Page 22 of Wild and Wanted

Unbuckling, Mags thanked her brother and jumped to the ground. Stevie barely waited for Mags to vacate the vehicle before she swooshed herself across the bench seat to follow her out.

Mags turned to face Stevie, unwittingly blocking her exit. ‘See you tomorrow morning? Maybe we make it a little later though given it’s the weekend.’

‘Sure.’ She nodded as she prepared to step out of the vehicle. ‘I’ll just get out here and walk, it’s only about five minutes.’

Mags frowned and shook her head, but it was Clay who spoke. ‘I’m sure it is in the day but it’s dark out and the moon isn’t up yet, and I have to pass your cabin to get to mine. The last thing we want is Miss Stephanie Everhart tripping over a rock and landing on her face or getting bit by a snake or attacked by a bear.’

Stevie blinked. She figured there were probably snakes out there somewhere, but bears? ‘You have bears?’

‘Yup.’ Mags nodded.

She peered out the windscreen into the vast expanse of inky blackness. The only light beyond the ring of farm buildings was the diamante sparkle of stars. Who knew what hid in the camouflage of night. Still, Stevie seriously weighed up her risks between a bear and this man because they were both dangerous in their own ways.

No, Clay couldn’t slash her to death with his claws, but he could lacerate her already bruised heart if she wasn’t careful. It wouldn’t be fatal but it might feel like it for a while.

‘Fine.’ She huffed out a breath as she reached for her seat belt and clicked it in.

Mags shut the door with a grin and said, ‘Y’all be good now,’ before heading to the ranch house.

Clay didn’t say anything, just took his foot off the brake and set the pickup in motion.

They drove in silence for a minute, which crackled ominously, like the charge in the atmosphere before a storm broke. When Stevie could take the tension no longer she glanced across at him, noting the gleaming white of his knuckles in the dark of the cab as his fingers wrapped and unwrapped from the wheel. Imagined those fingers cuffing her throat like she’d read in a book once, the hero kissing the heroine hard and deep as his fingers lightly squeezed.

Stevie blinked at the XXX-rated image – what on earth was wrong with her?

Banishing it from her head, she cleared her throat. ‘Are there really bears?’

‘Yes.’ He nodded but didn’t look at her, concentrating on the track ahead, his headlights punching into the night, illuminating their path. He was going slowly, taking the bumpy track at a relaxed pace, causing the cab to rock a little. ‘We’ve never had an attack or even a close encounter. But you want to take that risk?’

‘No, I guess not.’

He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes trained firmly on the terrain outside the windscreen, but now it was broken, Stevie couldn’t countenance more silence.

‘Those pictures on the wall. At The Corral. They were you?’

Yeah, she’d googled him. Even watched a few videos of him on the backs of wild, bucking broncos, hand in the air, steady and composed like he’d been with Electra. Watching him being tossed on his ass, her heart in her mouth.

She’d scrolled through a plethora of photographs, both official – on his Insta account – and very unofficial from appreciative women (mostly) who’d snapped a sneaky candid shot when he hadn’t been looking. She’d also found out all his vital career stats, going down internet rabbit holes about scoring and judging, sponsorship deals and trophies, buckles and prize money as well as his injury count.

From minor things through to his career-ending back fractures. There was a video of that, too, but she hadn’t wanted to watch.

‘Yes.’

‘They’re… amazing.’ It was such an insipid word to use for photographs that had captured the essence of Clay the rodeo star, Clay the cowboy. Everything from the sweat spraying from his forehead to the muscular cording of his forearms, to the fringes on his chaps flying out horizontally, to the horse as its hind legs kicked out two foot off the ground.

‘You’re amazing,’ she corrected. ‘All those buckles and trophies and sponsorships.’

His jaw tightened. ‘Mags’s too chatty for her own good.’

‘Oh no, it wasn’t… I… googled you.’

That got his attention, his head snapping to the right, his eyes meeting hers, lightning in whisky flaring out at her across the bench seat.

‘Do you miss it?’

He didn’t say anything for several beats as he returned his attention to the track and when he did it was a low mutter. ‘Only every damn day.’

The regret, the yearning, the thwarted ambition in his voice ruffled the fine hairs on her nape and Stevie didn’t know what to say to make it better for him, surprised by how much she wanted to.