Table of Contents
owboy” is a calling, a vocation, not a gender, and some of the toughest cowboys aren't boys at all. The life is rough and gritty, as much down to earth as tall in the saddle. The lesbian cowboys in these stories work hard, play hard, and love hard, in the Old West, New West, or anywhere in the world. Above all, they ride hard, whether on a horse or a woman.
“Cowboy” is also a legend, an attitude, and a state of mind. These women do the work and walk the walk. They know what they want and take it, and give back as good as they get. For all their similarities, each is a distinct individual, with stories that vary from profoundly moving to gripping to as edgy as shiny spurs. The settings cover a wide range as well, from Australia to New England to the Great Plains and the Rockies, and from the wildest days of the west through two World Wars to right now.
In contemporary stories, Radclyffe and Jove Belle give us very different views of riders who hold their own in the limelight of the rodeo, and then hold a woman close to ease their aches and loneliness and tension. Jean Roberta and Elazarus Wills follow loners running away from themselves until older and wiser
lovers set them back on track. Cheyenne Blue shows the conflict between traditional cattle ranching and the new environmentalism in Australia, when sparks fly between opponents. Rakelle Valencia and Sacchi Green portray very different equine specialists, one a farrier and one a pulling-horse competitor, driven to the edge by extreme desires. Roxy Katt injects humor into role-playing, while DeJay brings heat and tenderness to a tale of longtime lovers. Delilah Devlin's “The Hired Hand” is every inch a woman and more than a match for any man.
Some of the action is set in historical periods when the only way for some women to be themselves was to pass as men. Andrea Dale's poker player has to do it long enough to win that all-important pot; Teresa Wymore's Pinkerton detective takes on the lifelong role with gusto; and Cecilia Tan's young ranch hand survives an initiation in an old-west bordello to prove that she's “Man Enough.” In a later era, during World War II, Craig J. Sorensen's young rebel proves her ability to run the ranch as well or better than any man when her brothers are lost in battle, while Charlotte Dare's drifter keeps searching for somewhere to live out an identity that matters more even than love.
Ride along with us on these fifteen erotic adventures of lust, dust and leather, ropes and saddles, with lesbian cowboys vivid enough to be real and sexy enough to fantasize about. If you work up a sweat, and we sure hope you do, come right on down to the bunkhouse and join us. There's plenty of steam in the shower, and the loving is hot anywhere you look.
t least they didn't bring her in on a stretcher this time. She walked into the emergency medical tent under her own power, looking moderately embarrassed. This was the third time in five weeks I'd seen herâwell, professionally at least. I saw her around the rodeo circuit far more often than that, especially since I was looking for her. I doubt that she even remembered me. The first time we'd met, I buddy-taped her broken finger. The second time, a month ago, she'd been kicked in the head by an out-of-control steer and she couldn't even remember her own name. This time, she had a nasty scrape over the arch of her left cheekbone. From what I could see beneath the sweat-streaked dust that caked her skin, it didn't look too bad. I sighed inwardly in relief and shook my head.
“I've seen you ride and I've seen you rope, so I know you're good. But you're definitely an accident magnet.”
She grinned and her face flushed, making her look unexpectedly young. She wasn't, as I knew from having scanned her vital
statistics the last time she'd come in for treatment. She was about my age, early thirties. Her thick, collar-length sun-bleached hair, clear blue eyes, and smooth skin might have made her look delicate if she weren't so lean and muscled, and if she didn't have a year-round tan and fine squint lines around her eyes and at the corners of her mouth that said she spent all her time outdoors under the merciless sun doing hard work.
The first time I saw her ride in with the rodeo crowd, I wondered what made a woman choose such a hard life. Physically strenuous, often dangerous, and probably lonely. I mean, I worked mostly with men, too, but I didn't eat and sleep with them for a good part of the year. Out here in west Texas, the rodeo circuit lasted longer than most other places, and I worked a lot of the events since I'd never really settled into a regular medical practice. I guess that made the two of us a little alikeâwe were both itinerants in our own way.
“What happened?” I asked, indicating a stool next to the counter where I kept most of the first-aid supplies. I had a crash cart, which thankfully I almost never had to use, with drugs, a defibrillator, and even an airway. In my two seasons staffing the medical tent, the most serious illness I'd had to treat was a heart attack. Fortunately, he stabilized right away with oxygen and nitroglycerin. Broken bones didn't count. They were routine on the circuit.
“I got a little too close to the rail trying to pick up a rider thrown by a bronc,” she said, sounding more disgusted than concerned.
I pulled over a portable light on a swivel arm, shined it onto the side of her face, and gently swabbed the area with saline-soaked gauze. “Well, you've got splinters in your cheek.” They looked nasty, and I knew it had to hurt, but she seemed completely unfazed. I turned away, appalled that my hands were
shaking. We were alone in the tent, and I could hear the crowd in the distance cheering. “I'm going to need to anesthetize the area with some local so I can get them out. Are you allergic to any medications?”
