by Abigail Armani
The day dawned bright and clear, at odds with the dark-clad figure who moved furtively between the trees. He moved swiftly yet cautiously over the grass, intent on keeping his presence secret, taking care not to step on any dry twigs and attract unwanted attention. He manoeuvred himself into a position where he had an uninterrupted view of the Armstrong ranch, and as he settled down to wait, his face darkened as malice and anger took hold.
It was only a matter of time before they stepped out, as he knew they would. He had quickly discovered their habit of a brief early morning stroll followed by ten minutes or so sitting beneath the cypress tree. His eyes narrowed with resentment as he watched them, the big handsome Texan and his girlfriend. He dismissed the man, and let his gaze drink in the sight of the woman. Even at this early hour, without makeup, dressed in a pair of frayed jeans and a pale yellow shirt, she looked stunning. Her waist length hair was the colour of a raven's wing, black with a faint almost blue sheen that sparkled in the sunlight.
Slipping the camera out of the case he carried over his shoulder, he adjusted the lens and took a few shots, capturing her lithe movements and the joy on her face.
"Bitch," he muttered, "I'll have you soon, you bitch."
Rose and Hank sat with their backs against the trunk of a massive cypress tree, the bright early morning sunshine casting shards of dancing dappled light through the canopy of branches with their clusters of feathery needles. The air was still, with the promise of a fine day ahead.
"I never used to be a morning person until I met you," mused Rose as she watched the interplay of light and shadow overhead. She turned and grinned at Hank. He had lowered his Stetson to cover his face. "Hey - are you asleep?"
"Asleep? No way." A strong firm hand reached up to replace the hat back on top of his head. He grinned at her. "Early morning is the best time of day. It's no time to waste sleeping."
"I'm still getting used to it," Rose yawned. Adjusting her position, she leaned forward and sat with her arms resting on her knees, gazing ahead at the Armstrong ranch. "Your home is beautiful," she said softly.
"Our home," he corrected, lightly brushing her lips with his own.
"You told me it was restored and extended in the 1980's, but when was it first built?"
"My great great grandpa built it back in 1882. It's been in the family ever since. We'll raise our kids here, you and I," he said, with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
Rose extended her left hand, splaying her fingers. The diamonds set into her engagement ring sparkled, and the beautiful emerald stone in the centre of the ring caught the light and shimmered.
"I've only been engaged for three months, and now I'm getting married. I can hardly believe it."
"You'd better believe it, lady," grinned Hank. "A week from now and you'll be Mrs Armstrong."
"I know," smiled Rose. "I'm looking forward to it - not just the wedding day itself, but what comes after it."
"A lifetime together." Hank squeezed her hand. "I'm one lucky guy."
"And I'm one lucky lady. I'm so glad I met you!"
"It was meant to be." Hank stood up and then took her hand and helped her to her feet. "After breakfast we'll be roping a couple calves out in the pasture to doctor them for pinkeye, then I'll be heading into town with Scott. Is there anything you need picking up?"
"No, I don't think so, thanks."
Rose took his arm and they walked back to the ranch. The heady smell of coffee and sizzling bacon was emanating from the open window of the big ranch kitchen. Hank inhaled the aroma and quickened his pace. Rose had to practically jog to keep up with him.
"That smells good. Hannah sure knows how to fix a good breakfast. Applewood smoked bacon, fresh eggs from the hen house - pancakes too, with maple syrup. And I'll have a strawberry waffle or two to finish off with."
"Hank Armstrong, you have one hell of an appetite."
"A guy needs his strength to keep his woman in hand," he grinned as he swatted her butt and led her inside to have breakfast.
After eating a hearty breakfast, Rose reviewed the finishing touches needed for her wedding. She chewed the end of her pen thoughtfully. It was time consuming, planning a wedding. The table was strewn with sheets of paper. There were lists of the flowers needed, lists of food to be bought in and prepared, lists of where their guests would be accommodated - and yet more lists of things to be done before her wedding day. The sheer number of chores to be done made her head spin.
Hank entered the room to pick up his wallet.
"I have too many lists!" Rose told him, throwing down her pen. "I think I'll go take a break and do some painting for a couple of hours."
"Sounds good. Have you finished the painting of Jupiter yet?"
Jupiter was Hank's latest stallion, a sturdy quarter horse with a lovely red sorrel coat.
"Not yet, but I've almost finished the new Palomino," said Rose. "I've decided on a name for her - Amber."
"That's appropriate," Hank nodded in approval. "It suits her golden colouring. How about we slope off after supper and go for a ride?"
"Yes, I'll look forward to that."
