days before—but she couldn’t recall his name. Probably because he’d just fried most of her brain cells.
She wanted to see his eyes; no, she needed to see his eyes. On impulse, Fee clambered up to stand on her car seat.
God he was tall. Fee pushed the rim of his Stetson up with her finger, her eyes clashing with the deepest, saddest, green-gold-gray eyes.
Hard eyes, angry eyes, sad, sad eyes.
Fee couldn’t decide what she wanted to do more, hug him or jump him.
Save the horse and ride the cowboy, indeed.
Clint Rockwell was a guy of few words but if Buck Blackwood were magically resurrected, he’d have had more than a few to hurl at his friend and mentor’s head. What the hell had he been thinking to ask Clint to mind the property during his long illness and after his death?
Since Buck’s funeral, Clint had been coming over to Blackwood Hollow a few times a week, to check on the hands and to exercise Buck’s demon horse, Jack.
He and Jack were finally starting to bond and their skills were improving. Clint lifted his hand to hold Jack’s cheek, enjoying the puffs of horse breath against his neck.
Animals were cool; people were not.
People hurt people—and sometimes things, his pickup being a case in point. Ignoring Jack, Clint walked over to the hood of the Audi convertible and dropped to his haunches to inspect the damage to his pickup. He didn’t much care about the damage to the convertible, they were dime a dozen, but his truck was vintage and worth a pretty penny.
Hey, Rock, if I don’t make it, finish my truck for me. Only original parts, man, gold and cream.
You are going to make it because if you don’t, I’m going to paint it pink and white, Clint had told him, his hand in the hole in Tim’s chest, trying to stem the river of blood soaking his hand, Tim’s clothing and the dirt road beneath them.
They’d both known Clint’s optimism was a lie, that Tim needed blood and a surgeon and that he was out of time.
I’ll haunt you if you do anything stupid to my baby, Tim had muttered.
This accident probably qualified as a haunting.
Hell, Clint didn’t sleep anyway, so Tim was welcome to pop in for a chat. His army ranger buddies were the only people Clint liked being around for any length of time, the only people on the planet who understood. They’d seen what he had, had watched men they loved be blown apart, women and children die, buildings being ravaged and lives destroyed.
They got him.
Civilians didn’t.
Oh, the people in this town tried, sure. No man with his money and property ever had to be lonely if he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be. His army days were behind him and he was now a rancher and oilman—more rancher than oilman, truth be told. His land and animals were what mattered.
Shaking off his thoughts, Clint stood up, automatically using his good leg to take his weight. He had to stop doing that; he had to start treating his prosthetic as another leg but, shit, it was hard. Leaving the force had been hard, losing a limb had nearly killed him and being forced to deal with people, civilians, was the cherry on his crap sundae.
Clint turned and cursed when he saw he was the focus of much attention and quickly, and automatically, took in all the salient details. Since he was still ignoring the driver of the convertible—he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet—he turned his attention to the passenger. Sporting glossy black hair with dark eyes, she’d left the car and was standing with Miranda Blackwood, Buck’s ex-wife. With them was also a fresh-faced beauty and an Italian bombshell who reminded him of one of Grandpa’s favorite actresses, Sophia Loren.
The four women, Buck’s ex-wife and her reality TV co-stars, watched him with avid interest. They looked as out of place as he would on a catwalk, their spiked heels digging into the grass, designer sunglasses covering their eyes.
The Blackwood ranch hands couldn’t keep their eyes off them…
He uttered a low, sharp order for them to get back to work and they hopped off the fence with alacrity, tossing admiring looks at the New Yorkers as they ambled off.
The next problem was to get the cars untangled so he could accurately assess the damage to Tim’s truck. But first he had to take care of Jack: animals first, things later.
Clint called out to a hand and when he jogged back to where Clint was standing, Clint passed him Jack’s reins. “Can you cool him down, then brush him for me?”
“Sure, boss.”
Clint didn’t correct him since he was, by Buck’s decree, the temporary boss. And ordering people around wasn’t something new to him; he’d been the owner–operator of Rockwell Ranch since he was eighteen and a lieutenant in Delta Force. Despite their enormous wealth, thanks to ranching and business acumen and large deposits of oil, serving was family tradition: his great grandfather saw action in France in 1917, his grandfather fought the Japanese in the Philippines. His father did two years in the military but never saw any action. His dad didn’t see much of anything, having died shortly before Clint’s fifth birthday.
Anyway, it felt natural to join the army, and then it felt natural to become one of the best of the best.
Excellence was what he did.
Jack stepped on his foot as he walked away—bastard horse—and Clint didn’t react. If he’d been alone, he’d have told Jack he’d lost his leg above the knee and having his foot stood on barely registered on his pain-o-meter but there were people about. He never discussed his prosthetic leg, ever.
Mostly because he was allergic to pity and he was terrified of people thinking he was weak. He might be half the man he’d once been but he’d rather die than allow people to coddle him.
He didn’t need anybody or anything…not anymore.
But he did need this damn car moved.
“Look, I’m sorry, I lost focus.”
She sounded more defensive than sorry, Clint decided as he walked back to the driver’s door of the Audi. The driver was now sitting on the top of the front seat, brand-new cowboy boots on the white leather. Clint started there, at those feet, and slowly made his way upward. Now that the red haze had lifted from his vision—he was still mad as hell but he was in control—he could take in the details.
Holy crap…
Slim legs in skin-tight blue jeans, curvy hips and a teeny waist he was sure he could span with his hands. She wore a lacy, button-down shirt and a heap of funky necklaces. Two thick braids, deep brown at the top and lighter at the ends, rested on a fantastic pair of breasts.
He lifted his eyes to her face, his mouth dry. Yep, she had a rocking body but her face was 100 percent gorgeous. A stubborn chin, a mouth made for kissing, high cheekbones and merry, mischievous, naughty eyes—deep brown—framed by long, long lashes and a cocky pair of eyebrows.
A
