Guardian Cowboy. Carla Cassidy

served drinks and food, made lively chatter when necessary and pocketed the tips to add to the stash she hoped would one day be enough for a down payment on a nice little house.

      For more years than she could count, she’d been living in the bar’s back room. When Gary Runyon, the owner of the bar, had offered her not only a job but the opportunity to live rent-free in the bar’s back room, she’d been thrilled. Before that, she’d been bunking with friends whenever possible and far too often sleeping in her car.

      But she was soon going to be thirty years old and, while she loved what she did, she definitely wanted to make some changes in her life.

      It was almost one in the morning when the place began to empty out, although the official closing time was two. As she approached the booth with the men from the Holiday Ranch, she saw that Sawyer was in his usual slumped position and totally out to the world.

      She handed Flint McCay the tab for the table and shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know why that man drinks.”

      “He’s definitely a lightweight,” Clay Madison said, his blond hair gleaming in the light overhead.

      “And if I remember right, it’s your turn to take him home,” Mac McBride said to Clay.

      “No way, I took him in my truck last Saturday night,” Clay protested.

      “Well, I’m pretty sure it isn’t my turn,” Mac replied with a huff.

      As the men argued about who would take the passed-out cowboy home and put him to bed, a plan quickly formulated in Janis’s head.

      You can’t do that, a little voice whispered. It would be too wicked. It’s a totally crazy idea.

      But maybe it would prove a point with Sawyer. Maybe it would be exactly what he needed.

      “Why don’t you all carry him into the back room and put him in my bed?” she said before she could second-guess herself.

      “For real?” Clay’s blue eyes stared at her in surprise.

      “For real,” she replied. “I’d sure like to make him see that he’s got a problem with his drinking. Maybe if he thinks he flirted with me all night and then wound up in my bed, he’ll think twice about drinking himself into a stupor again.”

      “It’s a great idea,” Flint replied.

      “A totally awesome idea,” Clay agreed with a laugh.

      Minutes later, the men had settled their tab and Sawyer had been carried into the back room Janis called home. The big, tall, cowboy didn’t even blink an eye as they laid him in the middle of her lavender sheets.

      Clay tossed Sawyer’s brown hat onto one of the wooden posts of the four-poster bed.

      “I’ll see to it that he gets home in the morning,” she said. “And this will be our little secret, at least for a day or two.”

      “Absolutely,” Clay replied, his blue eyes sparkling with humor. “We won’t say a word until you tell him the truth.”

      As they walked out into the bar area, regret instantly filled the back of her throat. Who did she think she was? Who was she to teach Sawyer Quincy any kind of a lesson?

      Still, she hated the way the others made fun of him. From everything she’d heard, and from her own experience, she knew he was a terrific guy.

      She suspected he had some kind of allergy to something in beer. There was nothing else to explain the fact that after two or three beers he completely passed out to the world.

      Now it was too late to halt what she’d already put in motion. All the men had left and Sawyer was in her bed.

      It was just after two when she locked up the bar for the night and returned to her room to discover that he hadn’t moved an inch.

      It was a vision out of her wildest fantasies...only, in her fantasies, he was always conscious and gazing at her with adoring eyes.

      She grabbed a nightgown out of one of her dresser drawers and headed into the small bathroom for a quick shower.

      When she re-entered the bedroom, she knew exactly what she was going to do. It was definitely wicked—it was totally naughty—but she hoped to prove a point and, in doing so, she had to make it all look as real as possible.

      She stood next to the bed and stared down at him. He had rugged features. His face was suntanned from the outside work he did and yet the fine lines that feathered outward from the corners of his eyes were definitely laugh lines. His eyelashes were thick and long, and a hint of whiskers darkened his lower, strong jaw.

      Her gaze swept across his broad shoulders beneath his brown-plaid, button-up shirt. “In for a penny,” she whispered to herself and then leaned over to unbutton his shirt.

      She had it unfastened and had managed to maneuver one of his arms out of the sleeve when he mumbled something unintelligible.

      She froze, her heart thumping madly. He immediately quieted again. She waited a minute and then drew in a deep breath and rolled him over to get the other arm out of the shirt.

      She eyed the buttons on his jeans. Dare she? She had to. The only way this would really work was if he was out of his jeans.

      Carefully, she unfastened them, thankful to see that he was wearing black briefs or boxers beneath. As she started to work the jeans down his body, he raised his hips to aid her.

      “Thanks, Clay,” he muttered.

      She got the jeans down to his ankles and realized she hadn’t taken off his boots. She tugged them off, along with his socks, and then dropped his jeans to the floor. She took out his wallet and placed it on the nightstand.

      Lordy, lordy... A fully dressed Sawyer was sexy, but a nearly naked Sawyer wearing only a pair of black boxers and stretched out on her lavender sheets nearly stopped her heart.

      She turned out the overhead light, leaving only the illumination from a night-light plugged into an outlet next to the bed. She fully admitted that she’d lost her ever-lovin’ mind. But now she was fully committed to being temporarily insane.

      Carefully, she crawled into bed, not touching him in any way. He smelled good, like minty soap, a woodsy cologne and a hint of beer.

      Even though she wasn’t touching him, his body heat warmed her in a delicious way and she fought the impulse to lean into him.

      As she closed her eyes, she wished this was for real. She wished Sawyer Quincy was in her bed because he wanted to be, because he had chosen to be with her out of all the women in Bitterroot.

      * * *

      Consciousness came to Sawyer in bits and pieces. The first thing he noticed was that the sheets smelled like flowers. With his eyes still closed, he frowned, wondering how flowers had gotten into his bed.

      Of course it wouldn’t be the first time he’d awakened after a Saturday night of drinking to find something strange in his bed. The other men were real jokesters and in the past he’d awakened to discover he was sharing the bed with a salami sandwich, a dead fish, a prickly tumbleweed and his saddle, just to name a few.

      He cracked open an eyelid to the early morning sun drifting through a window...not his window. He’d never seen that window before with its frilly white curtains. Where in the hell was he? With both eyes wide open, the next thing he noted was that he was in a four-poster bed with purple sheets. His hat hung on one of the posters, as if it belonged there.

      He turned over and nearly jumped out of the bed. A woman...in the bed...with him... Who was she? She faced away from him and all he could see was short, thick, dark hair and creamy bare shoulders beneath hot-pink spaghetti straps.

      His shock forced a loud gasp from his throat. He remained frozen in surprise as the woman rolled over, shoved the hair away from her face and gave him a sleepy, sexy smile.

      “Good morning, lover,” she said.

      Lover...