After three months living on the Armstrong ranch, Rose was both confident and extremely competent on horseback. Although not a novice to riding, having learnt to ride in her teens back in England, she had not managed to get much practice in until she arrived in Texas.
"I'll race you - you big lump," she grinned.
"Oh yeah?" Hank's blue eyes twinkled as he swatted her rump. "Now that will be fun. Right, I'm off to find that brother of mine. See you later, princess."
Rose left her endless lists and went to her studio. It was purpose built for her by Hank, and it was perfect for her art work. Hank had configured the design to look as if an old building was converted to a current use, and the structure resembled a barn with a low sloping roof wrapping the east, south and west sides. The north wall of the studio contained large windows to capture northern light.
The space inside was light and airy and was filled with tables piled with picture framing equipment and canvas and huge pads of paper. There were drawers of paints and charcoal sticks, brushes and other art materials, and a big cupboard next to a large sink filled with brush cleaners, soaps, sponges, masking tape, spray sealer and varnish - and just about anything an artist could possibly need. A few easels and palettes were dotted around the room, the adjacent chairs covered in splotches of paint. A selection of similarly splotched smocks and aprons were hung on pegs behind the door. Many of Rose's drawings and paintings were framed and displayed on the walls.
Rose loved the place. It was her space, her very own creative environment. After talking to Hank about things, he was more than happy for her to do exactly as she pleased. They had discussed her taking on board some tasks associated with the running of the ranch if she wanted, with the remainder of her time devoted to painting - which suited her down to the ground. So while Hank was busy working on the ranch, she had decided that she would paint as much as she could and maybe sell a few paintings and take on some commissions. Because the Armstrong ranch had paying guests throughout the year, she had a ready made supply of customers who were more than happy to wander around and admire her works. She had already sold several large oil on canvas landscapes and had been asked to do more.
Now that she was happy and settled with Hank, creativity flowed through every fibre of her being. It may not be possible to collect happiness and put it in a bottle, but the next best thing to bottled happiness was Rosemary Windsor's (soon to be Armstrong's) paintings. They exhibited a richness and a subtle glow, their expressive brushwork encapsulating the mood and emotions of their creator.
Rose was a talented artist. But nothing she had produced back in England matched the standard of the works she was now turning out. She experimented with light and shadow to create stunning landscapes, many of which were on display in the big lounge. But her new love was painting horses. She started off by photographing them and studying the pictures, and then she would sketch an outline. But there was something not quite right; whatever it was, eluded her, so she did some research to find out what that something might be, and in the process managed to familiarise herself with anatomy.
She learned about sinew, and the hard and soft parts of the body of a horse; she learned what happens to the shapes and forms they create during movement, and the quality and shape of light that would be found on each part of its form. She created traditional pen and ink drawings, delicate watercolours and large oil paintings. All were amazing, and looked so realistic that you expected the horses to jump right out of the picture and gallop away with a clatter of hooves and a toss of their mane.
Grabbing a smock from the peg, Rose slipped it on over her head. Painting was such a wonderfully dirty occupation. Despite wearing an apron of some sort, everyone was used to her turning up for meals with an assortment of gaily coloured paint splats decorating her face and clothes. She quickly braided her glorious blue-black hair and let it dangle down her back. It was waist length. She had considered getting it cut but Hank was horrified at the notion. He loved her long hair, so she let it be, just as long as she could get it out of the way when she was working. Sometimes, like now, she would wear it in a long loose braid, sometimes in a ponytail, and other times she would pile it up on top of her head in an elegant coronet ... which would inevitably collapse, and her long locks would tumble free and invariably get covered with the colours on her current palette.
The next couple of hours passed quickly. Her only interruption was from Tinker, one of the ranch dogs. He had taken a particular liking to Rose from her first day at the ranch and loved to sit by her side, or lay by her feet snoring happily, or simply sit and gaze up at her adoringly, which was unusual because he was usually somewhat aloof with people he didn't know.
Rose reached out to pet him, accidentally splattering him with paint in the process. Tink gave her an affronted look and retreated with as much dignity as he could muster given the yellow blobs of paint on his head.
"Sorry, Tink," grinned Rose. "Come back soon."
The Boxer dog returned to give her a slobbery forgiving lick before heading for the ranch kitchen where there was always a never ending supply of juicy scraps to be had. He had perfected the art of sitting quietly, staring with his chocolate-brown eyes and looking pathetic so that Hannah and the other cooks would feel sorry for him and feed him. It was a strategy that had worked very well indeed for the past five years and showed no signs of wearing thin. This was mainly because everyone loved Tinker. He had a lovely temperament and he was a dog of many talents, being clownish and playful, loyal and steadfast, brave and protective and clever and goofy. His personality was unique, and he was quite a vocal performer - his use of various growls to talk to people, combined with his expressive face, made him the star attraction on the ranch.
