Page 54 of Wild Sanctuary

And sure enough, the bachelor auction is exactly the spectacle I expected.

A local guy named Brent goes first and makes a show of flexing, which gets a roar of laughter and a spirited bidding war between two women who are clearly doing it for sport. Sam Tucker, who must be pushing seventy, shuffles onto the stage to thunderous applause and does a slow spin that brings the house down. Mrs. Henderson bids on him herself—fifty dollars she probably doesn’t have—and he tips his hat so gallantly that half the tent tears up.

Then Colt takes the stage, and the place erupts.

He strolls up the steps like he’s done this a thousand times—which, knowing Colt, he probably has—and stands there with that lazy grin and those blue eyes scanning the crowd like every woman in the room is getting a personal invitation to bid. He tips his hat before rolling his sleeves up one slow turn at a time.

The man knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Two hundred!” A blonde near the front doesn’t even wait for Shelby to open.

“Two-fifty!” Another hand, further back.

Colt points at the blonde. “Hey, Annabelle. You look real nice tonight.”

Annabelle turns the color of a tomato as the woman beside her fans herself with a napkin.

“Three hundred!” A brunette in a denim jacket stands up from her chair to make sure she’s seen.

“Three-fifty!” Annabelle isn’t going quietly.

“Four hundred.” This from a tall raven-haired woman leaning against the bar with the calm energy of a woman who’s been waiting all night for this exact moment.

Colt grins at her. “Claire-bear. I was wondering when you’d show up.”

“Don’t call me Claire-bear in public, Colt Hartley.”

“Yes ma’am.” He touches the brim of his hat with a grin that belies his words. “Four hundred from the lady who doesn’t want a nickname. Do I hear four-fifty?”

“Four-fifty, and he has to cook me dinner too!” The brunette in the denim jacket has edged closer to the stage.

Colt puts his hand over his heart. “Darlin’, I’ll cook you dinner, breakfast, and anything in between.”

June drops her face into her hands. “He’s going to get us sued.”

“Five hundred.” That’s from Claire at the bar, who hasn’t even raised her voice, though she does quirk an eyebrow that’s nothing short of seductive.

“Five-ten!” Annabelle’s upper lip is covered in a light sheen of sweat as she waves her arms, drawing attention back her way.

Colt looks between them like a man watching a tennis match he’s thoroughly enjoying. “Ladies, I’m flattered. Truly. There’s plenty of Colton Hartley to go⁠—”

“Six hundred.” Every head in the place turns at the sound of a new voice from the back, coming from a woman I’ve never seen before. She’s maybe mid-forties, polished in a way that reads more Bozeman than Blackstone Creek, with her arms crossed, a drink in hand, and the energy of someone who walked in tonight with a plan. She doesn’t stand. Doesn’t wave. Just says the number like she’s ordering coffee.

Everyone goes silent.

Claire narrows her eyes while Annabelle sits down. The brunette in the denim jacket mutters something to her friend, and they both laugh softly.

Colt peers toward the back, shading his eyes against the lights. “Well now. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We haven’t.” She takes a sip of her drink. “But I know your name, Colt Hartley. Knew it when you were riding saddle bronc in Pendleton and drawing the biggest crowds on the circuit.”

Colt’s grin doesn’t drop, but his reply comes a beat too fast.

“That was a long time ago, sweetheart.”

“Not as long as you think.” She swirls her drink with a self-satisfied grin. “Let’s make it seven hundred. I don’t like to lose.”

The crowd catches up a second later and the laughter rolls through the tent like a wave.