Two days later, after a hearty breakfast, during which Carver tried rather unsuccessfully not to stare at Bishop where he sat several seats down the table talking to a couple of other ranch hands, Carver made his way across the pasture to a fence that had been recently damaged by an ornery bull. His mind kept wandering to the calving shed and Bishop—the way Bishop had felt beneath Carver’s hands and against his c**k. Frequently, Carver would catch himself mid-hammer, staring into the distance and seeing a muscular chest and simmering green eyes rather than the bull corral. Carver hadn’t had an opportunity to say anything to Bishop since that night other than in passing, and he wondered if it might be possible to get Bishop alone any time soon.
No more than an hour had passed when Carver g
