“We’ve earned it, Firefly,” Lyle said, resting his forehead against hers. “Fought for it. We’ll keep building it, piece by piece. This whole big messy, beautiful life.”
“And we’ll do it together.”
He smiled, kissed her temple, and held her just a little tighter.
And under the stars, in a town that had saved her piece by piece, Heather Prescott Watkins danced in the arms of the man who’d found her when she was lost. And loved her home again.
Forever.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at Mike’s story.
16
COWBOY ELITE: MIKE - EXCERPT
Chapter One
* * *
The Texas sun hit Olivia Langford like a skillet to the face the moment she stepped off the Greyhound. Heat shimmered up from the cracked asphalt, and the air tasted like dust, diesel, and something green she couldn't name. Probably hay. Or hope. She wasn't sure which scared her more.
She squinted behind her designer sunglasses, the rim of her ballcap pulled low in her best attempt at invisibility. With one hand gripping the battered handle of a carry-on case that looked suspiciously like it had tumbled down an airport escalator, and the other shielding her eyes, she scanned her surroundings.
"Sweet mercy, is this the drop-off or the end of the world?" she muttered under her breath. Dust clung to her ankles like cling wrap, stirred up by the wind and painted everything a shade of sunbaked beige.
This wasn't her world. Not even close.
A large wooden sign swayed between two posts a few feet from the road: Welcome to Watkins Dude Ranch – Hospitality with a Cowboy Heart. Below it, a wrought iron gate stood open, creaking slightly in the breeze. The gravel road beyond curled through fields dotted with bluebonnets, grazing horses and fat, contented cattle. Heat shimmered off the spread like a dream. Or a curse, depending on your perspective.
She sniffed. Even the air was different here. Cleaner. Raw. With just a hint of manure.
Great. I've traded Chanel No. 5 for Eau de Livestock.
But it was honest, at least. No one here was pretending to be something they weren't.
Unlike her.
She hitched her bag upright and started forward, dodging a pile of something brown and steaming on the side of the gravel. The little dot on her Google map said the Watkins Ranch's front office was another half mile down the dusty, gravel driveway, but the bus hadn't been interested in taking her that far.
Each step reminded her how unfit her city legs were for trudging anything longer than a SoHo block. Her sandals, which the catalogue had listed as comfort shoes, were starting to cut into her heels. And that was before the goat.
The bleat came from nowhere.
One second, the field beside her was calm. The next, a dirty-white blur of speed launched out from a busted gatepost, scattering gravel and making a sound halfway between a scream and a yodel.
"Oh—my—what?—"
The goat tore straight toward her like it'd spotted a threat to democracy and her suitcase was ground zero. Liv let out a shriek and dropped her bag just in time for the goat to leap over it, nearly knocking her over as it careened down the road.
"Hey now!" came a voice behind her, loud and laced with laughter. "Tiny's out again!"
Before Liv could eke out a gasp, a man on horseback rode up from the trail behind, reins tight in one hand and a worn Stetson pulled low over a face so rugged and handsome she couldn’t help but stare. Her heart thudded against her chest and she was honest enough to admit this adrenaline surge wasn’t solely due to a scary goat.
He slid down from the saddle in one fluid move that made her New Yorker brain hiccup. The man had no right to be that athletic, that tan, or that confident.
Brow furrowed, mouth curved into a half-smile, the cowboy studied her for all of five seconds, just long enough to make Liv feel like she'd been X-rayed.
"You must be the new pastry chef," he drawled, his voice like warm molasses over gravel.
