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A hard day’s work just got a hell of a lot harder with Delilah around.

Never had a woman working alongside me on my ranch. Let alone this woman. I like it. A whole fucking lot.

She’s intriguing. Easy to talk to. It still doesn’t mean I trust her.

I wipe sweat from my face and look up from beneath the brim of my hat. Lips pursed in concentration just like at the distillery, Delilah sweeps sandpaper over a rusty fence post. The work’s been a grueling, all-day affair, hot and humid, and she’s stuck it out.

She’s a hard worker. Stays quiet. Listens. Hasn’t once complained. I respect the hell out of her for it. Hell, I pegged her wrong.

At lunchtime, Wyoma brought us out bottled water and roast beef sandwiches. We ate them in the shade of an oak tree, barely speaking. Now, it’s nearing quitting time, and the sky above us is black.

“Think we can finish before the storm?” Delilah scans the horizon, hands propped on her trim hips. In her tight blue jeans and sexy little white tank top, she could pass for a cowgirl any day of the week.

“Not a race,” I call out from my place near the bull pen.

She wiggles her brows. “Everything’s a race. Besides, you said you wanted it done. We can do it.”

I chuckle. Stubborn girl.

My gaze locks on her bee-stung lips, her thick halo of golden hair, and a rush of heat floods my gut. Fuck. Whatever this woman is doing to me is dangerous.

Fifteen minutes later, light rain begins to fall.

“Pack up,” I call out as I stalk toward her. “I’ll feed the bulls, then we’ll get the hell out of here.”

She nods and scrambles for her tools.

I keep an eye on the clouds. We’ve got nasty weather on top of us. Summer storms in Montana are nothing to scoff at.

I step into the bull pen, keeping a hand out to ward off Whiskey Business and Bulldozer as they circle. They know me, their wagging tails show it, but even I don’t trust the bastards. Bulls can turn on a dime. By the time I check their water and refill their food, the rain is coming down in sheets.

When I glance at Delilah, packing up the saddlebag on Pryor, I see that her white sneakers are soaked through by mud and rain. She’s freezing. Fuck.

As I head to the gate, ready to get us both to some shelter, there’s no warning. Lightning flashes. A violent crash of thunder shakes the air.

The bulls panic. Bulldozer runs to the shelter of the galvanized awning, but Whiskey Business charges his way into the fence frame. It shakes, bends, and then he’s out, bucking his way over the damaged wire.

I move my boots, sprinting after him. “Fuck.”

And then I see Delilah.

Whiskey Business is headed right for her.

I wave my arms and bellow, “Delilah, run!”

Her eyes flash open.

The bull surges forward.

Panic seizes me. A roar rips from my lungs. “No!”

But I’m too far away. Too late.

Everything that comes next is a nightmare in slow motion. Whiskey Business rushes at her. Delilah turns and runs, but after a second, stops and then dives to her right. She hits the muddy ground, hard, and doesn’t move.

I hold my breath and run, racing toward her, praying that the bull doesn’t decide to turn around and charge. Luckily, he doesn’t, disappearing into the tree line near the end of the fence.

My heart lurches as I crash to my knees beside her. Delilah’s sprawled face down in the mud, her long golden hair fanned out.