Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

have to find another one.

      Then there was the fact that despite St. Elmo’s fire burning between my thighs and the stress of Dink’s injury, this was the first night in many I wasn’t itching to be on the road at first light. I didn’t know what that meant, but it intrigued me enough to want to find out.

      Hank’s breathing grew thick and even. I figured he’d fallen asleep. Then he said, “No one will think any less of you if you bail.”

      No one. Except me.

      How would I react if the situation at the ranch went all Chernobyl on us? I honestly didn’t know. I used to be calm, methodical under pressure. The more intense, the better. I hadn’t fired a gun since being discharged from the Marines. Although I didn’t think I’d need a padded room if I was around gunfire, I wasn’t convinced I could stare down the sights of my barrel and pull the trigger and kill someone if my life or someone else’s depended on it.

      That made me more dangerous than the enemy.

      Hank didn’t need to know all that. In fact, until now, I hadn’t allowed my brain the time it needed to process and analyze what would happen if I found myself in a dangerous situation again.

      I didn’t really like what I found.

      A change of subject was in order. “I didn’t think you were coming back tonight.”

      “Why would you think that?”

      “Jenna seems very important to you.” I didn’t want to come out and say I thought he’d sleep with her. I’d noticed the way he watched her when he didn’t think anyone was looking. How protective he was of her when he’d met us on the road. I don’t know what I was hoping or expecting to hear. A denial of involvement or a true confession about his love for her, maybe.

      At least, then there would be no question he was off the market. No reason for me to be thinking of him as anything except a roommate and a coworker.

      There was a long pause before he responded. “Parish?”

      “Yeah?”

      “You should get some sleep.”

      Chapter 4

      I guess I’d decided to stay because I was still in my bed when Hank tapped the bedpost by my head with the tip of his boot. So much for the privacy curtain. I fought the urge to reach for the rifle, not because I needed it, but because it grounded me. Gave me a safe place to start my day.

      “Get up,” he said. “Target practice in fifteen.”

      “Damn!” I jumped up and bumped into Hank. He held the coffee mug away from his body to keep it from sloshing all over his brown flannel shirt. “Why didn’t you wake me?” My voice rose a couple octaves as I scurried around pulling my jeans on, tugging on my long sleeve shirt, and stomping my feet into my boots.

      I couldn’t believe I’d slept so late. I had chores to do. I’d have to skip breakfast, but I’d survive. I wasn’t a slacker and I didn’t want anyone thinking I was on my second day.

      Hank snagged my arm as I rushed by and brought me up short like a dog hitting the end of its leash. “Take a breath.”

      I sucked in a quick lungful of oxygen and let it out.

      “Again,” he ordered.

      I tried tugging my arm away, but his grip was firm and unless I was up for breaking his thumb first thing in the morning, I was stuck. I closed my eyes and expanded my lungs. In through my nose and out through my mouth. Isn’t that how the meditation people say to do it?

      “Sit.”

      He didn’t give me the option of complying; he simply pushed the curtain aside and deposited me on the chair and placed his mug on the table in front of me.

      “Drink,” he said, releasing my arm. He grabbed a paper wrapped bundle from the table and tossed it to me. “Eat. I covered your chores this morning.”

      I wanted to say how I carried my own weight, how I didn’t want to be treated differently because I was a woman, but the aroma coming from the package made me salivate and I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I tore the paper off and ripped two large bites out of the homemade egg and bacon sandwich Lottie had made. Butter dripped down my wrist and I licked it up before taking another bite. I glanced up to see him staring at me as if I were a starved wolf diving nose first into a fresh kill.

      I slowed my chewing and choked down the large bite of food. I tucked a smaller bite of the sandwich into the corner of my mouth and said, “I don’t need you to cover for me.”

      “Fair enough,” he said with a nod of his head. His tone was even, but the muscle in his jaw was working overtime. “Most people would have just said, ‘thank you.’”

      “I didn’t ask for your help.”

      He stared at me as if he could figure me out if he concentrated hard enough. Then he straddled the other chair and faced me over the table. He reached across, stole the half-eaten sandwich from my hand, and took a hefty bite. I snagged it back, barely suppressing a growl. I was hungry.

      He shook his head as if he was shaking off the mad and when he looked back up at me, his teeth flashed behind his grin. “Does that really work? All that toughness. The growling and gnashing of teeth. Does it usually scare the men away?”

      It had. Until this morning. I didn’t like that he’d called me on it. “I’ve got targets to hit,” I said, laying the remainder of my breakfast down. I grabbed my jacket off the peg, picked up my rifle and cartridges, and headed out the door.

      The sound of his chuckle irked me, but the sound of the paper crinkling as he ate the last of my breakfast sandwich stung more than if he’d rubbed gunpowder into my fresh wound.

      I was still ravenous.

      Hank caught up with me by the time I’d made it to the barn and steered me toward the shooting range. He and I were the last two to arrive at the makeshift range Dale had put together behind the tractors and other heavy equipment. There was a plateau about three hundred yards out, its vertical face acting as a natural barrier for bullets that missed their mark into the targets attached to old bales of hay. All the livestock had been cleared from the field and placed in another pasture for safety.

      Jenna and Quinn, the young hand with the ever-present toothpick, stood near a folding table that held a mountain of ammunition and were already taking shots. Dale sat on top of a large round bale of hay with a pair of binoculars, monitoring the targets down range. They were about fifty yards out, which wasn’t very far for a rifle, and Quinn was missing high more times than not.

      Jenna was doing a better job, but not by much. Next up were Santos and the other new hand, Alby. Of the four, Santos had the best form and more shots on target than the others combined. I stifled a groan. If these were the guys who’d have my back in a dangerous situation or, Lord help me, a gunfight, we were in trouble. Up Shit Creek—no paddle, no canoe, no hip waders—with a big fat hairy turd heading our way kind of trouble.

      “What was that?” Hank asked, leaning into me to be heard over the rifle fire and earplugs.

      Ok, so maybe my groan wasn’t so silent. “We’re doomed.”

      I was accustomed to shooting with men and women who’d a least gone through basic training. Then there were my sniper friends who would make these people seem like five-year-olds with a Daisy pellet gun.

      A smirk tipped up the corner of his mouth and he said, “You think you can do better?”

      “In my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back and facing away from the target.”

      Hank chuckled, and for the first time, a full smile creased his face. He was quite striking when he smiled, in a rugged and sincere cowboy sort of way. His teeth were white, but a tad off perfect alignment, adding to his allure. A couple of days of stubble didn’t hurt either. I glanced away to wipe the goofy grin off my face. I’d worked with many men