“No. But you don't need the local. Just go ahead and do what you need to do.”
I spun back, hands on hips. “There's no one watching. You don't need to be tough in here.”
She laughed, clearly amused. “I'm not trying to be. But I've been banged around, broken, and bruised most of my life. A few little pieces of wood aren't going to bother me.”
“Well, they're going to bother me,” I muttered. Over her protests, I injected the area, plucked out the slivers, and then coated the area with antibiotic ointment. “Keep it cleanâ”
She laughed again, and I couldn't help but join her. “All right. Wash it frequently, then, and reapply the ointment.”
“I will. Thanks.” As she rose from the stool, she winced.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “What else is wrong?”
“Just a bruise,” she said.
I'd been so captivated by her face, and worried about the abrasion, I hadn't noticed that the left shoulder of her shirt was torn, and now that I looked more closely, caked with blood. “Stay put. What else happened?”
She shook her head, looking confused. “I told you. I hit a rail.”
“You didn't tell me you'd been crushed into the fence.” I tried not to shout at her, but I was worried. And embarrassed that I hadn't done a proper evaluation because I'd been thinking about how attractive she was. I'd been thinking
since the first day I saw her ride in. I've never seen a woman look so good in dusty jeans, scuffed boots, and a sweat-soaked shirt. She just seemed so damn comfortable in her skin, and so sure of herself.
And I'll admit, she looked sexy on that horse, her ass lifting and her crotch rocking in the saddle, her strong thighs bunching rhythmically. I had an instantaneous image of me underneath her, her lean thighs straddling my hips, her wet sex rolling and thrusting into mine.
What is it that makes cowboys so sexy, anyhow?
I thought to myself, motioning her back down on the stool.
“It's all a fantasy,” she said. “Nothing glamorous about scrapes and blisters and bruises.”
I closed my eyes for a second, unable to believe I'd actually said that out loud. “I am so sorry.”
She grinned. “I'm not. I mean, if you think I'm sexy.”
“Pretend I didn't say that. I need you to take off your shirt.” I looked her square in the eyes when I said it, because I had to get the conversation back on professional grounds. Lord, her eyes were blue. As blue as an August afternoon. And as I stared into them, they darkened and I felt my heart rate soar.
Still looking into my eyes, she slowly unbuttoned her shirt. It took every ounce of my willpower not to look down as she shrugged it off and tossed it onto the counter across from us. I finally managed to break away from her mesmerizing gaze and slipped around behind her. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt underneath the denim shirt she'd just removed. “I'm going to lift this up. You've got another scrape over your shoulder and down your back.”
“I'll take it off.”
“Let me help you.” My fingers were trembling as I carefully tugged the thin, ribbed cotton from the waistband of her jeans. When she lifted her arms, the muscles in her shoulders and back stood out in stark relief. Her back was beautiful, sculpted and honed from hard labor. I was careful not to touch her as I lifted her shirt over her arms and laid it aside. “You've got a lot of
superficial scratches. They need to be cleaned. Do you have a shower in your trailer?”
“No. We're using the public ones down the road while we're here. They're closed until six tomorrow morning.”
“Well, this can't wait.” I picked up the two-way radio and called my backup. He was somewhere in the stands watching the events. “Don, I have to leave for a while. Can you come back and cover for me? Thanks.”
“Slip this back on.” I held out her shirt. “We've got a decontamination shower in our van. Let's get you cleaned up.”
“It's really nothing.”
“It really is.” She wasn't badly hurt and didn't need my assistance in any real professional capacity any longer, but she did need to have that shoulder washed. The moment I stopped feeling like she was a patient, my gaze drifted down to her breasts. They were exactly as I imagined they would be. Small, round, and high with tight pink nipples perfectly centered. Her chest muscles were broad and full, accentuating the soft, nearly incongruous curves of her breasts. Her abdominals were cut, the skin stretched taut over the washboard abs, something I'd only ever seen once before, on a female rower. Her waist tapered to narrow hips and long thighs. A faint line of golden hair ran from her navel downward and disappeared beneath the waistband of her jeans. She was the perfect icon of female strength, and I was instantly, utterly, shamelessly aroused. When I looked up, her eyes were hooded, her lips turned up slightly at the corners. She knew.
“Come on,” I said hoarsely. “I'll take you to the trailer.”
Watching me, knowing I was watching her, she didn't button her shirt, but only tucked the tails into her jeans, leaving a deep open vee from her neck to the base of her torso. I desperately wanted to skim my fingers down that bare expanse of flawless
skin, so I turned my back and walked away. I heard her boots scuff the ground behind me an instant before I felt her fingers at the small of my back. Her breath was warm against my neck.