Page 1 of Wicked Cowboy

Chapter one

Frankie

The GPS lady tells me to “turn right,” so naturally I do, and that’s how I end up driving my rental car straight through a pumpkin display.

Not around it.Through it.

Orange orbs explode under my bumper. Seeds everywhere. One jack-o’-lantern grins at me through the cracked windshield like it knows I’ve just committed agricultural manslaughter.

I sit in stunned silence for a full three seconds before I laugh. It’s that or cry, and I didn’t use waterproof mascara this morning.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Just another day in the glamorous life of Francesca Andrews—recently dumped, recently laid off, and on her way to a “Witchy Women Healing Retreat” where I was supposed to find inner peace and maybe hex my ex for stealing my dog.

The universe, however, decided I needed a pit stop in humiliation first.

I climb out in heeled boots that are definitely not meant for dirt gravel roads. The cold mountain air nips at my cheeks, smelling like pine and rain. My coat flaps in the wind as I try to pry a pumpkin out from under the car. It’s wedged tight.

“Okay,” I mutter. “You win.”

Bootsteps crunch behind me.

When I turn, a man fills the horizon. Tall. Broad. Dark hair, darker beard, green eyes that I wouldn’t mind staring into for hours. Flannel rolled to the elbows, jeans worn in all the right places. Every romance novel cowboy hero I’ve read runs through my head, and this guy has them beat in the sexy department by a gazillion percent.

“Let me guess,” he says, voice deep enough to rattle the gourds. “You thought this was a parking lot.”

“I was testing the display’s durability,” I reply. “You’re welcome, it failed.”

He crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You realize you’re on private property.”

“Then your road needs better signage. Maybe a moat.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. “Lady, you just flattened half my pumpkins.”

“Technically only a third,” I say. “The rest committed group suicide.”

He gives a low exhale that might be a laugh. “City people.”

“Guilty. I’m Francesca. Frankie.” I stick out my hand.

He looks at it like it’s radioactive. “Rhett Carson.”

“Hi, Rhett Carson. Sorry about your squash casualties.”

He takes in my heels, my coat, the half-murdered pumpkin clinging to my mirror. “You headed somewhere important?”

“The Witchy Women retreat,” I admit. “Supposed to be just up this road.”

“This is Brush Creek Ranch. Retreat’s another five miles past the ridge.”

Of course it is. “The GPS lady lied! I think I’m stuck.”

“Probably.”

He crouches beside the car, inspecting the damage. I try not to stare at the way his flannel pulls across his back. “You flooded it,” he mutters. “I can tow you up to the shop.”

“I can call roadside assistance.”

“Cell service here’s spotty.”