The Wrangler
Page 1
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
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.
Books by Pamela Britton
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
985—COWBOY LESSONS
1040—COWBOY TROUBLE
1122—COWBOY M.D.
1143—COWBOY VET
1166—COWGIRL’S CEO
HQN BOOKS
DANGEROUS CURVES
IN THE GROOVE
ON THE EDGE
TO THE LIMIT
TOTAL CONTROL
ON THE MOVE
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 wasn’t here to ogle him. She had a business proposition for Mr. McAlister, and there was no time like the present.
She checked her rearview mirror. No one behind her. Not that she’d expected anyone this far from civilization. She was on a private gravel road, with nothing but acres and acres of Montana grassland stretching to the left and right. Straight ahead, the Big Belt Mountain range stood, snow covering the tops of them like icing on a cake. They seemed to be far off in the distance, but she knew the Baer family owned land right up into those mountains. The sheer scope of their property took her breath away.
Even from inside her road-weary car she could hear the clink-clink-clink of metal-on-metal. It must have masked the sound of her approach because the cowboy still hadn’t turned.
She shut off her car, thought for a second about honking, then nixed the idea. Better to greet him personally.
A stiff breeze all but slapped her in the face the instant she stepped out of the car’s warm interior. There was a thunderstorm off to her left. Though her vision wasn’t what it used to be, she’d been able to follow its progress as she’d driven. The wind was pressing Mr. McAlister’s buttoned-down shirt against his back, and tugging at her own short brown strands.
“Hello,” she called out.
He still didn’t hear her. The breeze had snatched her words away. That same wind almost caught Mr. McAlister’s hat. He reached for it quickly, and had to turn toward her, dipping his head into the wind to stop it from blowing away.
He caught sight of her.
“Hi,” she said, waving.
He didn’t answer. But that was okay. Sam was incapable of speech, anyway. His shirt was open in the front. And that chest…
Oh, my.
Six perfectly symmetrical muscles bulged, the upper portion covered by a light dusting of hair. But even more startling were his eyes. Luminous, they were. Blue. But so light in color, they almost seemed to glow. Those eyes narrowed in on her.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.
His blond eyebrows drew together in what could only be called a frown. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting company. Not surprising given they were at least thirty miles from Williams, Montana—and at least two miles from his home—if her navigation system was correct. She must have been a sight standing there in her fancy floral skirt, white blouse and sensible shoes.
She should have worn jeans.
“Can I help you?” he called out at last. She hadn’t gone blind j
ust yet—not officially, at least—but she didn’t need eyes to know he was not happy to see her. Why? she wondered.
“Do you always treat your fence posts like that?” she asked, trying to coax a smile out of him. “Or was it something it said?”
He glanced at the dark green rod he’d been pounding into the ground. On either side of it strands of barbwire hung like Christmas tinsel, glinting in the sun.
“Someone ran into the old one,” he said, nodding toward an L-shaped post on the ground. “Needs to be replaced before our cattle get loose.”
He delivered the words in a monotone. No hint of emotion. Not even a tiny twinkle in his eyes.
“Does that happen often?” she asked with a grin of her own. “Cows making a run for the hills?”
He tipped his hat back, wiped his forehead with his arm while he scanned her blue rental car. He wore gloves, she noticed, the beige leather palms worn smooth like black patent leather.
“More often than you might think,” he said.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Then it must be true.”
He stared at her. “What must be true?”
“That the grass is always greener on the other side.” She amped up the volume of her smile. “Or taller, as the case may be.”
“If you’ve lost your way,” he said after a long moment, “the main road is back the other direction.” He lifted the metal pole he’d been using to pound the post into the ground.
“Actually,” she persisted, making her way around the front of her car, “I’m here to see you.”
He straightened again.
“At least, I think I’m here to see you.” Her rubber soles crunched, eating up the rocks, with every step she took. “You are Clinton McAlister, aren’t you?”
But she knew he was and if she thought he’d appeared irritated before, it was nothing compared to the glance he shot her now. “Look, lady. Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. So you can just turn that car right around. I’m not interested.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
His eyebrows lifted. “No?”
This was the man who’d graduated from University of California Davis magna cum laude, who had a degree in veterinary medicine? Who used words like ain’t and lady…like some kind of cartoon cowboy?
She’d been told what to expect. Sort of. Because what people had failed to tell her was how incredibly handsome he was. Sam was tall, well above average height, and so she wasn’t used to men who stood a full head taller than herself. And he was fit. She’d always been attracted to men with wide shoulders, but Clinton McAlister looked more like a member of a rowing team than a cowboy.
The storm in the distance let out a rumble, one that sounded close by. They both turned. Rain hung in streamers from the bottom of a nearby cloud, the top so bibulous it resembled some sort of gigantic tick. Samantha began to wonder if they shouldn’t seek cover.
“I’m here to talk to you about the Baer Mountain Mustangs,” she said, over the fading sound of thunder.
That got his attention. She could see his pupils flare with something, although what exactly that emotion was she couldn’t tell.
“Don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” he said, turning back to his task.
