Theresa s Deportment
- 1 year ago
- 157
- 0
There Is A ReasonChapter 4 free porn video
The morning after my "rescue" by Abigail, I woke to the smell of frying bacon. I was a bit disoriented at first, and then remembered where I was and smiled. I had slept very well and the sofa had been a comfortable and warm place for my exhausted body. Looking around I saw the fire was back on and gray light was filtering through the lacy curtains at the big windows that looked over the valley. The wind still buffeted the house but seemed to have lessened a bit.
I got up and took a quick shower, brushed my teeth and pulled clean socks underwear and sweatshirt from my backpack. Dressed in sweats I followed the wonderful smells to the kitchen.
Abigail turned as I watched her from the doorway. Wearing a faded red wool work shirt, jeans and deerskin moccasins, with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail she was beautiful.
She looked at me with those wonderful green eyes and said,
"Good morning ... sleep well?"
"Yes ... the best sleep in a long time..."
I couldn't help staring at her. She blushed and turned back to the stove.
"Tea's on the table ... so help yourself. Scrambled eggs coming up."
I sat where I sat the evening before at the butcher block island in the kitchen. I filled the big white mug with tea and watched her as she filled two mismatched china plates with scrambled eggs. She sat across from me and put plates of crisp bacon and toast between us.
I put my fork down as I watched her bow her head and whisper a few words of thanksgiving for the food. At home we were never ones to day "grace" before meals unless it was a holiday such as Thanksgiving or Christmas. From that day forward we never had a meal without a quiet prayer.
She looked up at me.
"Go ahead and eat before it gets cold." She smiled as she said it.
I took a bite. The eggs were delicious. I was very hungry and made short work of my breakfast. Abigail refilled our mugs and sat back and looked at me.
"I was thinking ... maybe I could use a hand around here through the winter..."
She paused and took a sip of tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. I kept quiet.
"The weather's not like this all winter and there's plenty of days where we can work outside and not let stuff pile up for spring ... plus there are lots of projects in the barn and the sheds that can be done out of the weather..."
At that point she seemed to be talking more to herself as she considered the various projects I could help her with.
I started to say something, but she held up her hand.
"Before you say anything ... I have to tell you I can't pay much ... and you've already seen the bunk house ... but meals are included ... I'm no gourmet cook ... just pretty basic meals. You'd get Sundays off and I'd be happy to run you into Choteau when I go for church ... although there's not much open on Sunday's especially in winter."
She looked at me suddenly uncertain. Did she think I would refuse?
"I accept ... gladly." I smiled.
' There was nothing that would make me happier then to stay with Abigail for the winter. I'd gladly stay in the bunk house, or sleep on the porch, or at the foot of her bed like a guard dog. It didn't matter as long as I could be with her every day.
"When do I start?"
It was her turn to smile. She turned and glanced out the window. We could barely see the barn for the blowing snow.
"Well ... I think we'll hold off until at least tomorrow to start anything outside. The temperature monitor on the barn says its twenty-seven below ... and that doesn't count the wind chill. We ought to wait until it gets to at least zero to start mending fences."
She laughed at the look of feigned horror on my face. I thought she was kidding but what did I know about crazy people in Montana?
"Guess since you're not used to this winter weather and probably need heavier clothes we can start on barn projects first." She smiled.
I knew at that moment I was completely hers, body and soul.
As I stood next to her helping with the dishes I asked,
"Did you grow up here... ? I mean on the ranch?"
She handed me a plate to dry.
"No, I've only lived here three years ... although I can't imagine living anywhere else now ... I love this place."
We took our refilled mugs into the living room and sat in front of the fire while she continued her story,
"I grew up in Missoula. I had a few friends but I was on my own a lot. My father was a math and science professor at University of Montana and we lived in a big old house in town. My mother died when I was ten so he was a single parent. He never remarried. He was kind of like the "Professor Jones" played by Sean Connery in Indiana Jones ... pretty absorbed with his work and studies. Sometimes I think he forgot he even had a daughter."
This was said with a wistful smile. She obviously had great affection for her father.
"After I graduated from college and got married he moved to Indonesia to teach at an American School. I was amazed to say the least!" She laughed.
"He comes back at odd intervals. I never know when to expect him. He refuses to get email. I suspect there is a woman there and he's just not comfortable talking about it."
She paused, looking into the fire, remembering. Then she looked at me.
"I met Tom when we were students in Missoula. He was a business and accounting major like me and was enrolled in the Reserve Officer Training Corps. He was very much the outdoorsman, and we were always heading off to find the next greatest trout stream or some place where elk were gathering. When we graduated he got a job with the Montana Department of Fish, Wildlife and Parks in Helena. I found a job in a bank there and we bought a little house on the outskirts of town. When he graduated he was commissioned a lieutenant in the Montana Army National Guard."
She paused again, sipping her tea. Her eyes glistened.
