Page 5 of Wicked Cowboy

The upstairs hall is quiet. Frankie’s door is shut. A faint light glows under the frame. I knock and get no answer. Quickly, I slip in and leave her the tray of cocoa and cookies.

The storm outside drums on the roof, steady and relentless. I head to my own room, kick off my boots, and turn the shower hot.

The pipes groan, and for a moment, I hear another set of pipes upstairs come to life.

Water rushes through the walls, two showers running in tandem. The thought is harmless until it’s not.

Steam fills the room. The heat soaks into my skin, but the rest of me’s restless. I can’t stop hearing her laugh, the bright sound bouncing around in my head. The way she’d looked standing in the doorway, her cheeks flushed, hair dripping, eyes wide withgratitude and something else she probably didn’t even know she was giving off.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. This is ridiculous. She’s a stranger, just a tourist passing through a storm.

Still, the awareness lingers. The rhythm of water, the faint scent of her shampoo lingering in my memory, the soft cadence of her voice.

I tell myself to focus on the work waiting after the storm. The fences, the stalls, the half-crushed pumpkin stand, but all I can think about is her upstairs in my grandmother’s house, wrapped in a towel, finally warm.

The kind of woman I promised myself I’d never want again.

I shut off the tap and brace my hands on the sink, water dripping from my hair, heart thudding heavier than it should.

Outside, thunder rolls low and slow, echoing through the valley. The storm isn’t letting up.

Neither, apparently, am I.

Chapter three

Frankie

Morning at Brush Creek Ranch dawns early. I start to here people moving around at the ungodly time of five in the morning.

The storm passed sometime before dawn, leaving a sky washed clean and pale. Sunrise filters through the curtains. I should feel out of place, a city girl marooned in cowboy country, but the bed is warm, the sheets smell faintly of cedar and soap, and for the first time in months, I slept.

I stretch under the covers, listening to the faint creak of footsteps downstairs. A deep voice murmurs something I can’t quite hear, then laughter. Martha, I think. The grandmother with eyes that see everything.

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything but cookies since Denver. After my shower and the treats that Rhett left in my room, I fell asleep hard.

Now, I slip out of bed, pull on a soft gray T-shirt from my bag and the plaid flannel hanging over the chair, definitely Rhett’s, judging by the size and the scent. It’s ridiculous how comforting it feels. I wonder if he left it for me.

When I walk down the stairs barefoot, morning light spills through the windows, catching the steam curling up from the kitchen.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Martha says, standing at the stove in a floral apron. “Sleep all right?”

“Like the dead,” I admit.

“Coffee?” she asks, already pouring. “We’ve got pancakes too. Luke’s idea. He thinks the world runs on carbs.”

“Doesn’t it?” I grin. “I’m a big believer in that theory.”

“Smart girl.” She slides a mug toward me, eyes twinkling. “You look much better dry.”

Before I can answer, the back door swings open and a gust of cold air follows Rhett inside.

He’s in a black T-shirt and jeans, sleeves shoved up to reveal tanned forearms that really have no business existing before breakfast. He stops when he sees me at the counter wearing his flannel.

Something in his expression flickers, there and gone. “Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I echo, suddenly very aware that I smell like his soap.

Luke appears behind him, grinning like a man who just found gossip worth spreading. “Well, doesn’t this look domestic,” he says, grabbing a pancake straight off the stack.