Debra Clopton - Dream a Little Dream

Like the rodeo bullfighter he’d once been, the gorgeous cowboy was in his element, charging the startled brute. “Sylvester, get out of there. Move on!” His command was as sharp as the crack of the whip he wielded with such skill.

Molly relaxed a little, still standing in the bull’s sights but reassured by the authority in Bob’s voice and the steel in his eyes. He was a beautiful sight to see, working the whip around, letting it explode once more just above Sylvester’s head.

Mild-mannered Bob is a hero!

Her hero.

Suddenly adrenaline pumped through her veins like water churning over Niagara Falls. Modern-day Knight To The Rescue! The headline flashed across her brain, bumping the shock out of the way and driving her to react. This was good. Really good! Instantly the reporter in her took over and, despite the danger, she lifted her camera and started snapping shots.

Watching Bob in action through the viewfinder of her camera proved she’d been right all along. She’d known the first day she’d arrived in Mule Hollow and watched him carry hay bales down Main Street that he was the kind of man dreams were made of. Once she’d come to know him, she realized it was true in more ways than just his good looks. The easygoing cowboy had a heart as big as Texas.

And he was going to make her dreams come true. The belligerent bull snorted and swung toward her, a menacing glare in its eyes—

Retraction—Bob was going to make her dreams come true after he finished saving her life!

Sylvester had literally trampled Molly’s tiny car and, as Bob flung himself between the irresponsible reporter and the unpredictable animal, he thanked the Lord for looking out for those without sense enough to look out for themselves.

“Put that camera away,” he shouted, unable to believe she was taking pictures! On the other hand, he couldn’t remember seeing her without her camera except during church on Sunday, or when she had her laptop or pen in her hand. The woman was always working on a story.

Her reply was to snap some close-ups of him. Reporters! Disgusted, he grabbed her arm and pressed her behind him. “Back toward the truck. Now,” he demanded. “Sylvester’s not finished, he’s only deciding what he’s going to stomp next—you, me or the car again.”

At last, letting the camera swing from the strap around her neck, she locked her hands around his biceps, cutting off all circulation she squeezed so tightly.

“I thought you knew him!” she gasped. “I thought you could control him. I mean, he listens to you, right?” Her breath brushed his ear as she stretched to her tiptoes behind him, her camera digging into his back.

“I own him. Big difference.” He angled his arm behind him, pressed his hand to her side and directed her toward his truck, keeping his eyes glued to Sylvester, his whip ready for action. “Believe me, when a two-thousand-pound animal goes into a rage no one controls him if he doesn’t want to be controlled.”

“C’mon just back up, nice and slow,” he urged, instinctively wanting to reassure her.

She nodded against his shoulder. Her hands moved to his waist clutching like vise grips, and her chin dug into his shoulder as she stood on tiptoe watching Sylvester. They’d almost made it without stumbling over each other when Sylvester lowered his head, turned back toward the poor car and charged again.

The impact was so unforgiving that the animal and car both lifted from the ground for a solid second. The sound rocketed through the air like an explosion.

“You have got to be kidding me!” Molly cried, springing toward the animal like a wildcat protecting her cubs. It was a reflex reaction, Bob understood as he managed to catch her bolting past him. Scooping her around the waist, he hauled her back. “Oh no, you don’t,” he grunted when her elbow rammed him in the ribs.

“Let me go!”

“Ouch,” he grunted again when her heel hit him in the shin. “I’m not going to let you commit suicide. Not after all the trouble I just went through to save you.”

“But my car!” She waved toward the calamity.

Still clutching her around the waist, he spun them both around and lifted her through the open door of his truck. She was still struggling as he shoved her inside. Behind them the crushing sounds of Sylvester battering her car reverberated through the air, a reminder of what could have happened to Molly. Thanking the Lord again, he climbed in behind her, tossed his whip to the dash and grabbed the gearshift.

“Wh-what are you doing?” She pointed past him, her fingers fluttering in front of his nose as she sputtered.

“I’m getting you out of here.” He paused, glancing at her for the first time as he pressed the gas pedal.

“But you can’t. My car! What about my car?” She yanked her hand back and glared at him with huge eyes.

“Sylvester’s not finished with your car. And right now all I care about is keeping you safe and letting him calm down. What were you doing in my pasture anyway?”

They’d reached the cattle guard only twenty feet from where Molly had met Sylvester. She twisted onto her knees in the leather seat to watch her car take another hit through the back window. “But,” she gasped weakly, latching onto his shoulder again.

“That’s all I can do at the moment.” He felt bad for her, but it was only a car. She should be glad it wasn’t her out there getting plastered.

She met his gaze and in the same movement lifted her camera and started snapping shots through the back glass.

What a breed! Reporters never ceased to amaze him—it was always about the story. And yet, he’d seen the terror in her eyes, knew she was coping on her own terms.

He still didn’t like it.

At the road, she finally stopped clicking pictures and slumped into the seat facing forward, her foot tapping a rapid beat on the floor mat. She was no doubt figuring all the different ways she could twist this story to meet several papers’, magazine and blog formats at one time. She should be in shock, but no, it was the story that obviously had her mind whirring!

The next few miles were ridden in silence. Bob struggled to calm down before saying anything else he might regret. From the corner of his eye he studied Molly.

Molly Popp.

He’d noticed her the first day she’d driven into Mule Hollow several months back. He’d been helping set up Main Street for the town fair when she stepped out of her car and sent his world spinning.

Who wouldn’t have noticed her? She had long chestnut hair that shimmered in the sunshine with every purposeful step she took. Today it was pulled back into a ponytail, a few strands fluttering around her face, drawing attention to the wide green eyes that dominated her delicate features.

Those had been his first impressions of the beauty at his side. She was a nice person. A stunning woman. But it hadn’t taken long to realize she wasn’t the woman for him. He’d momentarily forgotten she was a reporter. A fact that emerged after only a few conversations with her. There was no missing the sparkle in her eyes as she talked about her work. It was clear that Molly’s career was first and foremost in her mind—which was her prerogative. But he’d stepped back quicker than a cowboy hearing the rattle of a Texas rattlesnake.

His prerogative was to look for a wife. He wasn’t interested in playing the field and dating for the sake of dating. He wanted to settle down with a traditional woman—a wife who would focus on him, the children they would have and the life they would build together.

Yep, Bob might have rescued Molly because she needed rescuing—and he couldn’t help but enjoy looking at her—but he knew where to draw the line on his emotions. For months, that line had been drawn right there on the ground in front of Molly Popp. Reporter.