The Cowboy's Second Chance. Christyne Butler

Landon Cartwright, my name’s Maggie Stevens. Welcome to the Crescent Moon. You’re invited to breakfast come morning if you’re still here.”

      She hurried through the door, closing it firmly behind her. Landon remained rooted to the spot and stared after her before he dumped the meds on the bench.

      Had he heard right?

      He pulled the help-wanted ad from his jeans.

      Yep, Crescent Moon.

      Bam, bam, bam.

      Maggie allowed one eye to open wide enough to look at the clock on her nightstand. A low groan escaped her lips. Despite the morning light filling her bedroom, it wasn’t quite six o’clock. Unlike most nights when she’d fall into bed already half asleep, it’d taken hours before she’d stopped reliving the events of last night. For a day that started so simply, it certainly ended with a bang.

      More like an explosion.

      She pictured the tall, handsome stranger sleeping in her barn and relived his soul-stirring, stomach-dropping kiss. The memory made Maggie’s insides plunge all the way to her toes.

      The same as they did last night when Landon had grabbed her and pulled her close in his truck. She had seen his head snap back against the seat rest when Willie had hit the brakes. Her first instinct had been to make sure he was okay. His first instinct, evidently, had been to cover her mouth with his. She’d been so surprised by his actions and her response that it had taken a groan from him to make her pull away.

      Racy was always telling her she needed a little excitement in her life. Nothing like breaking up a fight and bringing home a not-so-conscious sexy stranger to liven things up.

      A stranger who cared very much for his horse.

      Intuition told her the cowboy and G.W. were best friends, despite the sad conditions of both his truck and trailer. Maybe it was because he’d wanted to stay in the barn. Or the relief in his eyes when he’d first seen the medicine. A relief quickly hidden behind a mask of pride.

      Bam, bam, bam.

      Maggie groaned again and crawled from her bed. She crossed to one of the windows facing the barn. It had to be Hank. No matter how many times she’d told him it was okay to start the workday a little later on Sundays, he was always up at dawn. Thanks to ranch hands disappearing and the list of chores growing daily, she was up with the sun most days, too. Hank had agreed to do something away from the house until everyone else was up and moving. But not this morning. No, it sounded as if he was right beneath her window.

      White eyelet curtains ruffled in the cool morning breeze, obscuring her view. She pulled them to the side and squinted at the cloudless blue sky and the promise of another hot summer day. She scanned the swimming hole in the backyard and the empty foreman’s cabin until her eyes came to rest on the tall figure wielding a hammer at the main corral.

      That wasn’t Hank.

      There was no way anyone could confuse her ranch hand, a shorter, solid, fatherly type, with the man outside her window. A lean, muscular body poured into a black T-shirt and matching jeans, stood tall in the morning light. His long hair was tied at the base of his neck under a black Stetson.

      “Landon Cartwright,” Maggie whispered against the windowpane.

      He dug into a pocket before dropping to a crouch. Her next breath came out in a low hum as the denim covering his backside pulled taut. His shirt did the same over muscular arms and shoulders as he lifted a wooden slat. He braced it with his knee, and then—bam, bam, bam—three blows of the hammer sank three nails to secure the board in place.

      Okay, that was impressive.

      He rose and circled the corral, stopping to test each section, making quick work of an important job she hadn’t had time to tackle in the last month.

      Thanks to the work she’d done with a horse for Destiny’s mayor and the fact that his wife was a cousin of Tucker Hargrove, she’d won first crack at taming a horse purchased by the A-list movie star for his talented but spoiled daughter. Black Jack, a wild mustang who fit his name perfectly, was due to arrive the day after next.

      Landon stopped and turned, his gaze narrowing on her window.

      Maggie dropped the curtain and scooted to the side, bracing herself against the flowery wallpaper. Her heart raced.

      “He’s a man doing ordinary chores,” she chided, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. “Get over it.”

      She wished it were that easy. His dark eyes and calloused yet gentle touch had haunted her deep into the night. Willie was right. She’d brought home another stray. Without a second thought to the pile of bills on her desk, she’d handed over medicine she should’ve kept for her own horses.

      But she couldn’t stop herself.

      The palomino was a beauty, with its golden coat, dark eyes, and white mane and tail. Its owner was a cowboy who’d stepped in when most would’ve minded their own business, and got the crap kicked out of him for his troubles.

      A cowboy who was now finishing one of the many chores at her ranch.

      A cowboy who’d kissed her, but likely wouldn’t even remember.

      It was for the best.

      With all last night’s excitement, she hadn’t given a second thought to what the loss of her ranch hands would mean until long after she’d crawled into bed. Once again, she toyed with the idea of talking to this stranger about the job. Lord knows she needed the help, but should she take the first cowboy that sashayed down the road?

      The air remained silent. Maggie glanced past the edge of the curtain in time to see his knees hit the ground as he grabbed on to the side of the corral.

      She raced from her bedroom, out the back door and across the cool, green grass and the dusty, dirt-packed drive. When she reached him, he was back on his feet, but bent at the waist.

      “Are you all right?”

      He took his time rising to his full height. One hand rubbed his stomach, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. The other hung at his side, the hammer clenched in his fist. His dark eyes roamed over her, from her bed-head hair to her naked toes.

      “Is that Clint Eastwood?”

      Maggie followed his pointed gaze, and let loose a low groan, her face and neck growing hot. Her pajamas consisted of a tank top, emblazed with a head shot of the legendary actor, and matching loose cotton pants, covered with horseshoes and saddles, that hung low on her waist.

      “They were a gift.” She fidgeted. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

      He tugged his Stetson lower. “Tired. I was up most of the night with G.W.”

      “How is he?”

      “Fine.”

      Maggie waited for him to go into detail, but the firm press of his lips told her he was finished.

      “But you’re not.”

      He stared at her for a long moment. Maggie returned his gaze. With his dark skin and hat pulled low, it was hard to see the varying shades of the shiner around his eye, but at least he was able to open it. Her toes curled into the dirt under his steady gaze.

      “I’m fine, too,” he said at last.

      “Better than fine the way you wielded that hammer.”

      “I didn’t know I had an audience.”

      A flush of heat stained Maggie’s cheeks. “Things are pretty quiet around here on Sunday mornings.”

      “Well, after waking to find a shotgun in my face—”

      “What?”

      “I think I surprised one of your ranch hands.” He shoved a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “I told