Taming His Wild Girl (Wild Whip Ranch Book 2)

by Lee Savino

  Taming His Wild Girl

  A dark cowboy romance

  Lee Savino

  Tristan Rivers

  Contents

  Taming His Wild Girl

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Also by Lee Savino

  About Lee Savino

  About Tristan Rivers

  Taming His Wild Girl

  Isabelle Stevens was the one who got away. My one regret. But Fate had other plans, and now she's back. She’s lost her family and her dreams, and she needs someone to ride to her rescue.

  Someone like me.

  But Isabelle needs more than a warm meal and a place to lay her head. She needs the strong and loving guidance of a firm and gentle hand.

  And I’m the man who can give her what she needs.

  Taming His Wild Girl is Joel and Isabelle’s story and part of the Wild Whip Ranch series. It can be read as a standalone.

  Prologue

  Joel

  Wild Whip Ranch was a little slice of heaven in British Columbia. At least, I always thought so. Rolling hills framed by the distant slopes of blue mountains. Out in the fields, the sky and earth felt open, endless.

  But some people weren't ever satisfied, even in the midst of such perfection. They booked vacations to our beautiful ranch, feeling the flicker of something wild when they saw our brochure pictures. When they arrived here to answer the call, the mountains made them feel small. It made them mean, unhappy, prone to complaint.

  Mrs. Stevens was of that breed. Unfortunately, she was also one of the ranch's guests, and therefore I was in charge of keeping her happy.

  “Joel?” The pinch-faced city woman had her hands folded across her chest. We stood in the yard between the house and the main barn. The place was pretty as a picture. Mom kept white and red flowers in the window boxes, and due to regular painting and power-washing, the clapboard siding on the white house and red barn sparkled in the sun.

  Mrs. Stevens didn’t look impressed by any of it, the toe of her shiny leather boot tapping in the dirt. You could always tell the ranch hands from the guests—none of us workers had new boots, dust free and polished enough to reflect the light.

  I shoved my white Stetson back on my forehead. “I’ll take good care of your daughter, Mrs. Stevens, ma’am. Don’t you worry.”

  The daughter in question also wore glossy cowboy boots unmarred by a speck of dirt. Isabelle stood quietly beside her mom with her shoulders tight and her hands folded, like one of those ballerina dolls atop a music box. The sort you wind up to make the dancer twirl. A perfect, blank-faced doll with cold blue eyes—that was Isabelle.

  She was also the most beautiful young woman I’d ever seen.

  Mrs. Steven’s no-nonsense brown eyes narrowed. “And you can quit with that cowboy charm of yours, Joel. I mean it, if anything happens to her—”

  I laid a hand on my chest. “I swear I’ll protect Isabelle with my life,” I said, and dipped my head respectfully.

  Mrs. Stevens pursed her lips, unsure if I was mocking her. I probably sounded like I was, but the truth was, I meant it. As aloof and snobbish as Isabelle was, she was someone special, and I’d never let anything happen to her.

  “Just see that you do,” she said at last, and waved an imperious hand, dismissing us.

  Sheesh.

  Mrs. Stevens wasn’t a bad person. She wanted what was best for her eldest child, and she and her husband devoted most of their time to supporting Isabelle in her dream of becoming a world-class ballerina. But that meant a ton of restrictions on Isabelle’s freedoms.

  In the opposite corner of the yard, Isabelle’s younger sister and brother laughed and chatted with my own brothers. They were saddling up and riding out on an overnight adventure. They’d be camping out under the stars, but like for so many of the ranch activities, Isabelle wasn’t allowed to take part.

  If Isabelle was jealous of her siblings, she let not a hint of green onto her beautiful face.

  I stepped in front of her, blocking her view of the rest of the yard. “You ready, tiny dancer?” I said low enough only she could hear, and was rewarded with a tiny uptick in the corner of her mouth. Isabel's expressions were all like that, tight and controlled, especially around her parents.

  I don’t know why, but I wanted to make her smile. If she were older, or I were younger, I could flirt and it’d be okay. But with our age difference, I’d settle for acting like a protective older brother and a gentleman.

  I led her to my brand-spanking-new Ford Ranger and opened the passenger door for her, sweeping my arm in a grand gesture.

  “Madame, your chariot awaits.” I kept my voice deep and smooth, drawling like a Texan. She acknowledged it with a flutter of her lashes. Everything in this girl's life was controlled—her emotions, her movements. Even her days were laid out on a grid, whereas the boundaries of my day were fluid, endless as the distant horizon. My workday stretched between sunrise and sunset—long, lazy hours checking cattle, riding along the fences. Time rolled on and was measured in inhales and exhales, each one different, each one precious. As Isabelle settled next to me, her slim frame rigid, her hands neatly clasped in her lap, I thought for the millionth time, this girl needs to learn how to breathe.

  I pulled out of the ranch gate and turned onto the dirt road that led to the highway. “Nice ride, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Her tone was neutral. I shot a glance at her. She was staring straight ahead. Her reddish-brown hair was twisted into a tight bun as usual, so she couldn’t lay her head back against the headrest. Instead, her long ballerina’s neck was extended, her jaw a horizontal line. Beneath it, her blue-and-tan checkered shirt was buttoned all the way up. She was beautiful, but all sharp edges, and pulled tighter than a spring trap.

