One Indian Summer©

Free Online Short Love Story

Written by American Author Sky Taylor

Story Starts Here

In every sense of the word, Brogan was a bona fide starving artist and it was getting a bit old - eating noodles and fake crab. And if she didn't get something substantial inside her tummy soon, she feared she might faint - and that just wouldn't do...in front of her new employer.

The grandfather clock swallowed by the massive room continued ticking away the time, Indoria's mouth growing quite active as she discussed her son, Brett.

Something must be wrong with him, Brogan went on to decide as she focused on Indoria's mouth, soon growing lost in her words, as if the woman had drugged her.

It was fascinating, Indoria's mouth as it worked to and fro.  

Brogan surmised that she must be a very lonely woman - locked inside the massive ranch house that appeared to be inhabited by few.

She had only noticed one housekeeper and a butler since she had secured the painting of the family portrait this morning and it was now a few hours past lunch.

Somehow, she needed to find a method of mentioning a mid-afternoon lunch. And what would be the proper term for an afternoon lunch? If a mid-morning breakfast was called a brunch, surely a mid-afternoon lunch would be called dunch?

Her wild thoughts caused a giggle to spring to her lips, Indoria rising up a notch in the wingback chair, then looking extremely pleased for some reason.

Oh good grief - what had she just agreed with, Brogan frantically wondered.

Indoria flew into nonsensical conversation again, Brogan quickly losing focus as her thoughts drifted to the mysterious ranch owner, Brett.

She supposed that it would be a bit devastating for one's conquest to run off with one's best friend - a blow to his male ego at minimum, Brogan went on to analyze. That might take some recovery time.

Then again, perhaps Brett was cursed with the gift of gab like his mother. That would certainly wilt the most available wallflower.

Ugly - perhaps Brett was in need of a good makeover, she went on to fantasize, not really caring but it was something to veer her thoughts away from her hungry tummy. Even money couldn't erase ugly, she went on to note, aware that Brett and Indoria McKay must be worth a small fortune.

Maybe it was a combination of all three - a dented male ego, a rabid tongue and a beast-like appearance, she fantasized - perhaps complete with a hammer toe.

Another giggle escaped, and Indoria flashed an extra-wide smile in her direction, then blurted out, "Brett! Come here, dear."

Brogan shifted on the sofa, her chestnut eyes colliding with Brett's tall, rugged-looking form then she hastily looked away as she stared into space.

Then like an idiot, she sprang up from her seat - half in part because she had wanted to appear cordial; the other half due to her shocked and reeling senses.

Ricky had been an idiot.  Brett was deliciously handsome - and if Brogan had been given the choice of food or this handsome male, she would have definitely chosen to feast her eyes on the man.

Was he cursed with the gift of gab? And had that male ego recovered, she went on to discern amid her flying thoughts knowing exactly how Dorothy and Toto had felt in that spinning shack on the trip to Oz.

Good grief, mother has brought home a jack-in-the-box, Brett silently mused as he caught a glimpse of the backside of a woman who was of rather small statue. However, she sure had pretty long blond hair - an almost golden color. Face probably resembled a mud-fence, he went on to surmise, Brogan twirling around in the process.

When she turned, Brett's face relaxed. Indeed, the beautiful hair had a beautiful face he quickly noted. But she was sure twitchy, looking much like an automated tin soldier as she cocked her elbow and offered a fragile-looking hand to him.

Brett took notice of how the pink manicured nails matched the lipstick to a tee. A beautiful pink which almost evoked passion. Probably the name of the color, he fantasized - Pink Passion.

"Hi, I'm Brogan Ewing," she introduced, seeming to have little control over her reflexes because she was so twitterpated with the handsome cowboy.

Rugged jeans spanned lean hips, and his trim form accentuated his height. The dark hair was shorn just below his ears, almost touching the collar of the blue cotton work shirt.

Brett extended his gloved hand, Brogan nearly shaking it off in the process. The lady had a dynamo-grip for such a little thing, he went on to ponder as his mother elaborated, "Brett, Brogan is the artist who will be painting our family portrait. Isn't it all exciting!"

Brett's face scrambled, not wanting to think about the finished result. The way Brogan was jerking about, the painting would out-do Picasso. Where did his mother dig up these people, he went on to wonder as his thoughts strayed to his motley crew of cowboys which she had basically fished off the streets of Laredo.

Hector appeared to be preoccupied with his shotgun rather than his rope; Trixie was more brawn than fluff and Jack had visions of tobacco both day and night. Brett had never seen him without a smoking stick or a plug of apple tobacco stuffed into his mouth. His cattle would probably all end up with a strain of bovine cancer from second-hand smoke, he went on to decide, his blue eyes refocusing on the beautiful but jerky Brogan.

"Nice to meet you, Brogan," he told her, managing a tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Although he felt attracted to her, he wasn't quite ready to trust a woman. Ricky had branded him quite deeply - right in the center of the heart and he wasn't sure if he would ever get over the fiasco.

"Nice to meet you as well, Brett," Brogan eased out, delivering a brilliantly-white smile and noting that Brett's eyes had widened in the process.

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