"His family had a military tradition and his father had been in the Montana Guard. Tom thought it was important to serve and also he had an eye on state politics so he thought it would be a good idea to join. He was proud to go when his unit was called up for Iraq."
Abigail paused and brushed a tear away.
"I'm sorry ... even after three years ... I still can't talk abut him."
I got up and brought the teapot to the coffee table and refilled our cups.
"You don't have to talk about any of this ... I was just being nosy."
She smiled at me. It was a sad smile but how I loved her smile, especially when it was directed at me.
"I'm just not used to talking about my history. In these parts everyone knows everything about you. That's the way of small communities. That's not necessarily bad ... because people out here tend to look after one another."
"When ... after Tom ... died ... I kind of lost it. On weekends I would just drive for hours. One day I found myself here. If you asked me how I got here I wouldn't be able to tell you since we're over a hundred miles due north from Helena."
She paused. I could see her mind picturing this place as she first saw it.
"There was a "Four Sale" sign on the gate. I remember driving up the hill. It was late spring and this house was pretty dilapidated. The people who owned the place had moved to an assisted living facility in Great Falls and the place was left vacant. The kids were trying to sell it since none of them was interested in a beat up house and barn on a defunct cattle ranch. The buildings had been neglected for years and the fences were down in places and there was lots of evidence of over-grazing."
"I stood on the deserted porch and knew this was the place I was looking for. I even liked the name ... so I took the money I got from Tom's insurance and some money from a trust from my mother's estate and bought it and fixed it up."
"I moved in, much to the consternation of many friends who thought I was crazy ... especially a woman alone in such an isolated spot. But that's just what I wanted. I wanted solitude and the intense quiet that comes from being out here. And I made it work ... I signed new grazing leases with neighbors that restricted access to certain parcels and in effect rotating the grass crop. Soon I bought a small herd and with luck ... and lots of hard work, I've made this place marginally profitable. My friends still think I'm crazy." She laughed.
I looked around at the beautifully finished pine boards on the walls and the peeled logs which crossed the ceiling.
"You did a beautiful job."
"I wish I could take credit for all this." She waved her arm indicating the walls and ceiling. "But my cousin Alex, who lives in Billings, is a master carpenter. We spent two winters when he was off work ripping out old walls and finishing this place. We even spent several very cold days flat on our backs in the crawl space installing the tubing for the heated floors and the insulation. I hated working under there but we got it done."
"I wondered where the heat vents were ... now I know."
Abigail smiled. "Plus no cold feet ever ... I hate cold feet. Plus I'm sure it feels good on Jack's old bones!"
We spent the rest of the day and the next just getting to know each other ... and me ... well I was falling hopelessly in love with her.
She showed me her office which was set up in what was a spare bedroom. It contained an antique roll top desk with a computer connected to a satellite dish on the roof of the barn. There was no television.
The third bedroom was a catch all room for old furniture, clothing and trunks and also contained Abigail's easel and paints. She said she hadn't touched them in a couple of years — just hadn't had the time. When she first moved in she would occasionally take a canvas out into the back yard and paint during the wonderful light cast by the dawn on the nearby mountains.
When the storm finally blew itself out and the sun returned the temperatures hardly got above zero. Nevertheless we were outside while Abigail taught me how to hook up the snowplow attachment to the truck and plow the mile-long driveway. She made it look so easy but when I tried it took all my concentration just to stay out of the ditches. When we got to Grizzle Road there was no sign anyone had passed that way.
I was sobered by the thought that I had been out walking on that road and had it not been for Abigail's arrival I might not have survived.
Over the following weeks, as the weather warmed slightly, we worked together to rebuild horse stalls in the barn, replace bits of wood siding that had been torn off in the fierce winds, replace rotted flooring on the barn's floor and loft, and clear out the tool shed to uncover the woodworking equipment that had been left by the previous owners. We completed dozens of other tasks that might wait for spring, or forever, as other ranch activities took precedence.
I slept in the bunkhouse but spent every waking hour with Abigail. She worked as hard as I did and had surprising strength for her slim frame. I couldn't have been happier. Well actually I could have, because I was so drawn to her I wanted to touch her and hold her, but I kept my distance. That didn't extend to my dreams though. It was a good thing I washed my own bedding.
The day before Thanksgiving Abigail and I spent the day in the kitchen running an assembly line of her pumpkin and pecan pies. We finished at midnight, flour bedecked and tired. We flopped onto the sofa, herbal tea in hand.
"A toast ... to successful pie baking!" I said
We touched cups.
She smiled.
"A toast to the best assistant pie-maker I ever had."
I looked at her as we touched our cups again, basking in the warmth of her appreciation.
"Thank you Abigail."
