A Tall, Dark Cowboy Christmas. Maisey Yates

hayrides? But it seemed like everything was...cleaner.”

      “Probably because it wasn’t a working ranch.”

      “Well, okay, probably not. But I always thought it was fun.”

      “This will be fun for you, too,” he said.

      “Unless I do fall off and break my neck,” she pointed out.

      “I won’t let that happen,” he said, his tone firm.

      “Are you going to rush to lay a pillow out on the ground if my steed starts to act up?”

      His green eyes were unbearably serious when they clashed with hers. “I said I won’t let that happen. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, McKenna.”

      “Are you the horse whisperer?” she asked.

      “I already told you I don’t make mistakes.”

      She couldn’t give him a hard time about that. His tone was so very grave, and mostly, it had nothing to do with his sensibilities and everything to do with the fact that... She just wanted to believe him. Everything in her wanted to believe that Grant Dodge was a unicorn. A good man who did what he said, and who just might keep her from harm. Which made her wince internally, if only a little bit, because if life had taught her anything it was that she had to be her own savior. Not hope that someone else might be. But then, if winding up sleeping in a frost-ridden cabin with nowhere else to go had taught her anything, it was that sometimes someone had to lift you up and help you stand on your feet, or you were going to end up a tragic, modern-day rendition of the Little Match Girl.

      Grant walked down to the third stall from the door, and lifted his hand to the bars on the door. A horse came forward, pressing his nose against Grant’s hand. “This is Sunflower,” he said. “She’s going to be your...what did you say? Your steed for the day.”

      He unlatched the stall door, grabbing hold of a horse leash, or whatever it was, and lashing it to the thing on her face, leading the large beast out into the main area. His movements were unhurried. Easy.

      She was completely glued to his every motion as he prepared the horse for the ride. The horse was beautiful, a light caramel color, all the way down to her hooves, with a white mane and tail. And as for Grant...his hands were large and firm, his muscles working with an ease that she couldn’t help but marvel at.

      He did the task with the skill of a person who had done something a thousand times. She realized then that she hadn’t done anything a thousand times ever. Nothing beyond the basics.

      She’d never stayed anywhere long enough or had the time or inclination to learn anything like that.

      She had a skill for picking things up quickly, because in her life, adaptability had been king. She prized that. But this was...

      Grant made putting a saddle on a horse look like art.

      Or maybe it was just because he was so gloriously...hot.

      He went to another stall, and got another horse out, this one a black, glossy animal with slim legs and a longer nose than Sunflower. And she watched him repeat the process over again, watched as a line pleated the space between his brows, watched his mouth firm as he worked.

      He lifted his hat up for a moment and wiped his forearm over his brow, then set the hat on a hook on the wall, leaning forward while he tightened the horse’s saddle. His hair fell into his eyes and she felt overcome with the desire to push it back into place, even more overcome by the desire to run her fingertips over his jaw, over the bristly-looking hair there.

      She had known the guy for three days, and she was obsessing over him. She wondered if she was really just that sad. That all it took was a decently good-looking man being nice to her and she was halfway to buying him a rabbit just so she could boil it later.

      In fairness to her, he wasn’t just decently good-looking. He was stunning. Like he belonged in a movie and not on a ranch. Except he wasn’t as refined or polished as any of the men in movies.

      She wondered if Grant even had any idea of just how good-looking he was.

      He didn’t have that cockiness that gorgeous men typically possessed. Hell, she’d known men with much less going for them than Grant Dodge. Men who had swanned around like they were glorious lights of masculinity put on earth to make women swoon.

      McKenna was not given to swooning.

      Grant didn’t posture. He didn’t swan.

      He just was. In all of his glory. And it was a whole hell of a lot of glory.

      “What’s his name?” She directed her focus to Grant’s horse.

      “He’s a she,” Grant responded.

      “Oh, really?” She crouched down slightly, taking a peek beneath the horse’s belly. “I suppose she is.”

      Grant shook his head. “Just verifying that I was correct?”

      “Well, now that you mention it, I imagine if he were a he it would be pretty apparent. The phrase hung like a horse doesn’t come from nowhere.”

      His face did several things right then. His brows pinched together slightly, the corners of his mouth pulling down, before returning to their neutral, flat position all before she comment on any of it.

      She smiled, hoping to diffuse whatever tension had just walked its way up his spine and left him standing there stiff.

      “I expect it does,” he grunted.

      “I would think you know,” she said. “Having been around horses for such a long time.”

      “True,” he said. She gave him her best impish grin. Men often found that charming. Many people found it charming. She could be charming when she wanted to be.

      He didn’t seem charmed. Instead, he continued to ready his horse in a rather taciturn manner.

      “Her name?” she pressed.

      “Guinevere,” he said.

      “As in... King Arthur?”

      “King Arthur. Lancelot. The whole bit.”

      “Did you name her?”

      “Hell, no,” he said.

      She didn’t know why she found that vaguely disappointing. Maybe because it seemed, for a moment, that Grant might have something of a romantic soul. He did not. Apparently.

      “Well, what would you have named her?” she pressed. “If given the choice.”

      “I don’t know. Something less ridiculous than Guinevere.”

      “What’s a nonsilly name for a horse?”

      “Jessica?”

      She let out a guffaw of laughter. “Jessica. A horse named... Jessica?”

      “It’s a sensible name, McKenna,” he pointed out, his tone deadpan.

      “Why did you say it like that?” she asked through a gasp of laughter.

      “Why did I say what like what?”

      “McKenna. You said it as if Jessica is sensible, while McKenna is firmly in the same column as Guinevere, which you do not find sensible.”

      He lifted a shoulder. “It’s a weird name.”

      “Okay. Grant.”

      He took his hat off the hook. Then he ran his hand over his head, sweeping his hair back before putting it in place. She was sad she wasn’t the one to do it. “Grant is a normal name.”

      “Sure. I guess if you’re a film star from the 1920s.”

      “I take it that’s a reference to Cary Grant. And he was not a star in the