Tempting the Rancher (Meier Ranch Brothers 1)

January slipped on Mona’s cow-print slippers and went outside. She aimed for alertness but missed.

“You asleep? It’s four in the afternoon.”

Nat’s tone was an affront to every sexy, non-judgmental thing about him. As if a nap were a luxury for lions and liberals.

“I made dinner, but Mom isn’t back yet. Plus, I didn’t sleep well last night. Was up late. And I am on vacation of sorts.”

Somehow, her laundry list of excuses didn’t shift the pitch of his frown.

“She’s still out working on the palpation cage. Might be awhile.”

January wanted to ask the obvious question but didn’t really want to know past twisting it into a possible joke. Nat really didn’t look like he was in the mood to laugh. Mostly, his gaze kept slipping south.

That was the moment January considered her appearance: boy shorts with cupcakes on them, a pink John Deere tank top that Mona had accidentally shrunk and washed with her reds, and striped basketball socks to her knees. A power outfit while her clothes spun through wash and dry cycles.

Her nipples fully awakened. Nat. The blessed temperature drop ahead of a squall. Both.

January crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Randy’s down with the flu, everyone else is busy, and I got a cow and donkey missing. Someone in town called to say one of the fences at the far end of the property is compromised.”

She turned on her highest-wattage smile, totally aware of where this conversation was headed. “I’d like to help you, but I’m making myself scarce.”

“Since when?” Poe shifted, telegraphing Nat’s impatience. “Listen, I don’t have much time before the rain comes and the sun sets, and you’re pretty good with this particular cow.”

January’s smile dimmed. “MooDonna?”

Nat rolled his eyes. “Yeah.”

Her pulse skittered. The thought of that beautiful creature with the big, fat, wet nose, scared and roaming the highway, twisted her stomach in a bunch. “Say it, Nat. Saying her name is the first step to bonding.”

“For God’s sakes, would you get dressed and come with me?”

“If you promise not to sell her.”

“What?”

January had seen sea cliffs in Malta less severe than Nat’s frown.

“She’s a good cow.”

“She’s a pain in the ass. You know what they call pain-in-the-ass cows? Steak.”

“Nat Meier, you make me a promise, or I’ll go back to my nap.”

As if on cue, thunder rumbled across an afternoon unable to climb out of darkness. Brontë shifted. Nat squirmed in the saddle.

“Fine, I promise. Let’s go.”

A jig of victory slipped loose. January bounded back through the door then dressed and packed a bag. Nat’s grandfather once told her his three rules for preparation before setting out on any journey: something to fill the belly—food and water; something to injure the belly of an enemy, because a wound there would lead to the greatest blood loss; and something to ground the belly—a reminder of home, a center point in case things don’t go as planned and you’re down to your last minute. Clem was fond of bellies, and not because his physique made him look like his backside had been kicked clear through to his belt buckle. Nat’s grandfather believed that hearts and heads sometimes got in the way. Instinct, he always said, was God whispering in your ear. Clem’s three-belly rule had saved her life on more than one occasion. Right then, God was whispering in January’s ear to take some roasted veggies in Tupperware.

Moments later, the sky opened. January slid Mona’s plastic raincoat over the pack on her back and grabbed another slicker off the rack by the door for Nat. He refused it and stayed only long enough for her to grab Brontë’s reins. By the time her buttocks landed in the saddle, Nat and Poe were nearly out of sight.

Driving rain made repairing the ranch’s furthermost fence feel like preforming surgery through cheesecloth. Nat’s work gloves were waterlogged and stiff, and the raincoat January insisted on draping over him did nothing but block the scant light left in the day. He uncoiled fresh wire, cut it on pliers Willie had shoved down through the spool, and went through the motions of repairing the fence, more muscle memory than concentration.

He was too worried about January.

They had found the cow and donkey on Meier land—barely. The two animals were soaked and huddled. Noses pointed at the brunt of the storm showed their confusion. Damned if he hadn’t spied relief in the cow’s eyes when she saw him at the same time the name MooDonna zinged through his brain. January’s nonsense was getting to him. The minute he started looking at his herd as anything more than dollar signs was the minute he should sell the ranch, head to Sixth Street in Austin, and strum a guitar while reciting poetry about his feelings.