Page 12 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

His hands twisted together, his thumbs rubbing furiously as if he was trying to summon courage from his skin. “You—” He swallowed. “You want to begin now?”

“Yes, unless you have other plans.” I walked over to one of the two windows overlooking the back part of the little town. The light was perfect, golden and inviting, with just a hint of early evening glow. “It’s not every day you get to explore a Wild West town created by orcs. I’ve got a good feeling about this place, Tark.”

His pointy-tipped ears twitched, and his hands dropped to his sides. For a moment, he looked as though he was suppressing a smile, but maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. “It… You honor us with your enthusiasm.” The gravelly edge in his voice loosened. “I think a full tour should wait until tomorrow however, when we have more time before sunset. But I could show you around the saloon. Make you some dinner.”

“I suppose I could wait until tomorrow. We’ve got plenty of time. And we should probably go through your social media plan before I start making and posting videos.”

“You know how to make good ones.”

Why wasn’t he meeting my eyes?

“Thank you. But honestly, with this place?” I swept my hand toward the town in general. “It would take a lot to mess something like this up. It’s a photographer’s dream, and my mind is already brimming with ideas for content.”

“Good. Yes. Content.” Now he definitely wasn’t meeting my eyes, though I couldn’t imagine why.

He eased around the bed, almost plucking his feet along the rug, and I suspected he was trying not to stumble again. I wanted to tell him he was sweetly endearing, that it didn’t bother me at all if he was awkward, but how could I tell him something like that? Mentioning it might make him feel worse.

“Please.” He opened the door, stepping aside like a giant green knight, and his gaze settled on the hallway as I passed him.

We descended the staircase, and as we reached the saloon below, four looming figures turning to face us from where they sat at the bar. No drinks. No bartender, either. Would they be staffing these areas soon?

“Tark,” one of the guys said, leaping off the stool, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. His gaze was only for me, traveling across me in a way that thankfully, wasn't a bit creepy. I noted he wore a sheriff's badge clipped to his belt.

The other three stood as well, one removing his hat and cupping it in his hands in front of his flannel shirt he'd tucked into jeans.

Each of them was big, though a little shorter and not as broad as Tark, and it was clear from their appearance they must be a few of his six brothers.

They were now all staring at me—well, not at me, exactly, but close enough that I felt the prickling self-awareness of being center stage, something I hadn’t experienced since leaving television a few years ago. I drew in a deep breath, pasted on my best smile, and finished descending the stairs to join them near the bar along with Tark.

“Gracie, meet some of my brothers.” Tark’s voice rumbled with affection, though his posture seemed uncomfortably stiff, like introducing me to them was harder than the thought of wrangling the sorhox earlier.

The smallest—or rather, the least tremendous—of the four shuffled closer, his posture straight, but his fingers curling nervously at his sides as if he’d teleport out of the room given the chance. His black hair fell in uneven waves over his dark eyes.

“This is Greel,” Tark said, gesturing to him with a nod. “He'll be handling the trail rides and stagecoach hold-ups. They won't be real, of course, but we read online that tourists love that sort of thing.”

Greel dipped his head forward and said nothing, though his eyes remained warm.

“Greel's mated with Jessi,” Tark added. “Two of my brothers are mat—married, that is.”

“Nice to meet you.” I gave Greel a small wave.

His cheeks darkened, and he quickly ducked back behind the other three, like he’d used up his social quota for the day. His shyness tugged at something inside me, and I gave him anencouraging smile, hoping it might ease his nerves. He barely peeked out from around the orc in front of him.

“This is Ostor,” Tark continued, gesturing to the one clutching his cowboy hat. His broad chest puffed out under his flannel shirt as he gave me a crooked smile. “He's mated to Rosey.”

And there was that word again,mated. Why had Tark mentioned it in connection with me? Actually, more than mentioned it. He'd gaped at me, shouted it out to the world, then did the odd palm-licking thing that may or may not be related.

“My mate, Rosey, and I manage the gardens where we'll grow everything we serve in the restaurant, plus create canned and dried goods we’ll sell in the general store,” Ostor said. He held out his hand for a shake.

Tark thrust himself between us. Ostor’s face darkened, and he backed away.

“Like that, is it?” a third brother asked, looking between me and Tark with a deepening frown. He snorted before directing his attention back to me. “Has he greeted you in the proper way yet?”

“I…maybe?” I said.

“I licked as I should,” Tark said stiffly. “But we arenotdiscussing that any further.”

My wrist still ached where he’d done it, but not with pain. Memory, maybe. The kind that echoed. If touches could leave ghostly impressions, then I was haunted.

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