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The sun had started to come up, and a warm light was radiating through the barn
“Funny,” Clint said softly. “I could have sworn you wanted me to kiss you earlier.”
Samantha lifted her chin.
Back off, he told himself. But he couldn’t stop. She was like a newborn foal—skittish and standoffish, but something he was tempted to tame.
“You wanted to kiss me,” she corrected.
“You know,” he said, giving in to the urge to touch her, his fingers making contact with the side of her neck, “I think you’re right.”
He just meant to give her a little peck on the lips. But the moment he tasted her, the moment his lips made contact with her own, he was lost.
Dear Reader,
I’ve always been horse crazy. When I was a little girl I would beg my parents every year to buy me a horse for Christmas. I think they hoped my fascination with all things equine would eventually go away because they ignored my requests until I was thirteen years old. They probably grew tired of listening to my pleas because they eventually gave in.
Guess what? Thirty years later, I’m still just as nuts about my four-legged friends as I was when I was a child. So when someone suggested I write a romance novel about the animals I love I felt like a complete doofus. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?
The result of that suggestion, The Wrangler, was a labor of love. It was truly a joy to write about the animals that mean so much to me. I can honestly say that the soft nicker of a horse has lifted my spirits more times than I can count. My own American quarter horse, Bippity Boppin’ Along (aka Bippy) has gotten me through some of the toughest times of my life.
I hope you enjoy The Wrangler. Whether you’re a horse lover or not, it’s my sincerest wish to always…always bring you tales that make you laugh and cry.
Pamela Britton
P.S. If you’re interested in reading more about me or my horses, please visit my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com.
The Wrangler
Pamela Britton
MILLS & BOON
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including the National Readers’ Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.
When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter One
He was six-foot-one of rock-hard muscle. Every last inch of him one hundred percent, prime-cut cowboy.
And he caused Samantha Davies to slam on the brakes.
Clinton McAlister, she thought, lifting her foot and slowly edging over to the side of the road. It had to be.
He pounded a metal post into the ground to her right, oblivious to her arrival at the Baer Mountain Ranch. She’d been told what he looked like by a couple of the local townspeople, right down to the distinctive brown and white feather tucked into the cowboy hat he wore. What she hadn’t expected, no, what no verbal description could ever convey, was the sheer size of him. The way his sleeveless white shirt clung to his sweat-stained body. How his muscular arms glistened beneath a noonday sun.
“My, my, my,” she murmured.
Okay. Get a grip.
She
