part of your job description.” He moved, perhaps unconsciously, to stand between her and the area where he’d set up the electric burners and big pots he used for his dye projects—as if she couldn’t simply walk around him in either direction to get there.

  He wasn’t exactly mansplaining her own field to her, not knowingly; he had no idea that she’d been hand-dying things for years, so it didn’t really count. But the very fact that he assumed she couldn’t do it suddenly made her determined to show him her expertise.

  “I still don’t have a job description. And I could show you what—”

  “Nope. I’m sorry, Vic, but the answer is no. This isn’t like dyeing Easter eggs or something. You have to know what you’re doing. And I don’t know it well enough to feel comfortable teaching you.”

  The last bit made her feel almost bad for hiding her knowledge from him. Almost. Except that he’d been insulting with the Easter egg comment, and with assuming that she didn’t know how to do this; she’d always been upfront with him about her areas of ignorance. She wasn’t a general incompetent and she resented being treated like one. Plus, he’d interrupted her, which she hated. And he looked so somber she almost laughed in response; she had to put up a hand to cover her mouth for a second. The man took his dyeing very seriously. She briefly wondered if he was as diligent about the bondage part, then stuffed the notion firmly back down.

  “Okay, then,” she relented, smiling in the sweet, bland way that had seen her through so many family dinners. “How’s that ombre project of yours coming along, by the way?”

  “Hombre?”

  “Ombre. The color gradation. You know, the rope that’s supposed to go from the shade of your fingernails to the shade of your cuticles?”

  He uncrossed his arms from his chest and stuffed his pink-andred hands into his back pockets. “Just fine, thanks.”

  “Glad to hear it. By the way, could I have some spare lengths of rope? To experiment with? Don’t worry, I won’t blow anything up. Just practice cat’s-paws and whatnot. I have my own safety shears and everything.”

  He blinked, and then his gaze flicked up and down her body and he shifted his weight as if his pants had suddenly started to chafe him. “Um. You could buy some off me.”

  Victoria frowned. “You know I don’t have any money to spare. Come on. You make the stuff. Give me some rejects.” She wanted to accomplish his ombre project for him. It was a show-off move, but dammit, she needed a little validation right then.

  “It’s not safe to practice alone. You can play with rope all you want this weekend at Giddyup.”

  Oh, she planned to.

  Victoria’s back pocket vibrated and she reached for her phone automatically, flicking her gaze away from Ethan to check the name. The new, cheap phone felt odd in her hand, but it seemed to get the job done okay.

  “I should take this.” She took a few steps away and accepted Alexandra’s call, wishing she had texted instead. “Hello.”

  “Hey! How’s it going?”

  Alex’s voice sounded too bright and hard, as if she was forcing a smile. Something about it put Victoria on alert. “Great! I think I fit in here better than you ever thought I would.” She ignored Ethan’s snort and the swish of a rope near her leg.

  “Awesome! So, listen, Mom and Dad have been calling me a lot, and the thing is, they know you’re safe and that you’ll be in touch, but they really want to check on you for themselves. Uh . . . so there’s a chance they might be visiting you.”

  Oh fuck no. All the no. No no no no. “Noooooo.”

  “Yeeeeaaah. They were talking about driving up this weekend—”

  “Nope.”

  “Vic. They just want to make sure you’re okay.”

  “No, it isn’t that kind of nope.” It was also that kind of nope. She didn’t feel ready to face her parents yet. But mostly, this weekend was out of the question for reasons that had nothing to do with her own preferences. “It’s a nope because it can’t happen this weekend. It’s a private function for a . . . club. The whole place will be completely closed off to nonmembers and ranch staff from Friday morning through Sunday night. And I won’t have any free time to talk to them anyway. I’ll be working.” Or flying, if she got lucky. Either way, no free time.

  Ethan walked into her field of view, his brow furrowed. He looked from the phone to her and mouthed something she couldn’t make out. She shrugged and waved him off, mouthing back It’s fine. She hoped that wasn’t a lie.

  Alexandra gave a groan of frustration. “I told them it was a bad idea. Look, can’t you get a lunch break or something to spend with them? If you’d just talk to them, they wouldn’t be so worried, and Mom would stop asking me about you. Couldn’t I at least give them your new number?”

