Page 7 of Wrangling the Orc Cowboy

I’d fallen down Alice’s rabbit hole and there was no climbing back out.

“You need to sit,” Tark said with such conviction it might as well have been law. Maybe it was in this created wild western town. What did I know?

“Tark, really, there’s no need—” I squirmed, but his grip tightened. Letting me go didn’t appear to be an option he'd consider.

“You’re in pain.” His jaw clenched as he strode toward the hotel/saloon. “PainIcaused. Again, I…” Scowling, he didn’t finish the statement.

It shouldn’t have meant anything, hearing someone confess blame like that. Not after years being blamed for everything from the wrong camera angle to bad lighting on my mother’s eyeshadow. But hearing him say it, like it mattered, twisted something inside me I didn’t know was loose.

In seconds, he’d carried me through the swinging doors, and he crouched down, gently setting me on a chair at a table near the bar. Despite his size, Tark now moved with a graceful gait, as though he’d once taken ballet.

While I perched on the chair big enough for two of me, he straightened to his full height and stared down at me, his hands fidgeting at his sides. The bird soared off his shoulder to land on the back of a chair on the opposite side of the table.

Tark’s brow furrowed, and he crouched in front of me, which was comical actually. Here he was, settling on his haunches, yet still towering over me.

I gaped at him, unsure what he planned to do next since I was still inside Alice’s rabbit hole, struggling to get out.

Tark tugged the hem of my blouse out of my skirt.

“Oh, wait, um, what are you—” My voice pitched up.

“I must see the wound. It’s bad, isn’t it? I hit you. Harmed you. I’m much too big. So big. Enormous and awkward and bumbling and likely offending everyone I meet.” His words were a rambling mix of concern and guilt.

“No, you, I—” I was a rambling mix of who knows what.

He gently tugged the fabric up and over my head, tossing it aside, leaving me sitting in an orc-sized chair dressed in a bra, my skirt, and my fuck-me heels. My brain didn’t know whether to wince or preen. I missed the script. Missed knowing what face I was supposed to wear. I wasn’t wearing pantyhose. It was too hot for something like that.

But thank heavens I wasn't wearing one of my old, dingy bras. A friend had insisted I buy cute, pink ones with a tiny bow in the front, and I was going to kiss her the next time I saw her.

“Wait, wait,” I gulped as he started running his fingertips across the blisters on my upper chest, his brow furrowing even further.

His jaw dropped open, and he froze, staring at the tops of my breasts scalded by my coffee. “I—I—” His swallow took a long time to go down. “I didn’t causeblisters.” His dark gaze sought mine. “Did I?”

Chapter 3

Tark

Icouldn’t do anything right. I’d tried to help this woman who must be Gracie Weeks since she was due to arrive today. But while I’d sent the sorhox away, I’d bumbled like usual and nearly fallen on top of the slight female. If we’d hit the ground, I would’ve crushed her.

Why couldn’t I do even one simple thing?

“No, you didn’t cause the blisters,” she said softly, too softly and kindly for what had happened. “I spilled coffee on myself, and it was too hot.” She placed the cup she’d been holding on the table, nudging it far away.

She should be shouting at me to call for another Oo-bear to take her back to the city she’d come from.

Instead, she smiled. “I think we got off to a rocky start, but what an introduction, huh? I’m Gracie Weeks. You didn’t hurt me. I did this to myself.” Her cheeks went from medium pink to a darker color. Fuchsia? I think that was what it was called. She looked amazing no matter what color her cheeks were, however.

Focus, Tark. Don’t mess this up further.

“I can fix it,” I said. “Burns. Half-torn off legs. Broken wings.” I gestured to Sharga, though I could tell Gracie didn’t know what in the world I was talking about. “Lots of things. Wait here?”

She frowned but nodded, nibbling on her lower lip.

I straightened and flung myself across the room and out the front door, racing down to the general store and barreling inside. Sharga flew behind me, squawking for me to slow down, but I couldn't. I had to help Gracie.

“Ah, Tark,” Aunt Inla said, looking up from where she was studying something lying on the smooth, glossy wooden counter at the back of the big open store.

I hurried down the aisle, past racks of sorhox jerky and grain bars, coming to a skidding halt in front of a big rack of ointments and bottles of things we were told humans sometimes needed to consume to make them feel better.

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