Page 32 of Perfect Cowboy

The snow is already three feet high, and I attach on a pair of snowshoes before making my way toward the probable direction of the cabin.

When I get the porch in sight, Ashley’s small frame is illuminated in the beam of my headlamp. She’s pulling the choke on a generator that probably hasn’t worked in years.

Jesus.

The closer I get to her, the madder I get.

She isn’t dressed for the weather and clearly has no idea what she’s doing, walking in aimless circles around the generator.

The girl doesn’t even have any tools in her hands – her bare, ungloved hands – and clairvoyance isn’t going to fix the problem.

“Get inside,” I bark.

“Gavin?”

Her cheeks are bright red from the cold, her ridiculously sexy lips are quivering whether from pneumonia or emotion I don’t know, and even her eyelashes look frozen.

“Who else would it be, Captain America?”

I might be almost unrecognizable all bundled up, but I’m also the only person in a thousand-mile radius who would be willing to save her ass.

Her perfect ass that I just held in my hands while she moaned into my mouth.

The Ashley I fell in love with all those years ago was a beauty, but the woman she’s become is knock-me-down gorgeous.

“I’m… I’m trying to get this thing going,” Ashley says, and her teeth are chattering so loudly that I wince.

“Get. Inside,” I repeat, with far less patience.

I understand the desire to want to dosomethingother than sitting around and hoping for a miracle. But if you have no idea how to fix a problem, you might as well stay inside where it’s at least warm and call for help.

“You think I’m incompetent,” she accuses.

A blizzard in Montana is not really the time to have a pointless argument, but she’s standing with her feet squared and chin turned up, ready to fight me.

It would be kind of hot if she wasn’t being so reckless.

“No, I think you’re clueless and have no hope of surviving out here alone. The backwoods is no place for you. Now get the hell inside, Ashley. Right now.”

She finally listens and it takes me thirty seconds to confirm what I already knew – the generator is fucked and fixing it in weather that’s well below freezing isn’t happening.

I push the door to the cabin open and step through the entryway, shocked at how cold it is inside. It’s only marginally better than the winter wonderland outside.

“Why didn’t you immediately secure a heat source?” I demand. “Fire, furnace, something. Jesus Christ, Ashley. We’re talking survival 101 here.”

“I… I… tried.”

My gaze lands on the woodstove where the traces of her failed attempts at getting a fire started are scattered everywhere.

This girl was going to freeze to death or drive off a cliff trying to save herself.

I yank off my gloves and stride purposefully toward the woodstove, using the wrought iron tongs and poker to remove the mess she’s left inside. I pile kindling and light it, the familiar crackle and acrid scent calming my frayed nerves.

When it starts to blaze, I add some small pieces of wood to get the pile roaring and piping hot before adding a single log. When I do, it catches instantly and the flame overtakes it before I add two more.

I close the door to the woodstove, turn down the oxygen latch, and then stand up to face her.

“Donotlet the fire go out,” I order. “You clearly can’t start another one after I’m gone.”

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