  “They’d stopped calling on the old one, but apparently felt fine tracking my location across country on it, then calling you to discuss me behind my back. So, no, I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you let me decide when to do that. Okay?” Petty? Yes, probably. But at the moment, Victoria was mainly concerned with keeping her parents away from Giddyup weekend at all costs.

  “You’re entitled to work breaks, you know. Is there an employee handbook? Do Logan and Mindy—”

  “Alex. I will get breaks. No employment laws are being broken. But I’m not using any of those breaks to drive into Bolero to talk to Mom and Dad about stuff that I’m not ready to discuss yet.” Victoria was still figuring out how she felt about the whole thing—her parents’ choices and attitudes, her own choices and attitudes, how those all fed into and fed from one another. “Especially not on a . . . private weekend.”

  Alex paused, and Victoria could almost visualize her sister’s expression as the lawyer brain engaged. “What kind of event is this weekend thing anyway?”

  Fuuuuuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. “I’m really not sure. It’s some private club. They organize their own events, this is just the venue.” Partial truths were always better than outright lies. “I gather Mindy knew some of them in Dallas. Maybe the context was work? I have no idea. I’ve been too busy shoveling horse shit and washing sheets and making rope to worry about what the private clients are planning to get up to.”

  “Hmm. If it’s work-related, maybe I should look into it for myself.”

  Shit. The last thing she needed was a suspicious Alex looking into what sort of events might be held at Hilltop that weekend.

  Maybe sensing her distress, Ethan covered his mouth to make his voice sound more muted and distant and called out, “Hey, Victoria, can you give me a hand with this?”

  She sent a grateful smile his way. “I’ll be right there! Alex, I have to go. If you want me to, I can find out what the thing is this weekend and email you about it or something.”

  “No, that’s . . . it’s fine.”

  “But Mom and Dad really can’t come up here during the event. Or you.”

  “Yeah, I got it. I’ll tell them. What about the next weekend?”

  “I’ll email you. Really gotta go. Sorry!”

  “Okay. ’Bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  Victoria ended the call, then closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. When she opened them, Ethan was raising his eyebrows at her, a sublimely amused expression on his face.

  “Family trouble?”

  God, he’s cute.

  Shh, ignore that.

  “Nah.” She pocketed the phone and forced her lips into a smile. “Everything’s under control.”

  Chapter 8

  This, at least, she knew.

  By the time the sun was close to the horizon and the main yard had started to fill with kinksters, Victoria felt more at home th
an she had since arriving at Hilltop Ranch. Since midafternoon, when a crew of rough-looking but extremely congenial bikers had ridden up to manage security for Giddyup, the ranch had taken on a whole new feel, and it was like sinking into a warm bath.

  Instead of horses in the big corral, there were three pony players cavorting around. Another one stood in one of the temporary stalls she’d helped Ethan, Diego, and a few early-arriving volunteers set up; his handler was carefully applying sunscreen to his many exposed parts, while he stomped and occasionally sent a playful nicker toward his potential friends in the corral.

  Subs in big, functional-looking locking collars strode around, chatting and greeting friends; no street collars necessary, no need for hiding or discretion. From her vantage point on the porch, Victoria could see two of them trying out the stocks, giggling, then joking with a leather-vested dom type who stopped in passing.

  Victoria rubbed her hands against her bare thighs; she still recalled the Rhode Island snow and sleet well enough to marvel in bliss at the warm weather. It was cooler than it had been recently—the forecast said highs in the low seventies and lows in the low fifties for the weekend—but it felt like summer to her, and in her experience people wore less, rather than more, at kink events. She’d had to dig deep into her off-season clothing box to find the denim shorts. She wore those and a Hilltop Ranch T-shirt over a plain black sports bra and yoga shorts; comfortable as the increasingly kinky surroundings might be, she still didn’t plan to get naked, even though Logan had told her to take the night off and enjoy herself.

  Not everyone had the same reservations about nudity. As the sun started to melt into a blazing puddle over the hills, and Diego fired up the four big outdoor heaters around the wide space between the main house and the horse barn, more and more skin was bared in the gathering crowd.

  “Quite a sight, isn’t it?”

  She startled at Lamar’s voice, then smiled as the old horse whisperer sat down beside her and stretched out his legs.