She rushed forward. “Mr. McAlister, wait,” she said. “I know you’re thinking I’ll just go away if you deny it, but I won’t. I’m not like the people who wrote books and articles on your horses. The ones you managed to send away without confirming that the Baer Mountain Mustangs live on your property. But I know they’re here—the herd of horses whose roots trace back to the Native Americans who settled this land. I’ve heard firsthand from one of your former wranglers.”
There was an embankment to the right of the road, one whose steep slope was camouflaged by thick grass. Unfortunately, with her narrowing field of vision, she neglected to calculate just how sharp an incline it was. She went careening toward him like a wind-driven beach ball, very nearly skidding into him. The only reason she didn’t was because he reached out and stopped her. Samantha gasped.
He was sweaty. His body was hard. He smelled like leather and sage.
And she was very, very attracted to him.
“Lady, get in your car and drive back to town. I don’t know nothing about Baer Mountain Mustangs and that storm’s coming fast. Road’ll be washed out if you don’t hurry.”
She finally caught her breath, stepped back from him. “Sorry,” she said, dusting off her lap—though she hadn’t gotten her skirt dirty. “About almost knocking you over, but I’m not going anywhere. Not until I see them.”
He was back to glaring at her again and Samantha couldn’t help staring at his eyes. They were the most remarkable color she’d ever seen and it was all she could do not to lean in and examine them closer. So blue. So light. So…pure.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said, turning away from her.
She was almost relieved that he’d broken eye contact. “Wasting my time how?” she asked. “In getting you to admit they exist?”
He picked up the metal tool again—he’d dropped it to stop her awkward descent—and she noticed then that it was a large pipe that was capped off at one end. He fit it over the top of the fence post and then, with a bunching of muscles, he lifted, shoving the pipe down hard.
Bam.
“Ouch,” she cried, plugging her ears. It was like being inside a bell.
Clinton McAlister didn’t appear to notice.
She moved away from him. Her peripheral vision might be fading fast, but a sudden darkening of the ground around them told her that the thunderstorm was almost on top of them—just as he’d predicted.
Bam.
“Mr. McAlister,” she said during a break in sound, “I know that, somehow, the Baer family has managed to hide the mustangs all these years.” She covered her ears again just in time to avoid the next bang. “And I know you’re the man in charge of the secret herd.”
He faced her. Sam let loose a sigh of relief. “Time for you to go,” was all he said. He pointed behind her.
Sam turned. The thunderstorm. It was close enough that she could smell rain in the air.
“If I were you, I’d get under cover fast,” he said, reaching in his pocket. He pulled out a metallic rod of some sort. Sam watched as he made quick work of attaching the loose wire to the metal post.
“Just how’d you get out here, anyway?” she asked.
The smile he gave her could only be called smug. He whistled.
Almost instantly she heard the sound of hooves, and if there was one thing she knew, it was horseflesh. The animal that cantered toward her was one of the most beautiful dappled grays she’d ever seen. Black mane and tail, black legs, and a pair of eyes nearly as luminous as his owner’s.
A Baer Mountain Mustang. She would bet her life on it.
The gelding—or was it a stallion?—came to a sliding stop practically right next to them, Clinton shooting her a glance—as if curious to see if she’d move out of the way. She didn’t. She’d been around the four-legged creatures long enough to know she had nothing to fear.
But she’d never seen anything like this one that was pawing the ground. He almost resembled an Andalusian, except he had the head of a cow pony, and those eyes…
“Is his name Trigger?” she asked as he tapped the ground with his right hoof.
“No, Buttercup.”
Buttercup. Right. Only in the movies did horses come to their master’s call. And even then they only did so because some poor sod was behind the cameras with a bucket of grain. Clinton had no such bucket. He calmly walked up to his mount, slipped the metal pipe he’d used to repair the fence into a leather sheath, then mounted up.
“Where are you going?”
Just then it started to rain, not tiny droplets of water, either, but fat globules that soaked her blouse almost instantly.
“That lightning cloud will be overhead before you know it. Best I get my horse under cover.�
� He tipped his hat at her. “Pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”
And then Clinton McAlister rode off, not into the sunset, but into the torrential downpour of a thunderstorm.
Chapter Two
When it rained in Montana, it rained, Clinton thought, keeping to a slow trot. Of course, he’d been born and raised in this country and so that came as no surprise.
But it might to the woman he’d left by the roadside. He found himself glancing back, the pool that had already gathered on the brim of his hat streaming in rivulets onto his shirt. Should have brought a jacket. But his soaked clothes didn’t prevent him from pulling back on the reins for an instant. His horse obediently halted. He turned his horse’s head just in time to hear her car door pop open. She disappeared from view.
At least one of them would stay dry.
I know about the mustangs.
Well, he thought, good for her. Knowing about the mustangs and being able to confirm their existence were two different things. Sure, there were those who’d come to the ranch in the hopes of seeing them. Amongst horse enthusiasts the Baer Mountain Mustangs were an urban legend. But the truth was, they weren’t truly wild. The Baer family had kept them contained—and more or less hidden—for nearly two hundred years. Still, word had leaked out. People begged to see them or to help protect them or to film them…. He’d lost count of how many had come before her. And no matter who they might be or how much money they might offer him, he refused to confirm the urban legend was true. That was all he needed: a bunch of horse enthusiasts knocking on his door.