Ohares ranch, p.1
O'Hares Ranch, page 1
O'Hares Ranch
A Holinight Novella
Lee Jacquot
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and incidents, as well as resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Lee Jacquot
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design: Cat at TRCdesignsbycat
Edits by Alexa at The Fiction Fix
A Quick Note From the Author
O'Hares Ranch is a standalone novella in the Holinights series. None of these books need to be read in order.
It is a steamy & fun read (seriously, it’s just a good time) intended for mature audiences of legal adulthood age. It should NOT be used as a guide for kinks or a BDSM relationship.
The author is not liable for any attachments formed to the MCs nor the sudden desire to have a cowboy tie you up in a barn.
Reader discretion is advised.
To my boot wearing, line dancing, hat tipping, rope enthusiast.
Sweat trailing down my collarbone, breath coming in sharp, unfulfilling pants, I round the corner of the faded red barn. The stars shimmer above me, the light from the moon spilling between the buildings serving as my only guide as I maneuver through them in the dark.
The absence of a breeze does nothing to help hide my rushed steps, only seeming to amplify my heart pumping violently under the force of the adrenaline. Every sound pierces the silence, giving me away, and I know I don’t have long.
I have no idea where I’m going, no idea how I’m supposed to find what I’m looking for, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds me.
Still, I’ve never felt so alive.
So terrified.
So turned on.
I hope he catches me before I can find it, and when he does, I’m going to give him whatever he wants.
Five Years Ago
To: oharesranch@email.com
From: hardaw@isdemail.net
Subject: Field Trip Inquiry
Good afternoon,
My name is Harper Cassidy, and I am inquiring about a possible field trip for my preschool class. I understand the O’Hare’s ranch has deep roots with the local school districts and hosts the high school’s Future Farmers of America program, as well as allows agricultural field trips. I know from your website that you restrict the age group for safety reasons and currently don’t accept daycares. I’m in a particularly unique situation, as my class falls under both categories of being too young but also part of the district. It’s true, Pre-Kindergarten is for students aged four and five, similar to daycare, but I can assure you, my students are capable of quite incredible things and will abide by any ranch rules if given the opportunity. I look forward to hearing from you.
Miss Cassidy
PK Teacher
Madison Elementary
To: hardaw@isdemail.net
From: oharesranch@email.com
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
Hello, Miss Cassidy,
Thank you for your inquiry. I appreciate your interest in bringing your students to O’Hare’s. We strive to create a real-world, educational environment while ensuring both human and animal safety. What part of our ranch is your curriculum currently exploring? Perhaps we can work something out.
Andrew Dawson
O’Hare’s Ranch
To: oharesranch@email.com
From: hardaw@isdemail.net
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
Thank you for your consideration. To be honest with you, Mr. Dawson, we aren’t currently reviewing any agricultural units, but I would like them to see and learn about the cows.
Miss Cassidy
PK Teacher
Madison Elementary
To: hardaw@isdemail.net
From: oharesranch@email.com
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
Well, that’s interesting. May I ask why you would like to see the cows if you’re not currently reviewing the subject in class?
Andrew Dawson
O’Hare’s Ranch
To: oharesranch@email.com
From: hardaw@isdemail.net
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
To be forthright with you, Mr. Dawson, I have a student who is particularly certain that strawberry milk comes from pink cows. I have spoken with him, showed videos, including a few from your ranch, and assured him that it’s simply a flavor added during processing, but he’s still firm in his convictions and has even inspired the others to hold these same beliefs. I would love for my students to learn where dairy milk comes from and that the finished product is merely a result of the process it goes through.
Miss Cassidy
PK Teacher
Madison Elementary
To: hardaw@isdemail.net
From: oharersanch@email.com
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
I see. Well, in this extremely dire circumstance, I believe an exception is in order. Please fill out the application, and I’ll let our intake secretary know it has been approved by me. I look forward to meeting you and your students when you come.
Andrew Dawson
O’Hare’s Ranch
I’m not what most people would consider a petty woman. I teach five-year-olds, for crying out loud, but sometimes, the urge is so great, I book a whole field trip around the need to prove someone wrong. That someone is Timmy Wilson, and today is that day.
The bus is five minutes away from arriving at O’Hare’s Ranch and I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I hadn’t been counting down the days until I could prove this little boy wrong.
For the past two months, he has convinced my entire class that chocolate milk comes from brown cows, and strawberry milk comes from pink ones. Now, most people might blow it off, say it doesn’t matter, that one day he’ll learn and realize the error of his ways. Truthfully, I might have agreed with them, but then he decided to show me up. One day, in the middle of talking about the week’s weather forecast, Timmy asked me how I could be trusted if he had proof I had been lying to the class.
