Page 37 of Wrangled Up

Lots of curls.

His fingers convulsed around the bottle.

The fog in his brain swirled, and he found himself setting the bottle down and openinghis mouth. Exactly what he hadn’t wanted to do.

“You know her?” Jones asked.

“I know Jake Mickelson’s girl. Pretty well.” He eyed Jones, daring him to question him further.

“That so? Hmm.” Jones stroked his goatee, blinking into the dimness at nothing in particular.

“Yeah, she’s a waitress at the diner.”

“And more than that to you, I can tell from your voice.”

Tucker swigged and set the bottle precisely in the water ring again. “That too. It seems to me that her father has no right to be in here blowing smoke up your ass with his proud daddy act. He doesn’t even know her.”

Jones folded his arms and stared at Tucker for a long minute. “Seems like you’re running from something too, Lander.”

He winced at the use of Heather’s last name. “Well, I haven’t been gone for ten years.”Not yet.

“Glad to hear it.” Before Tucker could ask for another beer, Jones set one before him.

Tucker glared at the label on the bottle. He kept telling himself that he was dying to get back to Reedy so he could sit in front of Heather’s headstone and relive their sweetest moments. In reality, he didn’t feel soft brown hair under his fingers, but dark curls. He wasn’t picturing himself in the cemetery but on his front porch with Claire on his lap, rocking to the beat of the countryside after a hard day’s work. Watching Christian mount the stairs with a grin.

He’d been a coward to leave. It wasn’t too late to return, nor was it the right time. He was in a funk, useless to his horses, his friend or his girl. Until he got his head screwed on straight—maybe with the help of a nonstop beer IV—he was going to sit here and hold down this barstool.

Chapter Six

Christian lay on the sofa in the space where he and Tucker had shared so many moments, staring at the plaster ceiling. His feet hung off the edge and the blanket had slipped to the floor sometime during the agonizing night.

Agonizing because Claire had slept feet away from him in Tucker’s bed. Last night, she had brought her Aunt Letty and two suitcases. They’d installed Letty in the guest room, which meant Christian got the lumpy sofa.

What he really wanted was to climb into bed with Claire and tuck her body close, to breathe her sweet scent as she slept.

Letty tinkered in the kitchen, obviously grinding coffee and filling the pot. When the scents of something boiling reached Christian, he sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face.

Claire emerged from the bathroom, fresh and bright in jeans and a red top that made her skin glow. Christian’s morning glory strained against his boxer briefs, yearning toward the woman he’d had wet dreams about all night.

“Mornin’, Christian.”

He reached for the first article of clothing he could find—his hat—and jammed it onto his head. Clothes would act as a barrier. Without them, Letty would catch him ravaging her favorite niece.

He cracked a smile at the thought and drawled, “Claire.”

She paused, one foot bouncing. With the urge to come to him? He sure as hell hoped so.

“Letty’s got oatmeal on the stove. Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll have a warm breakfast before heading out to the barn?”

Oatmeal? Nothing more disgusting, in his book. He was a grab-an-energy-bar kind of guy. Then later, he’d hit the Quickie Mart or a fast food joint for lunch.

“All right.” He reached for his jeans and slid his legs into the worn denim.

Claire continued to watch him. When he looked up at her, he found her gaze locked on his groin.

Shocks of want chased through his core. Her gaze snapped up to his and a pink flush coated her cheeks. With a jerky movement, she pivoted toward the kitchen and left Christian alone. Grinning, he dressed and spent a few minutes in the bathroom. Then he joined Claire and her aunt in the kitchen.

Sunlight streamed through the faded cotton curtains covering the window over the sink. The sight of this made Tucker spring to mind. Where was he right now?

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