Christyne Butler - The Cowboy's Second Chance

There was no way anyone could confuse her ranch hand, a shorter, solid, fatherly type, with the man outside her window. A lean, muscular body poured into a black T-shirt and matching jeans, stood tall in the morning light. His long hair was tied at the base of his neck under a black Stetson.

“Landon Cartwright,” Maggie whispered against the windowpane.

He dug into a pocket before dropping to a crouch. Her next breath came out in a low hum as the denim covering his backside pulled taut. His shirt did the same over muscular arms and shoulders as he lifted a wooden slat. He braced it with his knee, and then—bam, bam, bam—three blows of the hammer sank three nails to secure the board in place.

Okay, that was impressive.

He rose and circled the corral, stopping to test each section, making quick work of an important job she hadn’t had time to tackle in the last month.

Thanks to the work she’d done with a horse for Destiny’s mayor and the fact that his wife was a cousin of Tucker Hargrove, she’d won first crack at taming a horse purchased by the A-list movie star for his talented but spoiled daughter. Black Jack, a wild mustang who fit his name perfectly, was due to arrive the day after next.

Landon stopped and turned, his gaze narrowing on her window.

Maggie dropped the curtain and scooted to the side, bracing herself against the flowery wallpaper. Her heart raced.

“He’s a man doing ordinary chores,” she chided, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach. “Get over it.”

She wished it were that easy. His dark eyes and calloused yet gentle touch had haunted her deep into the night. Willie was right. She’d brought home another stray. Without a second thought to the pile of bills on her desk, she’d handed over medicine she should’ve kept for her own horses.

But she couldn’t stop herself.

The palomino was a beauty, with its golden coat, dark eyes, and white mane and tail. Its owner was a cowboy who’d stepped in when most would’ve minded their own business, and got the crap kicked out of him for his troubles.

A cowboy who was now finishing one of the many chores at her ranch.

A cowboy who’d kissed her, but likely wouldn’t even remember.

It was for the best.

With all last night’s excitement, she hadn’t given a second thought to what the loss of her ranch hands would mean until long after she’d crawled into bed. Once again, she toyed with the idea of talking to this stranger about the job. Lord knows she needed the help, but should she take the first cowboy that sashayed down the road?

The air remained silent. Maggie glanced past the edge of the curtain in time to see his knees hit the ground as he grabbed on to the side of the corral.

She raced from her bedroom, out the back door and across the cool, green grass and the dusty, dirt-packed drive. When she reached him, he was back on his feet, but bent at the waist.

“Are you all right?”

He took his time rising to his full height. One hand rubbed his stomach, pulling the fabric of his shirt tight across his chest. The other hung at his side, the hammer clenched in his fist. His dark eyes roamed over her, from her bed-head hair to her naked toes.

“Is that Clint Eastwood?”

Maggie followed his pointed gaze, and let loose a low groan, her face and neck growing hot. Her pajamas consisted of a tank top, emblazed with a head shot of the legendary actor, and matching loose cotton pants, covered with horseshoes and saddles, that hung low on her waist.

“They were a gift.” She fidgeted. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He tugged his Stetson lower. “Tired. I was up most of the night with G.W.”

“How is he?”

“Fine.”

Maggie waited for him to go into detail, but the firm press of his lips told her he was finished.

“But you’re not.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Maggie returned his gaze. With his dark skin and hat pulled low, it was hard to see the varying shades of the shiner around his eye, but at least he was able to open it. Her toes curled into the dirt under his steady gaze.

“I’m fine, too,” he said at last.

“Better than fine the way you wielded that hammer.”

“I didn’t know I had an audience.”

A flush of heat stained Maggie’s cheeks. “Things are pretty quiet around here on Sunday mornings.”

“Well, after waking to find a shotgun in my face—”

“What?”

“I think I surprised one of your ranch hands.” He shoved a hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “I told him I had permission to camp in the barn. I guess he believed me because he let me help muck the stalls and feed the horses. He then saddled up and left.”

Maggie heaved a sigh. “Hank Jarvis. He’s my other hand. Did he say anything else?”

Landon cleared his throat. “He mumbled something about a soft-hearted do-gooder.”

“That would be me.” Maggie crossed her arms, conscious she wasn’t wearing a bra. “So, you want to explain why you’re fixing my corral?”

“I figured since I was awake I’d do something to thank you for the meds, putting me up last night…everything.”

“Last night was my way of thanking you for helping me with that pain-in-the-ass Greeley,” Maggie countered, “and getting beat up for your efforts.”

“I told you—”

“Yeah, you told me.” Maggie propped her hands on her hips. “Don’t let the fact I’m a natural blonde fool you. I’m not as dumb as I look. Not anymore, and—”

“Margaret Anne Stevens! What in the blazes are you doing out here half-naked? And talking with a stranger, no less!”

Maggie jumped and spun around. Her grandmother, five feet of wiry enthusiasm and pure white curls, stood on the back porch. “Nana B., you scared me!” Then she sighed, and turned back to Landon. “My grandmother. You might as well come meet her before she goes for her shotgun, too.”

His mouth twitched at one corner.

Maggie started across the yard, a hot prickle dancing across her skin. As much as she wanted to blame it on the July sun, she wondered if it was Landon’s heated gaze on her back.

And her backside.

“I’m not half-naked and this isn’t a stranger…well, not really.” Maggie pushed her hair from her eyes as she reached the porch. Turning, she found he’d stayed at the foot of the stairs. “This is Landon and he—ah, he and his horse needed a place to crash last night. Landon Cartwright, my grandmother, Beatrice Travers.”

“Ma’am.” He hooked one finger on the brim of his Stetson and nodded.

“Call me Nana B., everyone does.” Her grandmother shot Maggie a quick look then continued. “So, you’re the noisemaker. You look right at home with a hammer. We’re lookin’—”

“Nana B.!” Horror filled Maggie at her grandmother’s words. “Mr. Cartwright isn’t looking for work.”

“I’m passing through, ma’am.”

Nana B.’s back stiffened, then a bright smile danced over her aged features. “Not without washing up and some breakfast.” She headed back inside. “I’ll get started on the food, you two get wet.”

Get wet.

The two little words sent Maggie’s heart racing again. Last night’s fantasy of a midnight skinny-dip, present company included, flashed inside her head. Mortified, she bit her bottom lip, glancing toward Landon. “Ah, there’s a half bath inside if you want it.”

His gaze dropped to her lips. Something hot and powerful flashed in his dark eyes. Her nipples tightened against the soft cotton of her tank top. His eyes flickered to her breasts for a moment before looking away.

A muscle ticked in his jaw as he focused on the horizon. “I should be heading out.”

A voice deep inside, frantic and desperate, cried out for him to stay.