Stella Bagwell - Christmas with the Mustang Man

She resisted the urge to swallow. “What makes you think I’m worried?”

The cynical slant of his lips belied the faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Probably the way you’re sidling up to me like I’m a hungry coyote.”

“Nothing wrong with a coyote,” she quipped. “At least he mates for life.”

His nostrils flared. “Like I said before, I don’t plan on kissing you again.”

For some reason, his cocky promise raked over every womanly particle inside of Dallas and before she realized what she was doing, she’d moved close enough to stick her face right in front of his. “I think you’re the one who’s worried, Boone.”

She watched his gaze drop to her lips, and anticipation shivered right through her.

“Me?” he asked softly. “What do I have to be worried about?”

“That you kissed me—and you liked it.”

Dear Reader,

Christmas is coming! The mere words make me want to dig out the decorations, bake all sorts of gooey, decadent desserts and race to the mall to shop, shop, shop! But mostly, Christmas turns my thoughts to family, the warm gatherings we’ve had through the years and the love we’ve always given to one another.

My heroine, Dallas Donovan, has never been away from her family during the holidays and when she unexpectedly finds herself a thousand miles from home, she can’t bear to miss all the fun of gift giving and celebrations. But she also understands that Christmas is more than parties, it’s a time of hope and dreams and sharing.

On the other hand, my hero, Boone Barnett, has forgotten how to celebrate anything. For the past years, he and his young daughter have gone through one lonely Christmas after another and Dallas soon sees that the two of them need her to fill their lives with cheer and love.

I want to personally thank all of you for continuing to read my Men of the West stories and I hope you enjoy this trip that Dallas takes to rugged Nevada, where she teaches a rancher all about sharing his heart.

Merry Christmas and God bless you all!

Stella Bagwell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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has written more than seventy novels for Harlequin and Silhouette Books. She credits her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way.

A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love.

The couple have a son, who is a high school math teacher and athletic coach. Stella loves to hear from readers and invites them to contact her at stellabagwell@gmail.com.

To my late mother, Lucille, who always

made Christmas a special time for her family.

When gifts were spare, her love was rich.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue

“What the hell?”

Boone Barnett’s muttered question was lost in the cold wind as he watched a truck pulling a horse van leave a wake of dust as it barreled its way across the desert basin. The woman from New Mexico, he decided. The rig was too fancy to belong to anyone around here. But she was supposed to have been here shortly after lunch. Not five minutes from sundown!

Damn it, he was chilled to the bone, exhausted and hungry. He was hardly in the mood to put up with a woman who’d not had the forethought or good manners to show up at a decent hour. If she expected to look at the horses now, she was in for a surprise, Boone thought. His horses weren’t pampered pets housed in luxurious stalls with overhead lights. They existed outside, as they had for hundreds of years on this Nevada range.

Dropping the feed sack near the barn door, he called to a barking black-and-white shepherd before starting the long walk to the front of the house. Frigid north wind had been gusting all day and since he’d been outdoors for most of it, his face burned from exposure and his feet weren’t in much better shape. While he waited for the truck to pull to a stop, he stomped his boots and prayed for a little feeling to return to his toes.

Next to his leg, the dog whined and Boone’s gloved hand patted the animal’s head. “You don’t need to worry about the lady, Queenie. She’s only a visitor.”

Pricking its ears, the shepherd followed Boone forward, while a few feet away, the driver’s door opened on the truck and a tall, shapely woman stepped to the ground. She was dressed in blue jeans and boots and a bright red sweater, and as she moved toward him, she quickly shoved her arms into a denim ranch jacket.

“Hello,” she called out loud enough to be heard above the wind.

“Hello,” he greeted in response.

As the two of them met on the bare, hard-packed earth, Boone removed his glove and extended his hand to her. Even though he was damned irritated at her for showing up at a ridiculous hour, she was still a potential client. And for the past few months horse buyers hadn’t exactly been beating down his door. The last thing he wanted to do was offend this one with bad manners.

“I’m Boone Barnett,” he introduced himself. “And you must be Ms. Donovan?”

A wide smile spread her cherry-colored lips and Boone found himself staring at the woman. He’d not been to town in weeks and even when he was there he didn’t take much notice of people, especially women, but something about the warmth on her face had struck him.

She was far younger than he’d expected and definitely prettier. Light, copper-red hair fell in thick waves to her shoulders and with each gust of wind, it tossed around her head like a bright silk scarf.

She grasped his hand in a firm shake while dimples bracketed her lips and Boone suddenly realized it was going to be an effort to do business with this woman. She had an irritating ability to remind him he was a man, one that had lived without a woman for a long, long time.

“That’s right,” she said. “Call me Dallas. And I want to apologize for showing up so late this evening. The trip out here took much longer than I expected. My truck kept trying to quit on me.”

He’d expected to hear some sort of excuse for her tardiness, but not this one. “It appeared to be running just fine when you pulled up a few moments ago,” he couldn’t stop himself from pointing out.

A faint line furrowed the center of her pale forehead. “For the past mile or two it seemed to smooth out. But several times during the trip out here the engine choked down to a crawl and died. I filled the tank with fuel at Pioche and I’m beginning to wonder if water might have been in the diesel.”