Pamela Britton - The Wrangler

“Funny,” Clint said softly. “I could have sworn you wanted me to kiss you earlier.”

Samantha lifted her chin.

Back off, he told himself. But he couldn’t stop. She was like a newborn foal—skittish and standoffish, but something he was tempted to tame.

“You wanted to kiss me,” she corrected.

“You know,” he said, giving in to the urge to touch her, his fingers making contact with the side of her neck, “I think you’re right.”

He just meant to give her a little peck on the lips. But the moment he tasted her, the moment his lips made contact with her own, he was lost.

Dear Reader,

I’ve always been horse crazy. When I was a little girl I would beg my parents every year to buy me a horse for Christmas. I think they hoped my fascination with all things equine would eventually go away because they ignored my requests until I was thirteen years old. They probably grew tired of listening to my pleas because they eventually gave in.

Guess what? Thirty years later, I’m still just as nuts about my four-legged friends as I was when I was a child. So when someone suggested I write a romance novel about the animals I love I felt like a complete doofus. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

The result of that suggestion, The Wrangler, was a labor of love. It was truly a joy to write about the animals that mean so much to me. I can honestly say that the soft nicker of a horse has lifted my spirits more times than I can count. My own American quarter horse, Bippity Boppin’ Along (aka Bippy) has gotten me through some of the toughest times of my life.

I hope you enjoy The Wrangler. Whether you’re a horse lover or not, it’s my sincerest wish to always…always bring you tales that make you laugh and cry.

Pamela Britton

P.S. If you’re interested in reading more about me or my horses, please visit my Web site at www.pamelabritton.com.

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With over a million books in print, Pamela Britton likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that’s begun to change thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR. Nowadays it’s not unusual to hear her books being discussed by the likes of Jay Leno, Keith Olbermann or Stephen Colbert. Flip open a magazine and you might read about her, too, in Sports Illustrated, Entertainment Weekly or Southwest Airlines’ Spirit Magazine. Channel surf and you might see her on The Today Show, Nightline or World News.

But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews magazine. She’s won numerous writing awards, including the National Readers’ Choice, and has been nominated for Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart.

When not following the race circuit, Pamela writes full-time from her ranch in northern California, where she lives with her husband, daughter and, at last count, twenty-one four-legged friends.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

He was six-foot-one of rock-hard muscle. Every last inch of him one hundred percent, prime-cut cowboy.

And he caused Samantha Davies to slam on the brakes.

Clinton McAlister, she thought, lifting her foot and slowly edging over to the side of the road. It had to be.

He pounded a metal post into the ground to her right, oblivious to her arrival at the Baer Mountain Ranch. She’d been told what he looked like by a couple of the local townspeople, right down to the distinctive brown and white feather tucked into the cowboy hat he wore. What she hadn’t expected, no, what no verbal description could ever convey, was the sheer size of him. The way his sleeveless white shirt clung to his sweat-stained body. How his muscular arms glistened beneath a noonday sun.

“My, my, my,” she murmured.

Okay. Get a grip.

She wasn’t here to ogle him. She had a business proposition for Mr. McAlister, and there was no time like the present.

She checked her rearview mirror. No one behind her. Not that she’d expected anyone this far from civilization. She was on a private gravel road, with nothing but acres and acres of Montana grassland stretching to the left and right. Straight ahead, the Big Belt Mountain range stood, snow covering the tops of them like icing on a cake. They seemed to be far off in the distance, but she knew the Baer family owned land right up into those mountains. The sheer scope of their property took her breath away.

Even from inside her road-weary car she could hear the clink-clink-clink of metal-on-metal. It must have masked the sound of her approach because the cowboy still hadn’t turned.

She shut off her car, thought for a second about honking, then nixed the idea. Better to greet him personally.

A stiff breeze all but slapped her in the face the instant she stepped out of the car’s warm interior. There was a thunderstorm off to her left. Though her vision wasn’t what it used to be, she’d been able to follow its progress as she’d driven. The wind was pressing Mr. McAlister’s buttoned-down shirt against his back, and tugging at her own short brown strands.

“Hello,” she called out.

He still didn’t hear her. The breeze had snatched her words away. That same wind almost caught Mr. McAlister’s hat. He reached for it quickly, and had to turn toward her, dipping his head into the wind to stop it from blowing away.

He caught sight of her.

“Hi,” she said, waving.

He didn’t answer. But that was okay. Sam was incapable of speech, anyway. His shirt was open in the front. And that chest…

Oh, my.

Six perfectly symmetrical muscles bulged, the upper portion covered by a light dusting of hair. But even more startling were his eyes. Luminous, they were. Blue. But so light in color, they almost seemed to glow. Those eyes narrowed in on her.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.

His blond eyebrows drew together in what could only be called a frown. Obviously, he hadn’t been expecting company. Not surprising given they were at least thirty miles from Williams, Montana—and at least two miles from his home—if her navigation system was correct. She must have been a sight standing there in her fancy floral skirt, white blouse and sensible shoes.