Lauri Robinson - Her Midnight Cowboy

Eastern Wyoming, 1884

In Angel Clayton’s opinion, men don’t get any finer than hired hand Rowdy McGuire. The very thought of him makes her ache with need—and the sight of his golden, glistening skin only makes it worse. She knows he feels their bodies’ magical, intense pull towards one another, even if the honorable cowboy refuses to admit that a drifter and a ranch owner’s daughter could ever be together.

But Angel is determined to get what she wants—and she wants Rowdy!

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LAURI ROBINSON’s chosen genre to write is western historical. When asked why, she says, “Because I know I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to grow up and marry Little Joe Cartwright.”

With a degree in early childhood education, Lauri has spent decades working in the non-profit field and claims once upon a time and happily ever after romance novels have always been a form of stress relief. When her husband suggested she write one, she took the challenge and has loved every minute of the journey.

Lauri lives in rural Minnesota where she and her husband spend every spare moment with their three grown sons and four grandchildren. She works part time, volunteers for several organizations, and is a diehard Elvis and NASCAR fan. Her favorite getaway location is the woods of northern Minnesota on the land homesteaded by her great-grandfather.

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Enjoy more passion through the ages with the sensual Mills & Boon Historical UNDONE titles on sale now:

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Craving something a little longer? Find more historical romantic adventure from Mills & Boon Historical at www.millsandboon.co.uk or your local bookstore.

Interested in writing for Harlequin Historical UNDONE? Send your submission to undone@harlequin.ca.

To Catherine,

Thanks for pinch hitting when I needed it!

Dear Reader,

You have my sincere gratitude for purchasing this story. Historical romance novels have always been my favorite reads, and Harlequin, Mills and Boon’s UNDONE Line are the epitome of quick, satisfying, ‘once upon a time’ reads. Writing these stories, and sharing them with you, is such a dream come true that I have to pinch myself regularly.

I hope you enjoy Rowdy and Angel, and their journey to happily ever after.

Best wishes,

Lauri

Eastern Wyoming, 1884

Angel Clayton nibbled on her thumbnail. A quick surveillance proved no one else was in the barn. Anticipation tickled her spine, and golden, glistening skin beckoned her forward. The appealing, eye-catching image of broad shoulders tapering into lean hips had her heart pounding in her ears.

The sight of a shirtless man wasn’t unusual at the ranch, but this particular one was flawless. Men didn’t get any finer than Rowdy McGuire.

On tiptoes, she sneaked forward, barely able to contain herself. When he turned, she stood before him, less than a foot away. His bare chest made her breath catch, and when their gazes locked, excitement bubbled in her stomach.

Rowdy cocked a grin and eased back against the haystack, never taking his eyes off hers. It was there again, a silent, magical communication between them that sent her insides dancing.

“Angel girl,” he said in the teasing tone that always took her breath away. “What are you doing?”

Half-mindless as she was, it took her a moment to remember the neatly folded note in her hand. She held it up. “I need a few things from town.”

He arched a brow, still grinning. “Oh? And what’s that got to do with me?”

“You—” she waved the note below his nose “—are going to pick them up and bring them home for me.”

“I am?”

She nodded, nibbling at her bottom lip this time. The desire to kiss him was stronger than ever. He reached out and twirled a golden curl around one finger. The touch, even though she couldn’t feel it, made her insides swirl. “Yes, you are,” she insisted.

“What if I’m not going to town?”

Leaning closer, she whispered, “Its Saturday. You always go to town on Saturday.” Thoughts were two-stepping around in her head, trying to come up with something she could ask him to do if he wasn’t going to town. It was hard. None of her ideas included respectable behavior. Notions of the two of them doing things that only married couples were supposed to do lived in her head day and night.

His silver-toned eyes went to the paper floating beneath their noses. “And what will you give me if I do go fill that list for you?”

Excitement shot through her veins. Now was her chance. “This.” She stretched up on her toes and pressed her lips to his. The brief, short merger was like touching a flame—and set off a sizzling heat that caused them to jerk apart.

His quick intake of air echoed in her ears, and she leaned close again, wanting the connection back and growing more light-headed as the heat of his body mingled with hers.

He kept his distance, but his breath bounced off the tender skin of her chin. “You’re mighty tempting, Angel girl. Mighty tempting.”

Practically screaming with want, she tilted her chin upward, arching toward him.

Featherlight, his lips brushed over hers. Cherishing the touch, Angel closed her eyes. She’d waited so long for this.

The next instant, Rowdy and his lips were gone. Catching her balance by planting a hand against the hay, she twisted around.

He was at the door, shrugging into his shirt. “We can’t do this, Angel girl. No good can come of it.” As he walked out the barn door, he glanced over one shoulder and winked.

Angel slumped against the stack of hay bundles, trembling from head to toe and gulping for air. It was a moment or two before her breath and senses returned, along with determination.

Her steps grew steadier as she moved toward the door, leaving the crumpled note on the barn floor. By the time she found the coordination to run across the ranch yard, the tail of Rowdy’s coal-black mustang waved like a flag at high noon as he and his horse galloped down the dusty road.

“Rowdy McGuire, get back here!” Angel balled both hands into fists. Her nails dug into her palms, and she squeezed her eyes shut, relishing the pain. Would he go to the Whistle Stop? To Liza Spencer and her brass bed, complete with red silk bedcoverings and gold fringed pillows?

Disgust filled Angel’s chest. She let the air out of her lungs and silently apologized. There was no call to dislike Liza. None of this was her fault. Liza’s bedcoverings kept the woman warm during the cold Wyoming nights the same as Angel’s patchwork quilt did. Rowdy was to blame. The man filled her with frustration, and left her in a cold sweat, aching and twitching with want.