Page 2 of My Cowboy Bodyguard

He moves as swiftly as a lightning strike to catch it.

“Th-Thank you.”

The cowboy leans forward to put it back and his wet shirtsleeve brushes me.

I shiver but it has nothing to do with the dampness of that material but the dampness between my legs.

He steps away, giving me space.

“To protect me…what makes you think I need protecting?”

“Broken recognizes broken.” He’s gruff, nearly barking out the words.

I blink at that. At the glimpse of fury twisting with grief on his face before he exhales and glances out the window. “Rain is slacking. I need to go. But come to me.”

“Come to you?”

He nods.

I want to. Devil may care. Throwing caution to the wind. But caution has kept me alive so far.

“I don’t want…I don’t need…protection.” I tuck a strand of hair behind one ear. A habit when I’m nervous.

The cowboy picks one of the bookstore’s business cards from the tray on the counter and writes something on the back of it.

He puts it in my hand, holding on briefly.

Warmth and strength cover my trembling fingers.

“I’ll be waiting.”

Then he’s gone.

I make my way to one of the reading chairs and sink into it, heart galloping. Then I read what he wrote. His name, Leo Richford, followed by an address on Pearl Street.

It’s an old building recently renovated that rents business spaces. Currently, it houses a hair salon, a print shop, and a self-defense academy.

Self-defense? Against the people after me, that won’t matter. They’ve given permanent naps to people much stronger than I am.

And though I don’t believe anything, or anyone can keep me safe, I’ll show up. Because for a reason I can’t understand, my heart and my body cry out for the rugged cowboy.

Leo

“What the hell was that about?”

My brother, Flint, looks at me, then squints through the rain dotting the windshield to stare at the bookstore.

We’re not brothers by blood but by bond. When you walk through fire, family becomes the ones who pull you from the flames.

“She reminds me of my broken angel in that place of hell.” That’s all I can say. How can I tell him I took one look, and my heart was hers? He’d think all my brain cells expired from the Texas heat if I told him how badly I need to hold her.

He starts the truck and pulls away from the sidewalk, driving in silence and I’m cursing myself for uttering the words, the reminder of where we came from, what we survived.

“Any response from The Gentle Children’s Home on where they might have gone?”

At his question, my laugh is as dark as his. There was nothinggentleabout it. He’s asking about the friends we once had there. “Closed down.”

“Supposedly,” Flint says, his fingers gripping the steering wheel. Then he relaxes them. “Hopefully got out and were lucky like we were.”

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