Page 3 of The Rancher’s Bride

2

DAMIAN

I’m an asshole.

Not a complete one. Most days, anyway. But I’ve got enough evidence stacked against me that there’s no point arguing the charge.

Leaving Sabrina at the train station sure as hell didn’t help.

I didn’t do it on purpose. Dates have never stuck in my head worth a damn. Ranch life doesn’t run by numbered squares on a calendar. It runs by calving season, rain, feed deliveries, busted equipment, and how much work is left when the sun goes down. Half the time, I couldn’t tell you what day of the week it is without checking my phone.

I knew Sabrina was coming. I just had tomorrow in my head instead of today. Shit happens. She’ll get over it.

I turn off the county road and onto the long dirt drive leading to the house. Sabrina has gone quiet beside me, staring through the passenger window like the pasture might offer an escape route.

I glance at her and nearly miss the bend in the drive.

Jesus Christ, she’s pretty.

The photograph I saw didn’t do her justice. It showed her face, but it didn’t show the way her cheeks turn pink when she’s pissed off or the little crease that appears between her eyebrows when she’s holding back whatever she really wants to say. It sure as hell didn’t show the rest of her.

She’s got curves everywhere. Full breasts beneath that soft-looking top. Wide hips filling out her jeans. Thick thighs I’ve been trying not to stare at since she climbed into my truck.

One side of her mouth sits a little higher than the other, like she’s always half a second from calling somebody on their bullshit. There’s a faint mark near her chin, too small to be noticeable unless a man’s looking too closely, and her eyes aren’t one flat color. They’re brown around the edges, lighter near the center.

I want to know what they look like when she laughs. I want to know what all of her looks like without those clothes.

What the hell am I doing?

I don’t know this woman. She’s been in my truck fifteen minutes, and she already thinks I’m an asshole. Probably thinks I’m an idiot, too.

I face forward as the house and front pasture come into view. Then I see the cattle standing in the drive.

“Son of a bitch.”

Four cows are on the wrong side of the east fence, and two more are nosing around the section of sagging wire like they’re considering joining them. One post is nearly flat, and another is leaning hard enough that the whole stretch could go if the cattle put any weight against it.

Sabrina leans forward. “What’s wrong?”

“Fence is down.”

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

It comes out harsh, but I don’t have time to soften it. I’m already counting cattle and working out how long it’ll take to get them back where they belong before the rest of the herd catches on.

I pull up beside the house and throw the truck into park. “Go inside. Door’s unlocked.”

I’m out of the truck before she can say anything else. I grab a rope, head for the barn, and put Sabrina out of my mind.

Or try to.

It takes the better part of two hours to get the cattle back in and patch the fence well enough to hold until morning. One stubborn heifer makes a run for the lane twice, and I find two more damaged posts farther down the line. By the time I’m done, sweat is running down my back, mud has dried across my jeans, and I’m in no mood to deal with another problem.

The second I walk into the house, I head for the kitchen. I pull a glass from the cabinet, fill it at the sink, and drink until there’s almost nothing left.

“Is everything all right?”