Myra Johnson - The Rancher's Redemption

Not of a mind to announce his presence until he had a better idea of what she was up to, Kent pulled on his cutting horse’s reins with a whispered “Whoa, Jasmine.”

He guessed he wasn’t as quiet as he’d thought, because his visitor’s head shot up and she turned with a startled gasp. As she scrambled to her feet, whatever she’d been working on fell to the quilt. Panic filled her eyes, but her stance—fists clenched at her sides, feet apart as if preparing for combat—sent a different message: don’t mess with me!

Kent’s stomach fell straight to his boot heels. Clearly, this fully grown woman wasn’t the truant teenager he’d assumed her to be. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes suggested late twenties or early thirties—much closer to Kent’s age than he suddenly felt comfortable with, since his initial curious concern now vied with an undeniable and completely inappropriate attraction. Yep, more than likely, this woman’s appearance had something to do with the unsettling letter he’d received two days ago, the one he’d been doing his dead level best to ignore.

He clenched his jaw. “If you’re from the Juniper Bluff Historical Society, you can leave right now. This is still private property.”

“I’m so sorry.” Looking both startled and confused, the woman dropped to her knees and began gathering her things into the center of the quilt. “I was just out exploring, and I don’t know anything about the historical society. I’m actually new in town and—” Her hands shook so hard that she kept dropping everything.

First he’d jumped to conclusions, and now he’d scared the poor lady half to death. “Hey, it’s okay.” Afraid she’d have a heart attack, Kent dismounted and strode over to help. “Ma’am, it’s okay, really.”

As he drew closer, he saw what she’d been making—a basket woven from twigs and dry pasture grass. He picked it up and studied the intricate design. Blades of grass had been twisted and shaped to resemble miniature bluebonnets and woven into the outside of the basket. Between two of the flowers, a thinner, more pliable twig formed the letter A .

Glancing up, Kent found the woman standing at the edge of the quilt, arms crossed and her expression wary. He held the basket out to her. “You made this? Just now?”

“Well, yes. But not just now, exactly.” Taking the basket, she offered a guilty frown. “I—I’ve been here most of the day.”

Even if she wasn’t a historical society snoop, Kent ought to feel a lot more annoyed that a perfect stranger had been trespassing on his property—he’d chased off ignorant city kids looking to go cow tipping on a dare, hunters who’d unknowingly crossed boundaries, even a few lost hikers and trail riders. But never in all the years he’d been ranching had he come upon anyone quite like this nervous and oh-so-pretty artisan.

She tugged on the quilt, drawing attention to the fact that he was standing on the edge. Stepping off into the grass, he bent and grabbed the two corners closest to him. When all her craft supplies—bits and pieces of his pasture—were folded inside the quilt, she hugged the bundle against her chest. Her chin rose in defiance. “You really ought to put up signs. How was I supposed to know this was someone’s property?”

Kent’s jaw dropped. “Miles of barbed wire fencing wasn’t enough of a clue? How’d you even end up this far from the main road?”

Glancing around, the woman started looking panicky again. “Um, which way is the road?”

Okay, this was just too much—probably a good thing because, at the moment, Kent’s annoyance was a whole lot easier to deal with than being discombobulated by a damsel in distress. He whipped his tan felt Resistol from his head and slapped it against his thigh. “You ride?”

“Ride?”

“Yeah, ride. Because the easiest and fastest way for me to get you back to the road is if I take you on my horse.”

She eyed the big black mare uneasily. “Thanks, but I’d rather walk.”

“You realize we’re a couple miles in, right?”

“That far?” A swallow tracked up and down her throat, so thin and delicate and lovely it made Kent’s chest ache. “I must have explored farther than I thought.”

“Guess so.” He inched his gaze upward, only to find himself riveted by a pair of eyes bluer than a whole field of bluebonnets. With a rough cough, he slammed his hat back onto his head. “So. You want a ride to the road or not?”

After an uneasy glance in all directions, she peeked at her watch. “Oh, no, is it really nearly three?”

“Afraid so. That a problem?”

“Yes, it’s a problem.” She was already striding toward Jasmine. “My daughter gets out of school in twenty minutes, and I’m going to be late.”

Daughter. Which meant there had to be a dad in the picture. Wildly, that came as both a disappointment and a huge relief. Kent caught up with her at the mare’s side, and then he was the nervous one. Riding double—what had he been thinking? Sure, he could let her ride while he led Jasmine from the ground. After his three tours of duty as a navy corpsman in Afghanistan, hiking a couple of miles over rough pastureland was a walk in the park.

Just one problem, though. This walk in the park —the most direct route back to the road—covered a section of his property where he’d recently spotted a rattler’s den. The lady was plumb lucky she hadn’t encountered one while traipsing across the pastures with bare ankles and wearing those flimsy sneakers, or instead of offering her a ride, he might have been administering first aid from the snakebite kit in his saddlebag—and only if he’d found her in time.

Taking hold of Jasmine’s bridle, he brought the horse’s head up from the clump of grass she’d been munching on. “So,” he said, teeth clenched, “if we’re gonna get up close and personal on the back of my horse, we should at least introduce ourselves. Name’s Kent Ritter.” He stuck out his right hand.

She stared at it for a moment, then released her hold on the quilt long enough to accept his handshake. “I’m Erin. Erin Dearborn.”

Pretty girl, pretty name...

The sooner he got this woman back to the road and off his property the better.

* * *

When Erin decided to take a drive down a country road in search of interesting items for her basketry creations, doubling up on horseback with a perfect stranger was not how she saw her day unfolding. Served her right for her city-girl ignorance. Before parking her car along the roadside, she hadn’t passed a house for miles. The barbed wire fence? Well, those were everywhere out this way. Why should she assume it meant keep out?

The cowboy climbed into the saddle first, then had Erin pass him her quilt bundle. He removed his left boot from the stirrup and shifted his leg forward. Pointing toward the empty stirrup, he instructed, “Put your foot here, grab my arm and swing your other leg over.”

She did as she was told, and with a breathtaking burst of motion, she found herself straddling the horse’s rump just behind the saddle. The man shoved the wadded-up quilt around behind him, and she hugged it close, grateful for the space the bundle created between her chest and the lean, muscular torso in front of her. “I could have walked, you know. I’m not a wimp.”

“Uh-huh.” The cowboy’s laconic reply said he didn’t quite believe her. “If you didn’t get lost. Or snakebit.”

Her eyebrows shot up. She sat a little straighter. “Snakes? There are snakes out here?”

“This is the Texas Hill Country. Of course there are snakes.” He glanced over his shoulder with a snort. “Weather’s warming up, rattlers are getting more active—”