  She always looked like this, poised and still as a Degas statue.

  “Have you ever been to a rodeo?” I asked, my truck kicking up dust as it bounced over rocks.

  “No.”

  That was it. No. Isabelle was like her mother—she rarely acknowledged us ranch hands.

  “It’s not the same as ballet,” I joked.

  “Of course not.” She sniffed—another one of her oft-used expressions. Nothing so unladylike as a snort, but conveying disgust all the same. I’d seen the same look on her mother’s face enough times.

  “I think you’ll like it. Though your boots might get dirty,” I teased.

  She arched a cool brow, examining her own polished cowboy boots. “That's fine,'' she deigned to respond.

  I chuckled to myself as I turned onto the main road.

  “Are you laughing at me?” She was practically bristling like a cat, her spine a straight line.

  “Never.”

  “Ah,” she said, “you pity me.” Her voice was cool and deep, mature for a sixteen-year-old.

  “Why do you say that?” I touched the brim of my Stetson, pulling on it a little so it would hide my eyes. Then I realized what I was doing, and pushed my hat back to face her straight on. This was the most Isabella had ever spoken to me. Maybe that was why I’d arranged this little outing. A chance to speak to her, to see if she really was snooty deep down.

  If she was, I wouldn't be disappointed.
Girls like her were high above guys like me, as they should be. On a pedestal, on a stage far above the unwashed masses. That's what a ranch hand was—a member of the unwashed masses, if there ever was one.

  “That's why you did this,” she continued. “You felt sorry for me. Because my parents won't let me ride.”

  It was true. I felt the same measure of pity I’d feel for a songbird trapped in a cage, kept for everybody else's entertainment. Given short glimpses of freedom. Fluttering clipped wings—beautiful but useless, unable to fly.

  “I think it's a shame that they won't let you on a horse,” I answered truthfully. “But I understand where they're coming from. You've got big life goals, tiny dancer. I admire that.”

  “Then why'd you do it? Why did you invite me out?”

  Because I like your company was not an acceptable response. I shrugged. “You’re a guest. Figured it would be good for you to have a little fun.”

  “Fun?” she repeated as if it was a foreign word. I had a feeling she'd speak French with more ease than she would say normal sixteen-year-old things like this is so fun, and I’m having a blast. Fun and Isabelle belonged to two separate foreign countries.

  “Do you enjoy it?”

  She blinked, turning to me. Her eyes were cartoon-huge, and a shade of blue I’d never seen on a person before—dark like a stormy sea, but with a hint of violet. Her eyelashes were thick and dark, even without makeup. “Do I enjoy what?”

  “What you do. Dance. Ballet and stuff. Do you enjoy it?”

  The slim column of her throat worked as she swallowed. “Of course,” she said. “Of course I enjoy it.”

  I hid my grin. Her response was like that of a rancher. A rancher’s life was long hours of hardship. Up before dawn, shoveling manure, spending hours each day caked in mud. Riding over the fields so often, he knows the contour and curve of the land better than his woman's body. If you ask him if he likes what he does, he’ll say he loves it, and defend that opinion fiercely.

  “What do you like about it?”

  “The freedom,” she immediately replied.

  Freedom? Not what I was expecting. But a rancher would say the same thing.

  “Does it hurt?” I was in charge of sweeping the barn floor where Isabelle practiced, keeping it clear of straw or dust, keeping it clean. If I hung around to watch her practice, so what? I took care to pretend I was busy fixing or polishing tack, so if I peeped over once in a while, no one would be the wiser.

  Every day, after a long warm up to recorded piano music, Isabelle bound her feet in a pair of pointe shoes and danced until her toes were bruised, sometimes bloody.

  Isabelle was quiet for so long, I glanced over at her. Those babydoll eyes of hers were fixed on me. “You watch me a lot. Are you a voyeur?”

  I choked. “How does a young woman like you know that word?”

  “I'm not a prude,” she said primly with her knees pressed together. “And I’m not that young.”

  Stop it, Joel. This was a guest’s daughter, and jailbait at that. I kept my gaze firmly on the road.

  “I’m not a voyeur. I just like to watch,” I answered without thinking.

  And she laughed. The bright sound of it stunned me. It was a beautiful, musical thing, rolling like pealing bells. The sound stroked down my body. I gripped the steering wheel tightly as heat crept up my neck.

  “That's not fair,” I told her. “You know I didn't mean anything by that. I couldn’t help…” Now she had me stammering like a kid. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I've never been to see the ballet.”

  “Never?” She arched one delicate brow. “I suppose you wouldn't have,'' she said dismissively.

  And that right there was the worst thing about Isabel Stevens. The snobbishness. It set my teeth on edge.

  “Now, now, no sass. Or else—” I bit off the words. I was close to crossing a line. With a sixteen-year-old guest, no less.

  “Or else?” She lifted a perfectly plucked brow.