Shocked, appalled, and a little annoyed, I asked him what he meant and, low and behold, this three-foot, five-inch child printed a picture—of a pink cartoon cow, mind you—to back up his case about the damn cows.
So, despite wanting to take the high road and ignore his behavior, he has made me enter my petty teacher era.
My boyfriend, Thomas, said I was out of my mind for stooping so low, but he doesn’t understand. This is about more than the cow now. This is about retaining order, maintaining the balance. If kids smell an ounce, and I mean a single iota, of weakness in their teacher, it opens the floodgates of anarchy, so I’m not backing down.
“We’re here, Miss Cassidy,” the driver calls, prompting my attention to the front of the bus.
A large iron gate greets us, the words O’Hare’s Ranch cut into the metal. Past the gate, a green pasture stretches as far as I can see, only halted by the mountaintops poking out from the horizon. Dozens of barns and fences dot the landscape, each with metal signs like the one we passed, only they’re so far back, I can’t even begin to make out what they say.
I have to take a second to admire the beauty. It’s so serene, so peaceful, so completely the opposite of my morning commute to an overcrowded school with a playground on fake turf, with only a sliver of the sun available through the tall buildings surrounding it.
The gravel road is well packed, the wheels of our bus rolling over them with surprising ease as we enter the front of the ranch. A massive house sits at the end of the round-about. It’s two stories, brown and tan stone covering the face, with an abundance of sconces surrounding the first story windows. A smiling blonde stands on a wide porch that wraps around the lower level, a set of massive double doors behind her.
“Let me go greet her first.” I turn to my paraprofessional, Mrs. Weathers, as the bus slows to a stop. Her gray ends are tied into a tight bun today, her pearls shining particularly bright. “Will you keep an eye really quick?”
She nods. “Of course.”
I’m quick to scramble off the bus, telling the kids to stay put while I go get us checked in. The blonde woman’s name is Tammy, and it turns out she’s the intake secretary I’ve been corresponding with.
“You’ll just unload them here, and then I’ll lead ya down. It’s actually the closest barn, so we don’t have to go far.”
“Awesome. Um…” I glance behind her at the closed doors. “Is Mr. Dawson here? I’d really like to thank him for making an exception for us.”
Tammy smiles, her eyes flickering with something I can’t quite decipher. “Yes, he’ll be meeting us over at the field in a bit.”
“Ah. Alright. Well then.” I spin on my heels and motion to Mrs. Weathers through the window to begin unloading.
The kids do well as they file out of the bus and onto the paved driveway, their eyes wide with pure wonder. None of them have seen anything like this outside of television, and for a second, I completely forget about my vendetta against a five-year-old.
“It always amazes me how big and diverse Texas is. Thirty minutes ago, we were in the city and now, you’d think we were in an entirely different state.” Mrs. Weathers stops at my side, her gaze on the vast landscape in front of us.
&nbs p; “Very true,” I agree before giving her a soft smile and lining the children up to follow Tammy. I don’t want to think about how much I like it, about how already, the thought of going back to traffic and exhaust pollution makes my chest tight.
Tammy does an amazing job at leading the children down to the first set of red barns just past the main house. She tells the children about the two breeds of cows they have on the farm, how the Jersey one is better for ice cream than the Holstein. It prompts a plethora of questions, and soon, I’m learning more about cows than I ever imagined I would. She makes sure to put extra emphasis on the fact there are no fun-colored cows and that any sort of flavoring is added during processing.
I don’t miss the way Timmy’s little face falls at that.
Yep, that’s right, kid. Timmy, zero, Miss Cassidy, one.
Before I can internally celebrate my victory—internally, because I can’t morally gloat to a five-year-old—I feel the heat of a heavy gaze on the back of my neck.
After glancing around and not finding anything out of place, I manage to shrug the sensation off, following the kids out to a fenced-in pasture where cows are free-ranging. Again, Tammy teaches us about the diet of their cows, and what each one’s favorite treat is. She’s on the last one, a cow named Lily, when my little Silva happens to turn and look at me.
Well, she doesn’t look at me, but behind me, her eyes nearly doubling in size, her face lighting up as if it’s Christmas morning. I don’t get the chance to ask her what she’s so excited about, because the hot breath of an animal’s huff sinks into my thick curls.
My heart leaps into my throat, my muscles tensing as all the other children seem to notice the shift in the air—or maybe Tammy’s smile—and turn, looking behind me as though Santa Claus himself is there.
“Well, hello, Mr. Dawson. Glad you could finally join us.”