The next morning we were up at six with several coolers full of pies. We stopped at every ranch and home within several miles and dropped off one of each kind. Finally we ended up at the church where we lent a hand filling baskets for the less fortunate. Pastor Smith greeted us warmly. I hadn't missed a Sunday since I'd been with Abigail. Going to church with Abigail was a wonderful experience and Pastor Smith and his wife Sarah were most welcoming. Abigail made sure two pies would grace their Thanksgiving table also.
After the stop at the church we hurried back to the ranch to change into nicer clothes for Thanksgiving dinner with neighbors Hector and Nancy Johnson. I still didn't have much more than work clothes but Abigail surprised me with a new heavy cable-knit sweater and a pair of heavy cotton cargo pants. She smiled like a mischievous child as she handed them over.
She wore a long black skirt, knee high black boots with a very high heel and a burgundy sweater that accentuated her nice breasts. Free of the ever present scrunchee, her hair was down to her shoulders, and framed her beautiful face. I'd rarely seen her in anything but jeans or overalls. She normally wore nice wool slacks and a sweater to church. I was speechless.
"Something the matter?" she asked as she appeared from her bedroom.
I could only shake my head. She was a beautiful woman but dressed as she was, she was stunning.
"Ready to go?"
"You ... look ... I mean ... you're beautiful." I stammered
I was pleased to see her skin flush as she smiled at my compliment. Right remark I thought.
She looked me up and down and said with a laugh, "You clean up pretty well yourself mister!"
We put our coats on and headed out the door. For the first time she took my arm as we walked to the truck. Her spicy perfume went right to my head.
The Johnsons lived on a ranch a few miles up Grizzle Road. They were the closest neighbors and lived in a sprawling farmhouse that had at one time been the home of eight children. Now they were alone except the youngest who was a senior in high school, except for holidays when the entire brood settled on them. We walked in and were overwhelmed with the wonderful sights, sounds and smells of a large family Thanksgiving. There must have been thirty people there, representing four generations.
I had met the Johnsons at church and some of the local family. Abigail introduced me as "her friend Bret from Georgia".
I momentarily felt a twinge of guilt knowing this was the first Thanksgiving in my life that I wasn't at home. I quickly corrected that thought. I was here in a home full of love and I was with the woman I loved, so I was home for Thanksgiving.
Despite the crush of people, Abigail rarely left my side. After being summoned to the kitchen for advice about something, she returned to find me deep in conversation with Jennifer Johnson or "JJ" as she liked to be called. Jennifer was Hector's very pretty twenty-year old daughter and a student at U of M, home for the long weekend.
Abigail made her way through the throng and immediately put her arm through mine. I did catch a flash of annoyance directed toward Jennifer as Abigail pressed herself to my side. I'd seen this move before; actually Becky had done it more than once, clearly claiming her territory from an outsider. I figured it was a universal sign by and for females that let other "interested" parties know that she had staked her claim on this man. Even after Hector's daughter got the message and moved on, Abigail kept her arm through mine. It was wonderful feeling her warmth and closeness.
On the drive back to the ranch she leaned part way across the wide console and claiming exhaustion and too much wine, put her head on my shoulder.
In the darkness we walked to the door to the house, snow crunching under our feet, her arm through mine. The moonless sky was ablaze with stars. We stopped at the door and she turned to me.
"Bret, thank you ... thank you for all the help with the pies ... and for this day ... I ... I ... well ... can't remember when I've been..." She paused.
"Happier ... yes happier. Thanks to you."
She put her arms around my neck and kissed me. The feel of her lips on mine, warm and soft in the freezing cold, the smell of her, and the feel of her body against mine caused every pleasure center in my body to overload, As my brain began to realize what was happening, she stepped back and said,
"Good night Bret." as she slipped through the door.
I stood there a long time touching my lips, tasting her lipstick and feeling the warmth that she left there.
I turned, smiling and walked back to the barn, head up, watching the stars.
It was a rare occurrence that I was up and in the kitchen before Abigail. We had been out late and Abigail had some wine so I figured it was my turn to make breakfast while she got to sleep in. I raided the pantry for the ingredients to my mother's griddle cakes recipe and put the kettle on.
I fried some bacon as the electric griddle heated and then ladled out the thick batter. As I bustled about the kitchen I suddenly sensed her presence.
She was in her normal jeans and wool shirt but look like she was hardly awake.
"Good morning!" I said cheerily.
She sat in her normal spot on the stool near the island and then said,
"Sorry, I overslept."
I placed her tea in front of her and said,
"Considering your schedule the last few days you deserve it."
"Thanks."
I directed my attention back to the griddle.
I felt her watching me as I filled a plate with griddle cakes and put it and the bacon and the warm maple syrup between us on the island. I got us each a plate and a napkin and sat across from her.
We both bowed our heads as she thanked the Lord for this meal.
"Delicious..." she said between mouthfuls.
"A terrific help around the ranch and a good cook too ... I may have to lock you up because if word spreads some young woman like Jennifer Johnson might just come by and steal you away."
Marisol
- 17.05.2021
- 19
- 0
