Page 8 of Running to the Cowboy

The heat that floods my veins at his sternness truly must be evidence that this is a sin. I want too much for him to touch my feet.

Honestly, I want too much for him to put those strong cowboy hands everywhere.

Maybe the elders were right. The outside world is already corrupting me, and I’ve been out for barely a day. Straight out of the gate, I’m going to hell for the sin of lust.

To my horror, Wylie moves the blanket aside, uncovering my feet all the way up to my bare knees. I let out a shy little squeak and squeeze my eyes shut.

When nothing happens, I open one eye. Wylie’s hand is frozen in midair, inches from the woolen socks he put on me when I was asleep.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready, but I need to make sure you’re not frostbitten, sweetheart. Those little piggies of yours were awfully red when I found you.”

It’s the “sweetheart” that kills my resistance. No one has ever called me that. My granddad used to call me his smart little Peanut because I was a quick learner around the church’s farmyard in Wyoming. He taught me to birth calves, ride horses,and shoot rifles. Granddad always said, You can do whatever you put your mind to, my clever little Peanut.

But “sweetheart”? Never. It feels different.

It feels good. It makes me feel mature, yet dainty at the same time.

I suck in a breath. “You can touch my feet. I’m ready.”

Silly of me to even resist, really. After all, this man had to touch my bare feet while I was passed out, didn’t he? How else did I get those big, woolen socks on?

Ever so gently, Wylie rolls the socks down and examines my skin, making small talk along the way.

“What were you doing out in the cold with no shoes, anyway?”

I swallow. “They take away our shoes at night.”

Wylie grunts disapproval at this. “Sonsabitches,” he mutters under his breath.

At my gasp, he looks up apologetically. “You’ll have to get used to the language real quick in a house full of grizzled old cowboys.”

Examining his kind face and work-worn hands, I’d hardly call him “grizzled.”

“You’re not old,” I say.

Wylie chuckles as he runs his fingers over my skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure up my thighs. “I’m not, huh?”

I shake my head. “You’re well-seasoned.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “That’s a new one!”

The sound of Wylie’s laughter, the closeness, and his hands on my feet all combine to put me more at ease than I should be. I’m in a cowboy’s bedroom, wearing only an old quilt. I am blushing head to toe, and I’m loving everything about this even though everything about this is shameful.

“That’s how my granddad referred to himself.”

He says, “I think I like your granddad. Assuming he’s not one of the ones who stole your shoes.”

I shake my head. “He died a few months ago. But no, sir. He would never do that to me. He would never do that to anyone, especially not the women and children.”

“I’m sorry you lost him.”

“Thank you.”

Wylie’s eyes meet mine for a long, long moment. In that liquid brown gaze, I feel all the kindness and concern he’s already shown me, but I also see an intensity that unsettles me. It’s a spark of anger toward the men who kept me captive.

He seems to catch himself staring and looks away bashfully, making me smile. Wylie clears his throat and says, “Doesn’t look like frostbite.”

I exhale. “Good.”

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