A deep voice sounds from somewhere high above me, descending over my skin like a weighted blank in the middle of winter. “Howdy, little miss. Sorry it took me so long. The rooster got loose.”
“A rooster!” my student, Monica, shouts. “I wanna see a rooster!”
I finally will my heart to a manageable pulse and turn on my heels, following the children’s gazes, just for it to rev up again, pounding so ferociously, my ears throb.
A massive black horse stands in front of me, his head towering at least two feet above mine, a rider on his back. And its rider, Mr. Dawson, is nothing like how I imagined he’d be.
For one, he can’t be over thirty. Second, third, fourth, and fifth all relate to how incredibly attractive he is—as in masculine and divine beauty, wrapped in a pair of jeans and a tight white shirt.
In a matter of two seconds, I notice things I shouldn’t, like how the fabric stretches over his broad chest, or how his boots are almost too big to fit in the stirrups. Then, there’s how the thick veins in his arms protrude through his smooth brown skin like the roots of an oak tree in the middle of the city, stretching to cling to anything it can reach. And lastly, it’s how the reins look wrapped around his large hands, the way the sun spills over his cowboy hat, casting him in an unearthly glow.
If smitten at first sight was a thing—
I have a boyfriend. A voice in my head snaps as Mr. Dawson smirks down at me, allowing two dimples to pop out and make my knees wobble a fraction. “Well, I’m sure that can be arranged. Do you have time on the tour for a little side trip, Miss Cassidy?”
I clear my throat, forcing myself to gather an ounce of composure. “Uh, yes, if you don’t mind us taking more of our guide’s time.”
A round of pleases and pretty pleases erupt from the children before Tammy’s laugh and responding yes gets smothered by cheers. She’s got them lined up and walking in another direction before I’ve managed to say a word.
Flustered and slightly annoyed with how easily I forgot about my damn boyfriend, I give Mr. Dawson a small smile and shift to walk after my students, but he stops me the second I lift a foot from the ground. “Miss Cassidy, may I have a word? Promise it’ll be quick.”
I swallow around the strange knot inappropriately lodged in my throat and turn. Get it together. “Of course.”
He dismounts, holding out a hand as he takes a step towards me. “I just wanted to formally introduce myself and thank you for comin’.”
“Oh, um—” I place my hand in his, trying not to notice how rough his palm is. “I think it should be me thanking you. The kids—I—have learned so much already.”
He cracks a smile, and a piece of my heart chips away. “Glad to hear it. But I must say, I’m kind of interested to know if you’ve proved that student of yours wrong.”
A warmth spread over my cheeks, and I release a slightly awkward laugh. I’m so used to Thomas berating me about it, it feels a little childish to admit to anyone else. “He understands now.”
“Glad to hear it.” It’s only now, when he releases my hand, that I realize he was still holding it. “And I get it.”
I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs, gesturing with a nod toward my little line of ducks following Tammy and Mrs. Weathers. “Order. We do it all the time here. A rooster steps out of line, and suddenly, you’re not in charge anymore. Gotta regulate the balance.”
Something flutters in my chest.
Boyfriend, Harper!
“And just know that my doors are open any time you might need to come back.” With that, he gives me one last smirk and remounts his steed with such ease, I can’t do anything but be impressed. “Enjoy the rest of your trip, ma’am.”
I do.
But the entire time, I’m trying to figure out how to forget that damn smile.
Four Years Ago
To: oharesranch@email.com
From: hardaw@isdemail.net
Subject: Field Trip Inquiry
Good afternoon, Mr. Dawson.
I hope this email finds you well. My new class this year would love to take a trip to visit the gardening section of your ranch. I know you mentioned your doors always being open, but I wanted to make sure that was still the case before submitting an official trip request.
Miss Cassidy
PK Teacher
Madison Elementary
To: hardaw@isdemail.net
From: oharesranch@email.com
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
Miss Cassidy, what a pleasant surprise. Of course, I’ll approve the trip immediately, but I must ask, does this one have anything to do with a rooster?
Andrew Dawson
O’Hare’s Ranch
To: oharesranch@email.com
From: hardaw@isdemail.net
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
Fortunately, not this time. We were learning about root versus climbing crops, and I remembered seeing a greenhouse at the ranch. After a quick search, the class decided they’d love to come visit if we could. I’m looking forward to it as well. Tammy is a great guide, and I have questions about your regenerative soil methods.
Miss Cassidy
PK Teacher
Madison Elementary
To: hardaw@isdemail.net
From: oharesranch@email.com
Subject: Re: Field Trip Inquiry
I see. Well, it does make it less entertaining, but I’m honored to host your new group of students regardless. I look forward to seeing you again.
