Page 18 of Dallas Rivals
She drops to the ground, clutching her thigh, but before she can curse or cry, she grabs the goat by the horn and pins it to the grass—right as I reach her side. I snatch the animal from her grip and drag it away.
“Are you insane? It could’ve killed you!” I bark.
“You keep saying that,” she pants, breath ragged, “and if you say it one more time, I might start believing it.”
Her voice is sharp, but she’s trembling, blood seeping through her jeans where her hand presses her leg.
“Damn it,” I mutter, tying the goat to the nearest fence post. I turn back to her. “Let me see.”
“I’m fine!”
“That wasn’t a question!” I snap, brushing her hand away to see what kind of damage she’s hiding. Blood, dirt, and a stubborn woman who clearly has no idea how goats work.
“Come on. Let’s get you back to the house.”
“But my bike!” she protests as I pull her up and sling her arm over my shoulder.
“What’s gonna happen to it? A hawk gonna steal it?” I tease, hauling her along while she limps beside me.
She shoots me a glare that could burn through leather. She’s too close now, her body pressed against my side for balance.
She smells like flowers.
Can’t tell which kind—just soft, clean, unexpected.
Not unpleasant.
That’s all I’m saying.
“Someone once stole the bike I kept in my garage,” she says, breathless but defiant. “Excuse me for wanting to be cautious this time.”
“You’re in the middle of nowhere, Miss Saint-Clair. The nearest human’s twenty minutes away by car.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Speaking of which—where is your car?”
She points behind us. “That is my car.”
I glance back at the bicycle leaning in the dirt.
That’s her vehicle?
“And where’s Lucien’s car, then?”
No answer. The silence stretches too long before she mutters, “Doesn’t matter.”
Strange. She always has a smart comeback for everything.
We reach the cabin, and I open the door without waiting. Lucien and his wife are at the kitchen table, talking softly. The moment she spots her daughter, Mrs. Saint-Clair lets out a dramatic shriek.
“Oh, sweet Holy Virgin! Cala, what happened to you?”
“Joan…” Cala mutters.
What?
“Joan?” we all echo, but I’m the only one who sounds alarmed.
I help her into a chair and roll her pant leg up to the knee. Her legs are lean, strong—but soft somehow, too feminine for someone who’s been hauling hay and chasing goats.
“Joan the Mad,” she explains, nodding toward the goat outside. “That’s what I call her. She’s escaped twice this week. But the good news is—even the pros can’t catch her.” She arches both brows at me, and it’s annoyingly effective.
