Cowboy Strong. Kelli Ireland

disappearing from view. “Disturbingly true,” she called, her voice muffled by the thick wooden wall that separated them. “True enough, in fact, that I’m not exactly sure how to reply.”

      “I would say that depends on whether or not you’re still seeing that suit. What was his name? It was a city... Kincaid? Watson? Portland? Nashville?”

      “His name was Dallas.” Thick walls or not, her amused response came through loud and clear.

      “Still seeing him?” he pressed. It took a few minutes for her to stick her head around the corner and answer with a grin. Every second he waited deepened his vague but persistent unease.

      “Nope. Turns out he had a very weird penchant for... Never mind. The answer is no. I’m not dating the city boy anymore.” One eye narrowed. “Why?”

      Desire for the fiery redhead quickened his pulse, prompting Ty to move away from Gizmo and peer into Mackenzie’s—Kenzie’s—stall as she moved back inside. “Just want to make sure you know there’s no need to be jealous of Gizmo, darlin’. Since you’re city-free, I’ll let you make moon eyes at me anytime.”

      ‘“Let me,’ huh?” Her laugh was rich yet delicate, the sound enticingly deceptive. She might look like a fragile waif and sound like an angel, but she was a powerful threat in the arena and hell’s own temptress between the sheets. “Keep dreaming, Covington. I don’t make moon eyes for anyone, but particularly for bed partners who park their boots by the door instead of under the bed with the intent to stay awhile.”

      He hadn’t heard her complain before. Their long-standing history in the arena had always been fun. Before a rodeo, they’d establish the ground rules, the winner gaining something he, or she, wanted to experience together, though it had always been in bed. These postcompetition hookups allowed him to blow off a little steam and manage any residual adrenaline and ramped-up aggression after the long days on the rodeo circuit. He and Kenzie had skipped a few opportunities to knock boots in the past, but only when one or the other was temporarily involved with someone else. And it was always temporary. Neither of them was programmed for long-term relationships, and that was what he adored about her. No expectations, no threat to either’s independence and no hard feelings when he and Gizmo took home the top prize instead of her and her mare, Search for Independence, or Indie, which they did more often than not.

      Still...here they were, chasing each other for spots in the finals, knowing they’d likely end up in a face-off at some point in the competition.

      Ty absently pulled a piece of a gum out of his shirt pocket, his mind shifting to the first elimination early tomorrow morning.

      Gizmo tossed his head and bugled, knocking one front hoof against the stall door, his eyes never leaving the sweet treat Ty held between two fingers.

      “Fine. Take it. Your breath is horrible anyway.” He handed the horse a piece of bubble gum and fought not to laugh as Gizmo seemed to grin, delicately plucking the treat from Ty’s fingertips.

      “Sometimes I wonder if Gizmo realizes you’re more than a walking, talking soda jerk of sugary goodness.”

      Gizmo shoved him hard with his nose. Ty stepped away, just out of reach of the horse’s flapping lips. “Enough,” he mumbled, gently pushing Gizmo’s face from his shirt pocket. “You’re embarrassing me.”

      The horse tossed his head and continued to chew his gum with exaggerated enthusiasm.

      Unfurling the in-stall water hose, Kenzie filled Indie’s water buckets, watching to ensure the mare didn’t step on the hose as she moved around, inspecting the new space.

      “So,” Kenzie called out to Ty, “how’s the dude ranch endeavor going?”

      Ty leaned against Indie’s stall door. “It’s been far more successful than we thought it would be, actually.” They’d have to have another two years before they were in the black regularly. No way was he revealing that to a Malone, though. Wouldn’t surprise him if her family lit winter fires with random dollar bills they had lying around their ranch. Kenzie had never known the hand-to-mouth existence he’d lived for a large part of his life. She couldn’t understand.

      Shaking off the discomfort of the chasm of differences in their socioeconomic positions, Ty continued, “Cade’s fiancée has been amazing at getting us prime advertising and exposure. Thanks to her efforts, we were rated a five-star resort. She’s pretty great.”

      “I heard Cade had popped the question.” She twisted the spigot off before coiling the hose. “You like her?”

      “I do. Quite a bit, actually. She’s just what he needed.” From any other woman, Ty would have weighed the comment for its jealousy component. Not with Kenzie. She was far too practical, and for that he was grateful. But it wasn’t gratitude that resulted in the small twinge of emotion that pricked his heart. Truth? He had no idea what it was. And he had no intention of putting it under his internal microscope for evaluations. Some things were better off left alone, and this was one of those things. Besides, there was a bigger elephant standing between them.

      He intended to take the title at this rodeo, and probably from this very woman.

      * * *

      KENZIE MALONE MOVED through Indie’s stall with the ease born of thousands of hours doing the same repetitive tasks for a variety of horses, some of them hers but most her father’s. Indie was all hers, though, and the mare was special. She was one of the first fillies out of a line Kenzie had started the moment she’d received the first half of her trust six years ago. She’d been eighteen.

      The animal was an anomaly at five years old. Indie possessed more intuition, more instinctive responses than could be cataloged. Riding her was a dream. All Kenzie had to do was keep one leg on each side of the saddle and park her mind in the middle. The horse did the rest. Indie knew where to step, when and why, and that left Kenzie with less to do than fans might believe. Yet riding Indie always provided a thrill—almost as much as the man currently lingering in the doorway.

      Every inch of Ty Covington’s six-three frame was delectable. She wanted to run her tongue through the hollow at the base of his throat...again. She wanted to taste the salt and sunshine on his skin...again. She wanted to nibble her way to the waistline of his jeans and dip her fingers below the band of his boxer briefs, tease the root of his arousal before taking him...again.

      It dawned on Kenzie that she should probably spare them both the public humiliation and turn the hose on herself before she mentally stripped Ty naked. Face flushed, she pulled her hat off and ran Indie’s polishing rag over her head, wiping away the excess sweat. Not much she could do about the shortness of breath or the way her nipples pearled beneath her T-shirt. That was simply the way she responded to Ty. Each time. Every time.

      Aware it wouldn’t take the man long to pick up on her interest, she focused on tasks that would keep the horse between them. But Ty, being Ty, managed to charm the female in Indie, moving her away from her hay net to accept the small pieces of apple Ty offered. The horse’s move left Kenzie with a head-to-toe view of the cowboy.

      She was torn between thanking the gods for his perfection and cursing the same deities for the distraction the man created by simply being. Broad shoulders, a muscular build, dirty-blond hair that was a good four weeks past the point of trimming, brown eyes richer than the most expensive chocolate, large hands, strong jaw and lips made for kissing—all things that drew her. But what really flipped her switch was his confidence. True confidence, though, not arrogance.

      For a man who looked the way he did and had so many notches in his bedpost it resembled a totem pole, that was saying something. And as if that weren’t attractive enough, she had to include his sense of humor, compassion, friendliness and easy compatibility—in public, but particularly in private. It was the recipe for the perfect man. Or would have been, save one thing.

      Tyson Covington couldn’t stand postsex anything. No cuddling. No pillow talk. She’d never had the chance to wake up to his sleep-rumpled face the next morning because he’d never spent the night. He made a mad dash for