Page 31 of The Wrangler and the Tenderfoot

I rested my chin on his shoulder. “I’m not most people.”

He snorted. “No. You’re not.”

We cut through a stand of trees, then up a shallow incline to a place where the world opened up, and the stars were thick overhead. The breeze cooled the sweat on my neck, and the only sound was the easy rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

We didn’t talk for a long time, just rode in silence, letting the world shrink to the small space we occupied. Finally, he said, “My dad used to bake cookies. The good kind, from scratch. We’d eat them hot, straight off the pan. Even if it was a hundred degrees out, he’d run the oven. Said the smell made the house feel alive.”

I smiled. “My granddad did the same. Only he burned everything. We’d eat the middle and leave the edges for the crows.”

Reid laughed. “I’d have liked your granddad. My mother died when I was eight. Horse accident. She was tough. Stronger than my dad, some days. But when she was gone, it left a hole nobody could patch. After that, it was just us.”

I cleared my throat as Ghost ambled through the brush. “My mom was a gambler. Never met a slot machine she couldn’t lose at. She’d disappear for days, come home with empty pockets and stories about how next time she’d win. I grew up fast.”

He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I learned how to take care of myself. How to see people for what they are.”

“You don’t scare easily, do you?”

“Not really.”

He steered the horse along the ridge, picking a path by instinct. The moon hung low, painting everything silver. We rode past the last of the cattle, up a grade so rocky that even Ghost had to slow down and pick his steps, and at the top, the trees parted to show a single, battered structure squatting at the edge of a low ridge.

It was a limestone cabin, maybe twelve by twelve, with a rusted tin roof and a door cut to fit. The whole thing leaned slightly into the wind.

Reid dismounted and tied Ghost’s reins to a dead fence post. The horse dropped his head and started working on the grass.

“You live here?” I asked, half joking.

He snorted. “Nah. Line shack. For when you’re running fence on this side and don’t feel like hiking back before sunrise.”

He opened the door with a quick flick. Inside, it was even smaller than it looked. A surprisingly large cot stood there. It was probably twin size with an iron frame, nothing fancy, with a folded wool blanket at the foot. A blackened woodstove stood in one corner. Two metal hooks were on the wall, one holding a rolled-up yellow slicker, the other empty. A single shelf held a battered tin cup and a box of matches so old I doubted they’d strike.

Everything was clean, but not in a showy way. Just swept, kept neat. The only signs of wildlife were three empty mouse traps, set and forgotten.

“Nice place,” I said, running a finger along the shelf. Dust, but not much.

He shrugged. “It’s better than sleeping in the mud.”

I turned, caught him watching me. He didn’t try to look away.

“What?” I said, deflecting with a tilt of my head.

He didn’t smile. “Nothing. Just… you’re different, up here. Like you belong.”

I leaned against the shelf, arms crossed. “You barely know me.”

He stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I know enough.”

We barely made it inside before the need overtook us. I pressed myself into his chest, our lips crashing together before either of us could second-guess what we were doing. He caught me, strong and certain, hands cupping my ass, lifting me enough that I lost the floor. My boots scuffed on the wood, then my feet slipped out from under me entirely.

He set me down on the edge of the cot, then stood over me, knees braced against the mattress, hands in my hair. We were both still half-lit by the spill of moon through the window, our shadows overlapping on the far wall.

He took his time. The first time he touched my face, it was careful, checking, but the rest was all want. He worked my blouse up and over my head, watching as the fabric slid off of my arms. Then he bent, nose brushing down my jaw and throat, inhaling. He peeled his shirt off, then let it drop to the floor.

I went for his belt. There was nothing careful about it. My hands shook, but not from nerves, from adrenaline, from the thrill of being wanted by someone who’d just spent the last hour tracking me and now planned to devour me whole. I got the buckle undone, slid the leather through the loops with a practiced tug, then unzipped his jeans. He didn’t help, he just let me work, that steady heat behind his eyes the only encouragement I needed.

I pushed his jeans down, knuckles brushing the hard length tenting his briefs. He groaned, the sound vibrating against my neck, and ran his hands up under my bra, palming my breasts, thumb sweeping across my nipples until I bit my lip to keep from whimpering.