Let It Bree. Colleen Collins

in here tonight? That way, you’ll hardly hear those bikers.” And I’d have a built-in bodyguard. She looked him over in his rumpled hair, flannel shirt and threadbare jeans.

      Too bad those pickaxes are still in the truck.

      Well, still, he’d be an extra body in case those thugs showed up. And two bodies, plus a bull, were better odds against two thugs.

      In the distance, something crashed, followed by the syrupy sound of drunken laughter.

      Kirk blew out a puff of air as he looked toward the far wall. “Think I’ll take you up on your offer. At least the sounds are more muted in here.”

      Bree snuggled down in her bed, bunching up the pillow under her head, feeling the happiest she had in hours. She wasn’t alone, she had a roof over her head, she and Val had a place to sleep, and tomorrow, ah sweet tomorrow, she’d be back home in Chugwater. Kirk had mentioned that his buddy in Denver, a guy named George who owned a cattle trailer, could drive her and her bull back home.

      “Turn out the light when you’re ready,” she said sweetly. “And don’t worry about me if you feel like staying up and reading or watching TV.”

      Oops.

      Earlier, she’d switched on a local news channel and had watched, openmouthed, as some newscaster reported an alleged bull theft. Bree’s name wasn’t mentioned, but the newscaster described her clothes, right down to her scuffed boots. It had to be because of that damn “implied contract” that the media was insinuating she was a thief!

      Bree shoved herself up on one elbow and stared wide-eyed at Kirk. “Uh, nix the TV idea! It would, uh, be too loud, keep me awake.”

      “No, I wouldn’t watch TV at this hour,” he answered calmly. “Might read, though.” He rummaged through the stack of old paperbacks on the coffee table. “If it wasn’t so cold out, and if the van wasn’t parked down the road, I’d dash out and get The Priest Kings of Gor, which I left in the glove compartment.”

      Bree blinked at him. “The what of what?”

      Kirk glanced up. “Book by John Gorman. Science fiction.”

      “Oh.” She lay back down. No TV. Life was good.

      Kirk rummaged halfheartedly through some books. “What do you like to read?”

      “Historical romances.”

      “Really.” He flashed her a look, then resumed his rummaging.

      “You sound surprised. By which part? The historical or the romance?”

      “I…just didn’t envision you as a romance reader.”

      “Really,” she answered, mocking his droll tone.

      He cocked an eyebrow, obviously catching her mimicry. “You just don’t strike me as the truffle-eating, pink-satin-slipper type.” When she stared at him in silence, he finally asked, “Something the matter?”

      “Yours is a typical clueless-male response about romance novels. Double-dare you to find even one truffle-eating heroine in one of those novels. They’re too busy flexing their stamina and intelligence in the face of adversity.”

      His eyes glistened with amusement. “I always love a challenge. So, I accept.”

      Well, that response took her aback for a moment. She’d never met a guy who’d seemed eager to explore something new and romantic. Well, in a book anyway.

      But then Kirk Dunmore was an explorer, she realized now, in more ways than one. A warming feeling washed through her as she realized she was starting to like the guy. Okay, she’d already known he could jump-start her libido with one whiff of his masculine-drenched jacket, but it was a bonus to realize he had an open, intelligent mind with just the right touch of feminist leanings as well.

      Was he even from the planet Earth?

      “So why the historical part?” Kirk asked, thumbing through one of the books.

      “Well, I’ll read about almost any historical era. But my preference would be the Roman era. First or second century B.C.”

      He was busy scanning the back blurb on the paperback. “Why?”

      “My major was art history, with an emphasis on ancient Roman art. For my senior thesis, I wrote a paper on conserving ancient sculpture, focusing on a second-century statue of Marcus Aurelius.”

      “Very interesting,” Kirk set the book down and met her gaze.

      “My aunt Mattie doesn’t think so. She’s still stewing that I didn’t study accounting.”

      Kirk chuckled. “Well, I must disagree with your aunt because I find your choice of study very impressive. Surprising, but impressive.”

      “I found your van rather…surprising, but impressive, too.”

      “Surprised me, too. It’s a prewedding gift. My mother-in-law—well almost mother-in-law—is always over-the-top. Too much money and time on her hands. Nice lady. Just too rich.”

      He’s getting married, Bree reminded herself. Of course, she’d known, but it didn’t stop a tremor of disappointment rippling through her.

      Murmuring she should go to sleep, Bree closed her eyes, determined to think about anything other than him. Like, where was Grams when Bree tried to call earlier? And should she have left the message on the answering machine that she and Val would be back in Chugwater, she hoped tomorrow? With the local news describing Bree’s alleged theft, what if the sheriff or FBI had staked out Grams’s and her home, listened to the answering machine and knew she and Val were on their way back to Chugwater?

      She stared up at the ceiling. Sheesh, didn’t anybody in authority check that maybe Bree was the innocent one in this mixed-up fiasco?

      Well, I’ll just have to be clever when I get back to Chugwater tomorrow. I’ll pen Val in the south corner of Mr. Connors’s field. Then I’ll sneak into town and, from the back windows of Mary Jane Tock’s hair salon, catch up on the latest gossip. Then I’ll know what steps to take next.

      “Thought you wanted to go to sleep.”

      She shifted her gaze to Kirk. “Thought you were reading.”

      “Couldn’t find any historical romances.”

      Kirk liked Bree’s smile. Her big dimples created the cutest shadows in her cheeks. And when she smiled, her gray eyes twinkled as though they housed little stars.

      Plus she was pretty without a dot of makeup. Her face had a clear, rosy freshness about it.

      Funny, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Alicia without makeup. Or even what she looked like without makeup. For the two years he’d known her, her face was slathered and painted and God knew what else. She even had colored contacts. If someone were to ask him his fiancée’s eye color, he’d have to say either emerald green or cobalt blue.

      Not that makeup was a bad thing. After all, Alicia Hansen was a born-and-bred Cherry Creek girl, from the ultraexclusive section of Denver. Maybe Alicia had the money to preen and primp, but thanks to her family’s wealth, she also used her money connections for good causes, like raising money for research and exhibits at the Museum of Nature and Science. Which was where they’d met when she’d hosted a fund-raiser two years ago. Thanks to Alicia’s efforts, the museum had raised the money to build the current replica of the Minotaur’s labyrinth which was gaining national recognition for its study of ancient mythology.

      Yes, he appreciated and even admired Alicia. But most important, the two of them shared a common dream to have roots—a family, children—the kind of roots he’d never had as a kid.

      He stared at Bree with her twinkling gray eyes and wild mass of curly brown hair. She was just the opposite of Alicia. Where Alicia was polished, Bree looked wild. Untamed, uncontrollable like the elements. Part wind, part sun, all soul and energy. He’d