Sullivan stared at the beauty on the grass, glistening in the Montana sun. He knew each part of her intimately—he’d had his hands on every inch of her more times than he could count. With some pampering and TLC, he would get her purring beneath him again. After all, they didn’t make tractors like this nowadays.
The sound of metal hitting metal clanged behind him, echoing like iron bars slamming shut at lights-out. The old fear roared back and his hands fisted, ready to defend. Chills sharp as barbed wire gripped his neck and galloped down his spine. He tilted his head up to the sky and blew out a calming breath, reminding himself he was safe, back home again.
He’d been a headstrong seventeen-year-old when he’d left, chucked it all, headed out on his own. But after ten years he was back, trying to find his place on the ranch with his dad and four brothers. It had taken him a long time to figure out that this ranch was home. Despite the struggles to fit back in, this was where he belonged.
Click click click echoed on the concrete path from the lodge. A woman crossed into his line of sight, her voice floating to him on a gust of wind. He’d always had a thing for blondes, and this one was real pretty. A pale pink jacket molded itself to her sleek body, and a matching skirt ended midthigh, revealing legs he could explore for days. Then her sharp words became clear.
“I was a fool to have married you. I should have listened to my father from the beginning. But we’re divorced, and I’m stronger and smarter now. I won’t let you treat our son like he doesn’t matter.”
The path curved, but she must have been distracted with her phone call, because she stepped off the concrete, still giving her ex a tongue-lashing. She was heading for the dirt of the soon-to-be vegetable garden. The one currently filled with mud from the heavy rain last night.
He followed, trailing after not only her voice, but some type of spicy perfume. He kind of liked it, and he imagined what it would smell like up close on her skin. Like behind her ear, or at the curve of her breast.
He had to grin as she tried to walk across the grass, her fancy pink heels sinking down with every step. Definitely more suited to a runway than a cattle ranch. She stumbled and lurched like a newborn foal trying to gain its legs.
“Ma’am, you might want—”
She flung a hand up at him and continued berating her ex on the phone.
“Watch out!” he called.
She turned around, glanced up at him and stepped back, mid-tirade. The icepick heel on her fancy pink shoe snapped. Teetering back, her arms wind-milled faster and faster and faster.
He sprinted toward her, even though a little mud might take this princess down a notch.
Or ten.
He grabbed for her hand but missed, snatching nothing more than air.
Gravity kept sucking her down, down, down, and she kept going, slow motion, as she lost the battle.
“Dammit, dammit, dammit,” she screamed.
She landed on her back, spread-eagle, in the ooey-gooey mud.
Her cell phone plopped in front of him. He picked it up and heard a man’s voice still yelling. “She’ll get back to you later,” he said, then ended the call.
She glared, her pretty blue eyes narrowed at him. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the ground beneath her started bubbling and boiling like a big pot of stew.
He smothered a laugh, saying, “Hope you enjoy your mud bath, compliments of Sullivan Guest Ranch. Ma’am.”
* * *
COLD SLUDGE OOZED and squished beneath Francine Wentworth every time she moved. Can this day get any worse?
A snort broke the silence, and she frowned up at the cowboy standing above her, but he just stared at her—tall, dark and brooding. The epitome of James Dean’s rebel, he silently held out a hand to her.
She tried to sit up, but the mud held tight, and she felt like a pig wallowing around in muck. A lock of hair blew into her face and stuck. She tried to huff it away, but it wouldn’t budge. Wrenching one arm free, she scraped the strand off her face.
She heard a strangled grunt and glanced up at the cowboy. He coughed and rubbed a hand over his mouth. But another strangled sound erupted from him, and he snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat. Seriously? This guy better not start laughing at me.
Not two seconds later, said guy lost the battle and did start laughing—a deep rumbling laughter that did funny things to her insides. Even though she threw him her best I’m going to kill you glare, it made him hoot even harder until he was gasping for breath.
The guy kept right on at it, and every time she’d think he was done, he’d look at her and start whooping it up again.
“Are you going to help me up or just stand there like an idiot?” she asked, finally pushing herself to a sitting position. The slimy filth slid down the back of her neck, beneath the collar of her blouse, all the way down her spine, making her skin prickle. She reached back and felt her hair hanging in clumpy mats.
Her throat tightened. She hated it when she hit the boiling point, so angry that all she could do was cry. And it didn’t help that this guy was still standing over her, guffawing at her mud-covered misery.
She clenched her fists tight, the wet dirt oozing through her fingers, and without thinking she flung two globs of the stuff straight at him. The mud missed his face and landed on his already-stained white T-shirt. Which only set him off into another round of that rumbling laughter.
That’s it! Scooping up another fistful from the ground, she lobbed it at him. This time her aim was true, and it landed on his cheek.
“Ma’am.” He wiped his hand across his face, smearing it even more. “I’m real sorry, you just—you got a little something on your face.” He gestured to his upper lip.
Great. A mud mustache? She swiped the back of her wrist across her face but knew she’d just made it worse. If this set off another fit from him, she might scream.
“Are you done yet?” she asked.
He wiped his eyes. “Sorry.” He held a dirt-covered hand out to her...a hand with long, strong fingers that could definitely make her scream—in a good way.
Wait, what?
Mesmerized, she stared at his hand until he withdrew it. He grabbed a rag from his back pocket and made a show of wiping his hands.
He held up somewhat cleaner fingers. “There. Better?”
“Never mind. I can get up all by myself.”
She drew her legs up to stand, but her shoes skated over the surface of the mud pit and squelched. She glanced at her beautiful brand-new pink Dior suit. Ruined. She’d loved this suit. It had made her feel feminine and businesslike all at once. Now it was destined for the trash heap.
“Might be easier if you take off your shoes.”
Her spirits sank even further. Her once pristine shell-pink Blahniks, barely out of the