Rose smiled at the departing dog and then got back to work. Once focused she became totally oblivious to time. She worked diligently, finally applied the finishing touches to her painting of Jasper, then putting down her brush, gazed critically at what she had produced.
"That's fantastic." Hank put his hand on her shoulder. "Absolutely perfect."
Rose whirled around. "Hank! I didn't hear you arrive. How long have you been here?"
"Ages," he grinned. "I like to watch you work. You become totally engrossed and oblivious to everything else."
"Yes," agreed Rose. "I guess that's how it is. So ..." she gestured to the painting. "You like?"
"I most certainly do. And the colours are wonderful - the exact shade of light chestnut."
"Thank you," smiled Rose. "I enjoyed working on him. What shall I paint next, I wonder?"
"Well you've plenty to choose from with all of our cattle and horses."
"Definitely. But ... I was wondering about doing a portrait."
"There's a thought. Any idea who?"
"I thought maybe your pa?"
Hank's face broke into a big smile. "Rose, that's a doozy of an idea. He'd love it. He sure would. Go for it."
"You think so?"
"Sure do," Hank nodded. "Will you get him to sit for you?"
"No. I want it to be a surprise. He'll be 60 in a few weeks time, won't he? I thought it would make a nice gift."
"That's thoughtful of you, hon." He nuzzled her neck lovingly, tickling her with the faint stubble on his chin.
"I know," she giggled. "I can be thoughtful at times ... when I'm not being naughty pulling your ears." She gave his left ear a playful tweak. "Anyway, I thought I'd work from a recent photograph. Do you have one I can use? If not, maybe you can take one - but make sure that he's not aware you're doing so. I'm looking for something natural. I don't want anything too posed."
"Get off my ear, young lady," growled Hank. "Or I'll have to get revenge in the most terrible and humiliating way."
"Oh yes?" Rose cast him a cheeky look from beneath the sweep of her lashes. "How terrible and humiliating?"
"Well, now," Hank seated himself on her vacated chair. "It goes like this. I grab your arm. Like so. And then I haul you over my lap. Like so. And then I position you. Like so."
He demonstrated precisely how. A moment later, Rose was upended, her palms flat on the floor and her bottom waving in the air, with her long legs dangling.
"And then," Hank continued, "then I just tug this skirt up like so. Boy, I'm glad it's a skirt today and not denim jeans. Mmmn - nice ass. Let's see a bit more of it, shall we?" With his thumb and forefinger in the waistband of her panties, Hank deftly tugged them down to her knees. "Looks good enough to eat!"
"Hank!" squealed Rose. "What if someone comes?"
"Then they'll get an eyeful of bare butt," grinned Hank. He lowered his head and nibbled her luscious buttocks.
"Ooooh! Stop it at once!"
"You know you like it." Hank continued nibbling.
"God, yes," confessed Rose, trying not to laugh. "But it tickles awfully."
"Oh. How awfully British you sound," said Hank in a falsetto voice. "I think I shall tickle you some more, my pretty wench."
Hank raised his right arm and brought his palm cracking down over Rose's bare bottom. The sound echoed around the studio like a pistol shot.
"Yeow!" squealed Rose.
"I know that squeal. It's not a 'Oh, that's far too hard squeal' - it's a 'Oh I love it please do it again squeal'. Am I right?" He spanked her again and again, watching as her beautiful bottom depressed beneath the impact and then bounced back ready for more.
"I'm not telling," said Rose coquettishly.
"Guess I'll have to find out for myself then," quipped Hank. He slipped his hand between her parted thighs and his fingers probed her slick wetness. "Naughty, naughty girl," he said huskily.
"I like being naughty," she said.
"Show me." He eased her up off his lap, unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly.
Rose reached out and felt for his engorged cock. She teased down his boxer shorts and knelt on the floor between his knees.
"I'll show you," she said, and lowered her head to lick his shaft.
Hank groaned. Rose cupped his balls in one hand, and stroked his shaft with the other, while her mouth remained busy. She teased him by flicking her tongue rapidly over the bulging purple-pink tip of his swollen cock.
"Ohhh," murmured Hank. "God, you're good at that."
"Practice makes perfect," said Rose, demurely. But her words came out mumbled and distorted.
"What?"
"I really shouldn't speak with my mouth full," grinned Rose. "I said, practice makes perfect." Lowering her head once more, she continued her task.
"Get practising. Get practising," repeated Hank. His breathing had changed. He began panting as his hips involuntarily thrust upwards. His massive cock stuck out like a sacred monument. "Oh man. Practice on me some more."
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