The Wrangler. Pamela Britton

quickly, and had to turn toward her, dipping his head into the wind to stop it from blowing away.

      He caught sight of her.

      “Hi,” she said, waving.

      He didn’t answer. But that was okay. Sam was incapable of speech, anyway. His shirt was open in the front. And that chest…

      Oh, my.

      Six perfectly symmetrical muscles bulged, the upper portion covered by a light dusting of hair. But even more startling were his eyes. Luminous, they were. Blue. But so light in color, they almost seemed to glow. Those eyes narrowed in on her.

      “Sorry to interrupt,” she said.

      His blond eyebrows drew together in what could only be called a frown. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting company. Not surprising given they were at least thirty miles from Williams, Montana—and at least two miles from his home—if her navigation system was correct. She must have been a sight standing there in her fancy floral skirt, white blouse and sensible shoes.

      She should have worn jeans.

      “Can I help you?” he called out at last. She hadn’t gone blind just yet—not officially, at least—but she didn’t need eyes to know he was not happy to see her. Why? she wondered.

      “Do you always treat your fence posts like that?” she asked, trying to coax a smile out of him. “Or was it something it said?”

      He glanced at the dark green rod he’d been pounding into the ground. On either side of it strands of barbwire hung like Christmas tinsel, glinting in the sun.

      “Someone ran into the old one,” he said, nodding toward an L-shaped post on the ground. “Needs to be replaced before our cattle get loose.”

      He delivered the words in a monotone. No hint of emotion. Not even a tiny twinkle in his eyes.

      “Does that happen often?” she asked with a grin of her own. “Cows making a run for the hills?”

      He tipped his hat back, wiped his forehead with his arm while he scanned her blue rental car. He wore gloves, she noticed, the beige leather palms worn smooth like black patent leather.

      “More often than you might think,” he said.

      “Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Then it must be true.”

      He stared at her. “What must be true?”

      “That the grass is always greener on the other side.” She amped up the volume of her smile. “Or taller, as the case may be.”

      “If you’ve lost your way,” he said after a long moment, “the main road is back the other direction.” He lifted the metal pole he’d been using to pound the post into the ground.

      “Actually,” she persisted, making her way around the front of her car, “I’m here to see you.”

      He straightened again.

      “At least, I think I’m here to see you.” Her rubber soles crunched, eating up the rocks, with every step she took. “You are Clinton McAlister, aren’t you?”

      But she knew he was and if she thought he’d appeared irritated before, it was nothing compared to the glance he shot her now. “Look, lady. Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying. So you can just turn that car right around. I’m not interested.”

      “I’m not selling anything.”

      His eyebrows lifted. “No?”

      This was the man who’d graduated from University of California Davis magna cum laude, who had a degree in veterinary medicine? Who used words like ain’t and lady…like some kind of cartoon cowboy?

      She’d been told what to expect. Sort of. Because what people had failed to tell her was how incredibly handsome he was. Sam was tall, well above average height, and so she wasn’t used to men who stood a full head taller than herself. And he was fit. She’d always been attracted to men with wide shoulders, but Clinton McAlister looked more like a member of a rowing team than a cowboy.

      The storm in the distance let out a rumble, one that sounded close by. They both turned. Rain hung in streamers from the bottom of a nearby cloud, the top so bibulous it resembled some sort of gigantic tick. Samantha began to wonder if they shouldn’t seek cover.

      “I’m here to talk to you about the Baer Mountain Mustangs,” she said, over the fading sound of thunder.

      That got his attention. She could see his pupils flare with something, although what exactly that emotion was she couldn’t tell.

      “Don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” he said, turning back to his task.

      She rushed forward. “Mr. McAlister, wait,” she said. “I know you’re thinking I’ll just go away if you deny it, but I won’t. I’m not like the people who wrote books and articles on your horses. The ones you managed to send away without confirming that the Baer Mountain Mustangs live on your property. But I know they’re here—the herd of horses whose roots trace back to the Native Americans who settled this land. I’ve heard firsthand from one of your former wranglers.”

      There was an embankment to the right of the road, one whose steep slope was camouflaged by thick grass. Unfortunately, with her narrowing field of vision, she neglected to calculate just how sharp an incline it was. She went careening toward him like a wind-driven beach ball, very nearly skidding into him. The only reason she didn’t was because he reached out and stopped her. Samantha gasped.

      He was sweaty. His body was hard. He smelled like leather and sage.

      And she was very, very attracted to him.

      “Lady, get in your car and drive back to town. I don’t know nothing about Baer Mountain Mustangs and that storm’s coming fast. Road’ll be washed out if you don’t hurry.”

      She finally caught her breath, stepped back from him. “Sorry,” she said, dusting off her lap—though she hadn’t gotten her skirt dirty. “About almost knocking you over, but I’m not going anywhere. Not until I see them.”

      He was back to glaring at her again and Samantha couldn’t help staring at his eyes. They were the most remarkable color she’d ever seen and it was all she could do not to lean in and examine them closer. So blue. So light. So…pure.

      “You’re wasting your time,” he said, turning away from her.

      She was almost relieved that he’d broken eye contact. “Wasting my time how?” she asked. “In getting you to admit they exist?”

      He picked up the metal tool again—he’d dropped it to stop her awkward descent—and she noticed then that it was a large pipe that was capped off at one end. He fit it over the top of the fence post and then, with a bunching of muscles, he lifted, shoving the pipe down hard.

      Bam.

      “Ouch,” she cried, plugging her ears. It was like being inside a bell.

      Clinton McAlister didn’t appear to notice.

      She moved away from him. Her peripheral vision might be fading fast, but a sudden darkening of the ground around them told her that the thunderstorm was almost on top of them—just as he’d predicted.

      Bam.

      “Mr. McAlister,” she said during a break in sound, “I know that, somehow, the Baer family has managed to hide the mustangs all these years.” She covered her ears again just in time to avoid the next bang. “And I know you’re the man in charge of the secret herd.”

      He faced her. Sam let loose a sigh of relief. “Time for you to go,” was all he said. He pointed behind her.

      Sam turned. The thunderstorm. It was close enough that she could smell rain in the air.

      “If I were you, I’d get under cover fast,” he said, reaching in his pocket. He pulled out a metallic