Page 6 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“Yes.”

“For a week.”

“Yes.”

“I see,” she nodded. “What do you need me to do today?”

Why was I so suddenly suspicious of this easy compliance?

“We need to get in, assess the situation, shake a few hands, get out. Hopefully, the rest of my job will be via email,” I replied.

“Aren’t you a rancher?” she asked, “Why are you organizing a rodeo?”

“Are you familiar with the quid-pro-quo?” I asked.

“I am,” she replied stiffly. “Forgive me for being crass, but whose back are you scratching?”

“The mayor’s,” I replied, while eyeing the bathroom. “Excuse me, I need to shower.”

Something was not right. Whereas the tension from last night had cracked and popped, now the air felt strained, like a tight rubber band just waiting to snap.

“If this is how the day is going to be, God help me for the rest of the week,” I muttered while retrieving my bath items and clothes from the bedroom’s closet. “I may need to get another bottle of migraine pills…”

Glasses.

She wears glasses.

Behind the big frames, I saw her overawed expression the moment we stepped into the fairgrounds, a seven-acre field. Converted from an empty field, a wall of food stalls was being constructed at the far end, and a shed of tables and chairs was nearby. Her mouth dropped when she saw the men set up the bull riding machine and inflate the rubber ring.

On the other side, little pigs, goats, and lambs were being ushered into the petting pen, but the main event was the temporary set-up for the bucking bronco block, and the bleachers for spectators were being nailed up.

She edged closer to the pen, a hand stretching to touch a goat.

“She’ll bite,” I said.

Her hand snatched back, and her gaze was accusatory. “How do you know that?”

“Her name is Mad Matilda for a reason,” I told her. “Missus Applewhite always entered her into the petting zoo knowing full well how temperamental she is.”

“Why is that?” Zara asked.

“She’s a town favorite,” I shrugged. “But we’re not here to pet the animals. We are here to talk to the food sellers, confirm their licenses, check who won't be attending, and then move on to talk to the rodeo contenders. We have a long way ahead of us. Please do not make my life any harder.”

“Coming from a man who thought I was a hooker,” I heard her mumble.

I stopped, internally groaning. “I am sorry about that. I made a mistake and I regret it. Are you going to crucify me with an unfortunate error for all the time we will be together?”

She brushed a stray lock that had broken itself free from her tightly wound bun behind her ear, then pushed her glasses up her nose. I imagined twisting the silky-looking lock around my finger—then jerked my head away.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

Shifting my weight uncomfortably, I reminded myself—for the hundredth and tenth time—that I needed to stop this line of thinking and get a grip.

She pushed her glasses up her nose again. A nervous tell, but I knew she wouldn’t admit it.

Well, that makes two of us.

A herd of wild buffalo could never drag that admission from me, even though I was overcome with the urge to make her see the better parts of me.

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