Page 2 of Wild and Wanted

Theresa Calhoun might appear small and softly spoken, and Clay might be twenty-eight and a rodeo superstar who’d been taking care of himself for over a decade, but he had no desire to be at the ass end of his mother’s feisty Irish temperament should one of the guests tattle on him for not smiling enough.

Not saying boy howdy enough. And giddy up. And freaking purrrrdy.

Dutifully, Clay lifted his hat in acknowledgement of the half dozen people applauding from the small set of wooden bleachers that sat ringside, wiping at the sweat and the cling of wet hair to his brow with the inside of his upper arm.

And that’s when he saw her, the applause fading away as his gaze landed on a woman standing to the side of the bleachers.

Fancy new boots, pristine new hat, shiny new belt buckle catching the sun as it threaded through blue jeans that looked like they’d been bought yesterday. Jeans that did not cling or bling but still showcased her long coltish legs anyway.

Despite her curated garb, she looked as out of place as possible. Like she was trying too damn hard to fit in, too damn hard to be a weekend cowgirl, which was everything he despised about the dude ranch, and yet… something grabbed at him and he couldn’t look away from her as she shimmered like a mirage in the last vestiges of the dust.

Despite the dust and the distance, a strange hyperawareness of her sharpened his visual acuity as he assessed the mystery woman. She was a few years younger than him – maybe? – and her hair was the colour of Electra’s mane, the caramel blonde disappearing down her back. There was a smattering of freckles speckling her nose and cheeks, and her eyes – currently locked on him – were some kind of blue-grey that reminded him of the purple haze over the mountains in the evenings.

She looked vaguely familiar and yet not because he’d have definitely remembered her.

Clay realised he was staring. But then, so was she. And not in that bold, knowing way that he was used to from women. That how about it look, accompanied by a flirty smile and a hip pop. Maybe a chest thrust. She seemed… surprised. Or maybe that was wary? Unsure of herself. But also… curious? Her teeth worried her bottom lip at the same time her fingers tangled together in front of her in a nervous gesture.

Like a skittish horse wanting to come closer but unsure of the consequences.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t anything like the women that usually caught his attention. She wasn’t busty, curvy or flirty. She wasn’t giving him the eye and walking toward him with a confident swing in her hips. And yet there was something utterly compelling about her he couldn’t explain.

Since his injury, his appetite – and not just for food – had taken a hit. He was still so fucking angry about his body letting him down. Angry at the doctors and officials who had clanged the death knell on his career. Angry that he hadn’t had a say in any of it.

Too angry for socialising. For flirting. Way too angry for fucking.

Until now. Until something stirred in him for the first time in months. Something that plucked at places he usually kept hidden away deep inside. As well as places that he didn’t.

Like his dick.

Nodding in mystery woman’s direction, he crammed his hat on his head. He didn’t know what to expect; maybe a nod in return, hopefully a smile lifting those luscious lips that mirrored and acknowledged this strange pull he felt? But she just blinked as if startled and most definitely skittish as her left foot took a tiny step backwards.

‘Boy howdy,’ slipped quietly from his lips without conscious thought.

Now there was a filly he wouldn’t mind riding.

2

STEVIE

At twenty-two years of age, Stephanie Everhart – Stevie to her friends – had never in her life seen anything as wild and untamed as what she’d just witnessed.

And it was not the furious horse that held her attention.

Born and bred in Boston into comfortable wealth, she was more silver spoon, private girls’ school, vacations at Martha’s Vineyard than dude ranch. But she could not take her eyes off the cowboy who had just tamed an angry, bucking horse into submission. When the horse had reared, she’d half expected a bolt of jagged white light to strike from the sky ahead, but this cowboy hadn’t flinched; he’d just held on and her pulse was still racing from the exhilarating display. From the absolute calm and control the cowboy had exhibited in the face of such feral fury. Like he was used to being in command.

Used to bending things to his will.

She’d held her breath for what felt like the entire display of dominance, her breathing erratic now as it tried to catch up. What must it feel like to be so… in control? So damn… sure of yourself? Because this guy, this cowboy, oozed confidence from every pore of his body and she’d never seen anything so magnificent in all her days.

Stevie held her breath again as he removed his hat to reveal sweat-slicked hair plastered on his forehead but falling free and wild behind into a dark, shaggy tangle of untamed curls brushing at the collar of his plaid shirt. His stare caught hers across the distance and the electricity in his liquid amber depths – like lightning in whisky – almost caused her to startle.

Her eyes widened as she exhaled in a husky rush.

The low rise of his hat and the wild gesticulations of the horse had hidden his features from full view until now. Now, as he stared at her – as she stared at him – his electric gaze bold in a way that was just as commanding as his horse skills, Stevie could make out every one of his features even through the film of disappearing dust.

His mouth was a grim slash in a face that could have been hewn from the mountains behind him – hard and craggy, beautiful but foreboding. His jawline, although hidden beneath whiskers as dark and feral as his hair, was set as hard as the stony peaks rising into the sky, and his cheekbones were as prominent as the rocky shelves jutting from the flat, vertical walls.

Still unable to look away, Stevie absently chewed at her bottom lip as her eyes wandered lower. To the way his plaid flannel shirt opened at the neck to expose the bronzed column of his throat and how it fit across his chest and was rolled to his elbows showcasing his forearms. Ropey forearms that had flexed and tensed, dancing beneath the casing of his flesh as he’d held the reins tight.