I know. I know. The city gal probably didn’t know any better.”
He heard a sound like the wailing of a coyote and looked up. There she was, hanging over the guardrail.
“Do you need help?” she yelled.
She’d made a megaphone over her mouth with her hands. If he did need help, what would she do? Make blueberry scones?
“No,” he shouted back.
“Are you hurt?”
She was scaring every bird, animal and lizard within a fifty-mile radius. Bandit was fidgeting like he was going to jump out of his skin.
“I’m fine,” he yelled. “Get in your car and go.”
“But I don’t know where to go.”
“Go back to Boston,” he mumbled, then shouted, “Follow the road until the end. Turn left, then right, then your second left. Rattlesnake Ranch will be on the right.”
“Any of these streets have colorful Western names? You know, something I can remember?”
“Like Beacon Hill?” he said.
“Wha-a-at?”
“No. No names.” No one ever bothered naming the dusty paths that ran through Rattlesnake Ranch, least of all him.
“Right. Left, left. Then turn right. Or did you say two rights? I should write this down. Right? Stay there until I get a pen and paper from my purse, will you?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. He had chores to do, and leading a city gal around by the nose wasn’t one of them.
A scream cut through the air, startling the buzzards and vultures right out of the trees. Her again.
He released his grip from the saddle horn and catapulted off Bandit. Grabbing his rifle and rope, he ascended the same path he’d just ridden down.
“Meredith? Hey, Meredith Something Turner, are you okay?”
Silence.
“Answer me, dammit,” he shouted, struggling up the steep incline.
The gravel crumbled under his feet, but he was making progress. Cactus needles stabbed his arms through his duster, through his shirt. Sweat poured down his face as he scrambled higher…higher.
He set the rifle down, shook loose some rope, twirled it over his head several times and let it fly. It hit his target—a post of the guardrail. He tugged to test it and took up the slack. With his rifle tucked under his arm, he climbed up the rope hand over hand as quickly as he could.
“Meredith?”
Another scream split the air.
In one smooth motion, Buck vaulted over the guardrail, rolled to the ground and took aim….
What the hell?
Two wild burros were eating the contents of Meredith Something Turner’s purse. Papers and cosmetics were spread out on the road, and the burros were busy grazing on them. She was pressed against her car, wide-eyed as another burro nibbled on the lapel of her pink suit.
He could tell she was ready to let loose another granddaddy of a scream, and he didn’t think his ears could take any more.
But she surprised him. Instead of screaming, she croaked out, “Don’t shoot them. Just get them away from me.”
He lowered his head, so she wouldn’t see his grin. Securing his rifle, he got up from the ground and took off his hat.
“Shoo,” he said, waving the air with his hat as he walked across the road. “Scat. Go on. Get on. You’re scaring the lady and she’s scaring half the state of Arizona.”
They eyed him, then trotted off down the road.
Buck turned toward her. “What the hell’s wrong with you? You scared me half to death.”
“You? You were scared? What about me?” She walked over to the mess on the road, picked up a pack of tissues and, after careful inspection, blew her nose into one. “What were those things?”
“Wild burros.”
“W-why aren’t they in a zoo?”
“This isn’t Boston, lady.”
She sniffed and brushed off her lapels. “No kidding.”
Bending back down, she picked up her purse and began to toss items in it. “My purse has a hoof print on it. They chewed on my cell phone. And they ate my makeup.” She stopped to looked at him. “There are stores around here, aren’t there?”
Buck didn’t think she needed any makeup. In spite of how she irritated him, he had to admit that she was one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen. And he didn’t know much about fashion, but that pink suit she had on looked expensive. So did her gold jewelry.
Everything about the woman looked expensive.
He sure hoped she didn’t expect to be waited on. Karen wasn’t feeling well, and he had a ranch to run. In his experience, women who were on Meredith Bingham Turner’s level were too high-maintenance.
“Yeah, we have stores around here. We have a feed store over in Lizard Rock. Oh, and there’s a John Deere store in Cactus Flats, too.”
She stared up at him with big green eyes, probably trying to figure out if she could get makeup shipped from Boston via overnight mail. Then she glanced down the road at the burros, which had stopped to graze. “You will stand guard, won’t you? In case they come back.”
He choked back a laugh. “Yeah, I’ll stand guard.”
“Thank you.” She sniffed. “But don’t shoot them.”
“No, ma’am.”
She bent over to pick up more items from the road, and he couldn’t help noticing how the fabric of her skirt molded against her perfect butt.
“Mr. Porter, where is your horse?” She stood straight and focused her eyes on his rifle. “You didn’t have to shoot it, did you?”
“Lady, I don’t shoot everything that moves out here. If I did I’d have to carry all my ammo on a packhorse,” he snapped, then realized she was dead serious. She’d probably seen too many westerns on TV where animals were put down. Remembering she was from Boston, he softened his voice. “Bandit’s fine. He’s probably back in his stall and eating dinner by now.”
“Bandit?”
“My horse.”
“How are you going to get home?”
“I thought I’d ride with you.”
“You cowboys ride in cars?”
She
