Hunter (Stud Ranch 2)

Had she actually thought he was sweet earlier today taking care of that family dog? Temporary insanity, that was her only defense. And she was definitely cured, that was for damn sure.

He hadn’t let her touch another animal all day. She’d been relegated to watching him handle cases from the background. So far in the background, in fact, she’d barely been able to see what he was doing half the time.

I know you city folk think cows are cute and just part of the scenery, but they pack a nasty kick. It’s best if you watch from behind the fence.

Hunter had said that right in front of the farmer who’d called them out. If Isobel’s face had flamed any hotter she would have spontaneously combusted.

Then there were the endless hours on the road. Hunter was apparently the only large animal vet in two counties. And Wyoming? Yeah. It was a big damn state.

She’d thought he was joking when he told her how few veterinarians there were. Five and a half hours later, she believed it.

But she swore, if she had to spend one more minute locked in the cramped cab of Hunter’s truck with him, she’d scream.

Did he have to take up so much space? He drove with his left hand on the steering wheel and his right arm draped lazily between them, taking up about three-fourths of the entire bench seat. She’d been crammed up against the passenger side door for several hours between all the farms because she didn’t want to accidently touch him and have him thinking that she was trying to play handsy with him.

Not to mention, the music. God, if she heard another pop country singer twanging about how all they needed in life was beer, their truck, God, and the USA, she might just throw the door open and leap out of the moving vehicle.

A commercial for Chevy trucks ended and then the twanging steel guitar started up, followed by a man with a deep southern voice singing, “You can take a man’s steer but don’t you dare take his beer—”

&nbs

p; Enough!

She reached over and pushed the off button on the console.

Ah. Blessed silence. Finally. She relaxed back in her seat with a relieved sigh.

Until Hunter flicked the radio back on the next second.

“—take your dreams but you’ll never give up Jim Bean.”

Isobel’s mouth dropped open.

She punched the radio off again, then crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Hunter.

His hand shot out almost before she was even settled. He cranked the volume up and started singing along, picking up right in the middle of the line.

“—ever choke, you can rely on Jack and coke. Whoa-a, they’re never gonna steal our pri-ide. We got the Lord on our si-ide.”

“Fine,” she said, having to all but yell to be heard over Hunter and the God-awful music. “Play your stupid music. Unlike some people, I’m not a child.” She huffed out so hard some of the shorter hair that framed her face flew up in a little cloud. Arms still crossed, she angled her body resolutely away from Hunter.

The music turned down and Hunter stopped singing.

“You sure throw a hissy fit like one.”

It would be bad to punch the driver of a moving car, right? Instead she dug her nails into her arms and clenched her jaw, staring out at the passing countryside and not dignifying his comments with a response.

Thankfully, they arrived ten minutes later. She was out the door almost the instant the truck came to a stop.

It was a smaller farm unlike some of the bigger operations they’d been by today. They stopped in front of a ranch house with a large barn in the distance. The sun was low on the horizon and Isobel held her hand over her eyes to look out in the direction of the barn. It had a gated area off to the side where she saw several cows meandering.

She felt Hunter come up beside her but she didn’t look at him. He passed by and went up to the door, knocking on it with several swift, decisive raps.

They stood waiting for several long moments before it opened, a baby’s wailing greeting them. A harried man stood there with an angry, red faced baby in his arms. He bounced her up and down and tried to put a pacifier in her mouth, to no avail.

“Shh, shh,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Brenda, the vet’s here.”

Something was shouted back but Isobel couldn’t make it out over more young children’s voices screaming in the background.