  I shifted in my seat. “Or else, consequences.” There, that was vague enough she would leave it alone.

  I wasn’t a dom, not really. Just starting to explore my likes and dislikes. Taking naughty girls over my knee, that was firmly in the like column.

  Not that I’d ever do that to Isabelle. But a girl like her, closer to my age and consenting…

  Now my dick was stirring. I couldn’t sport a hard-on around a guest so I clenched my teeth and fixed my mind on all the stalls I’d have to shovel out tomorrow morning.

  “What sort of consequences?” Isabelle wasn’t dropping it. She looked even more interested, fully turned towards me.

  “Not the sort you'd like.”

  She tilted her head, still studying me. “Would you go to my parents?”

  “Since you're under their care, yes.”

  A long pause. I willed her not to press. “And if I weren't?” Her cheeks were flushed a little.

  I swiped a hand over my face. It was getting hot in here. “If you weren't… If you were old enough, let's just say I’d have ways of teaching you to mind.”

  “Ways? What sort of ways?”

  “Not gonna tell you, darlin’. Let’s just call it… Cowboy correction.”

  She settled back with a little smile on her face. Dancing around the subject of domestic discipline was not how I thought I’d get her to relax. I wiped the sweat from my brow.

  I needed to change the subject. “You didn’t answer my question. The one from before. Does it hurt, tiny dancer?”

  She shrugged, but that wasn’t good enough for me.

  “I've seen your injuries. The way your toes are all black and blue.” Perhaps I was revealing too much of my interest in her, but I wanted an answer. “You say you love it, but does it hurt?”

  “Yes,” she answered quietly. “It hurts.”

  Twenty minutes later, we arrived at Copper Creek Rodeo. It was the biggest one in the province and it drew a ton of people from all over. It took a minute to find a space in the lot, and Isabelle jumped out the truck before I had a chance to open the door for her.

  The rodeo was busy and colorful and loud, the announcer’s voice booming all the way from the arena. The scent of fried food, manure, sweaty crowds of people, and spilled beer shouldn’t have been pleasant, but it was homey. I stole a glance at Isabelle to see if she was sneering at the chaos, but her eyes were shining, head turning in all directions to take it all in.

  “Stay close,” I warned her as I led her through the crowd. Isabelle was shorter than me, her ballerina bun only coming up to my chin. Her posture was perfect: ramrod straight, and with the inherent grace borne of years of strict discipline.

  When someone jostled her, I automatically put my arm around her shoulders and drew her to my side.

  I stiffened. I hadn’t meant to do that, and I half expected her to freak out.

  But to my surprise, she kind of snuggled against me.

  I sucked in a sharp breath. Okay. I shouldn’t be noticing how good her body felt against mine, I knew that. But I’d promised her mom I’d keep her safe. I guessed I’d leave my arm there until we were out of the main drag.

  “Girls keep looking at you,” she commented.

  “Pffft. Not true.”

  “It is. Every girl we pass can’t take her eyes off of you.”

  I gave a noncommittal grunt. Girls liked my looks. The guys were always giving me a hard time about it. But the girls here who stared at me so brazenly were not my type. At all.

  Buckle Bunnies. Cut-offs so short, their asses were hanging out. Plaid shirts all hitched up, hardly covering their bras. Most of them had probably never ridden a horse in their lives. I had nothing against them doing their thing, but they left me cold.

  Isabelle, meanwhile, was goggling at them like she’d never seen girls dressed like prostitutes advertising their wares. Maybe she hadn’t.

  “They’re not real country girls,” I told her. “Wait till you watch our girls doing their stuff in the are
na.”

  She nodded. But when we got to the side of the arena, she paused to undo the top two buttons of her shirt. Before I could stop her or ask what she was doing, she was busy tying a knot in the bottom, baring her pale midriff. My heart just about stopped beating.

  I fixed my eyes on my boots, the discarded peanut shells crunching under my heels. She’s not for the likes of you. But there was a flicker of flame at the edge of my vision.

  Isabelle had pulled numerous pins from her hair, uncoiling her bun. With a shake of her head, the shining sheet of her hair spilled loose. I’d never seen her with her hair down before, and it was longer and redder than I’d imagined, glossy like the coat of a sorrel mare. It slipped over her shoulders and down to the small of her back in a shimmering curtain, and I clenched my jaw and looked away as my body stirred.

  She was stunning. Too young for me, but stunning. A hundred times sexier than all those try-hards.

  I cleared my throat and scanned the arena, looking for a good seat.

  “There are two right there.” She pointed to a space in the front row.

  Suddenly her hand was in mine, a whisper of pure silk and, heaven help me, but I felt myself hardening as she dragged me between the rows of seats. She sat down triumphantly, and I stared at her in wonder. She was transformed. Gone was the tense teen, wound so tight she seemed about to break. In her place was a lovely, lively girl with flushed cheeks and fire sparks in her eyes. This was what she’d given up to be a ballet star—and it stabbed like a pitchfork tine through my heart.

  If it was the last thing I did, I would make sure she enjoyed herself to the max tonight.