The Wrangler. Pamela Britton

she asked.

      The smile he gave her could only be called smug. He whistled.

      Almost instantly she heard the sound of hooves, and if there was one thing she knew, it was horseflesh. The animal that cantered toward her was one of the most beautiful dappled grays she’d ever seen. Black mane and tail, black legs, and a pair of eyes nearly as luminous as his owner’s.

      A Baer Mountain Mustang. She would bet her life on it.

      The gelding—or was it a stallion?—came to a sliding stop practically right next to them, Clinton shooting her a glance—as if curious to see if she’d move out of the way. She didn’t. She’d been around the four-legged creatures long enough to know she had nothing to fear.

      But she’d never seen anything like this one that was pawing the ground. He almost resembled an Andalusian, except he had the head of a cow pony, and those eyes…

      “Is his name Trigger?” she asked as he tapped the ground with his right hoof.

      “No, Buttercup.”

      Buttercup. Right. Only in the movies did horses come to their master’s call. And even then they only did so because some poor sod was behind the cameras with a bucket of grain. Clinton had no such bucket. He calmly walked up to his mount, slipped the metal pipe he’d used to repair the fence into a leather sheath, then mounted up.

      “Where are you going?”

      Just then it started to rain, not tiny droplets of water, either, but fat globules that soaked her blouse almost instantly.

      “That lightning cloud will be overhead before you know it. Best I get my horse under cover.” He tipped his hat at her. “Pleasure meeting you, ma’am.”

      And then Clinton McAlister rode off, not into the sunset, but into the torrential downpour of a thunderstorm.

      Chapter Two

      When it rained in Montana, it rained, Clinton thought, keeping to a slow trot. Of course, he’d been born and raised in this country and so that came as no surprise.

      But it might to the woman he’d left by the roadside. He found himself glancing back, the pool that had already gathered on the brim of his hat streaming in rivulets onto his shirt. Should have brought a jacket. But his soaked clothes didn’t prevent him from pulling back on the reins for an instant. His horse obediently halted. He turned his horse’s head just in time to hear her car door pop open. She disappeared from view.

      At least one of them would stay dry.

      I know about the mustangs.

      Well, he thought, good for her. Knowing about the mustangs and being able to confirm their existence were two different things. Sure, there were those who’d come to the ranch in the hopes of seeing them. Amongst horse enthusiasts the Baer Mountain Mustangs were an urban legend. But the truth was, they weren’t truly wild. The Baer family had kept them contained—and more or less hidden—for nearly two hundred years. Still, word had leaked out. People begged to see them or to help protect them or to film them…. He’d lost count of how many had come before her. And no matter who they might be or how much money they might offer him, he refused to confirm the urban legend was true. That was all he needed: a bunch of horse enthusiasts knocking on his door.

      “Come on,” he told Buttercup—yes, Buttercup—a private joke between him and his grandmother. “Let’s head back to the ranch before we get washed down a canyon.”

      The gray gelding obediently moved into a canter, the gait as smooth as a carousel horse, or so his niece assured him. He never bothered to pull his horse’s mane short and it flicked his hand with each tug of the horse’s legs. It might be colder than the lair of a snake, but he loved riding in the rain. Thunder boomed overhead. Electricity charged the air and Clint found himself on the verge of a smile.

      “Easy there,” he told his horse who flicked its head up in response to the steady rumble. “We’ll be back at the ranch in a minute.”

      There was a small rise straight ahead, and beyond that, another one. But he paused at the top of the first hill, and despite telling himself not to, he headed back to the road. Through streamers of rain, he could see the fuzzy outline of taillights.

      She was going toward the ranch.

      “Crap,” he muttered. He watched for a second longer, waiting to see if she made a U-turn. She didn’t. After a minute or two, she disappeared over another hill.

      Now what? Did he go back to the house? Sure as certain, she’d be there, bugging him, asking about his herd of horses. Blah, blah, blah….

      He just about rode in the other direction.

      Instead he spurred his horse into a faster canter. If he hurried, he’d beat her back.

      The ranch was surrounded by rolling hills and as he came down a softly sloping incline, he could just make out her car’s headlights. It still rained, and by now, he was soaked to the bone, but it didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the woman who hadn’t taken “no” for an answer.

      “Careful,” he told Buttercup as his horse’s front hooves lost purchase on the slick ground. They slid for a bit, leaving twin furrows in the soggy ground.

      In the valley below, if one wanted to label it a valley because it was really more of a shallow bowl, sat the Baer Mountain Ranch. Two hundred years before, the main home had been nothing more than a one-room shack. Over the past hundred years, that’d changed. The home had morphed from a single room into a more conventional two-story ranch house. Nothing ostentatious—that wasn’t the Baer family way—but it was a good-sized property, surrounded by various outbuildings. A three-story, three-sided metal hay barn stood off in the distance. Another metal shed that stored various farm equipment sat alongside it. A larger wooden structure that was a two-story horse stable was left of the house. Behind the barn, near the back pasture they’d carved a pad for an arena that was ringed by two-inch pipes. Various corrals attached to the side of it accommodated still more horses as well as cattle. It was, to outsiders, a normal ranch. And for the most part, that’s exactly what it was. But the rest of it—the horses in the rugged mountains to the east—that was something he’d never talk about.

      Not even to a good-looking, sweet-eyed interloper.

      A horse out in pasture neighed as he approached the twelve-stall barn, Clint thinking absently that he and a few of the guys would need to buck some hay into the second-story loft pretty soon. Maybe he could get started on that task right now. That way, he could avoid the pretty little brunette pulling into the circular driveway. Point of fact, she’d arrived ahead of him, and, since he didn’t see her in her car, he assumed Gigi had let her in.

      Terrific, he thought, hopping off and tugging the reins over his horse’s head right as another clap of thunder rang out. That meant he’d be forced to be nice to her. Although maybe not. Maybe she’d be gone by the time he untacked. Gigi could be a real pit bull if she didn’t like someone.

      The rain came down harder, hitting the tin roof of the barn like a million shards of glass. He took his time even though he’d started to grow cold in his soaked-to-the-bone shirt. The double doors to the barn afforded him a partial view of the front of the house. Nobody drove away.

      “Damn,” he muttered, unclipping his horse from the cross-ties when the cold became too much to bear. “Don’t get comfortable in there,” he told Buttercup as he let him loose in his stall. “I’ll be back out when this rain stops.”

      She wasn’t gone.

      He saw her car the instant he stepped out of the barn. To be honest, that kind of stunned him. They didn’t usually get many visitors in these parts, and when they did, Gigi usually sent them on their way damn quickly—especially if they were asking about the mustangs. For a second or two he hung back. The white window trim around the two-story home had turned gray from the rain. The yellow daisies Gigi loved and that she’d planted along the front porch were bowing their heads in protest.