Chapter One
Mason crested the hill overlooking the creek and reined in
Rocky, his favored mount for riding the range. He’d heard the bawling calf a
quarter mile away and figured he’d find it stuck in the mud. He hadn’t expected
to find Bradi Kincaid. In fact if he’d known she’d already ridden to the
rescue, he would have headed the other way.
But here she was not ten feet away, ass in the air, up to
her knees in green slime and mud, her arms around the struggling calf’s neck,
and she still managed to light a fire in his gut. And dammit, that was just all
wrong.
They were best friends, for Christ’s sake. Practically
raised from the cradle together. They’d fished and hunted side by side, ridden drag
to bring up the tail end of cattle drives. And they’d gotten into more trouble
than a switch could whip out of them. She was his best bud, one of the guys.
So why did his dick suddenly become a divining rod every
time she was near?
She wasn’t unattractive. But Bradi was nothing like the
women he preferred. She wasn’t sleek or polished or sophisticated. Her
fingernails were cut close to keep the dirt out instead of long and
meticulously painted to match her outfit. Her dirty blonde hair was either in a
ponytail or a braid, and as far as he knew, had never been streaked, colored or
cut to the latest fashion. And she might carry ChapStick in her front right
pocket to ward off the blistering Texas sun, but that was the extent of her
makeup.
Bradi was Bradi—natural, earthy and blessed with athletic
grace that made ranch work look easy—and more often than not these days left
him wondering what that lithe and flexible body would be like in bed.
“You gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna help me?”
Leaning forward to rest his forearm on the saddle horn and
hopefully hide his growing erection, he tilted his head to one side and smirked
at the picture she made. “I don’t know. You look like you’re doing just fine on
your own.”
She blew wispy bangs out of her green eyes and gave him a
withering glare over her shoulder. “Throw me a rope.”
“Where’s yours?” He looked around for her horse but the only
other animal in sight was a cow waiting for Bradi to rescue her calf. “Wait,
don’t tell me. You were riding Dahlia.”
That damn horse had a habit of leaving Bradi high and—his
gaze wandered over her again—not so dry. Covered in muck, the front of her
faded yellow T-shirt was wet and clung to her breasts. Breasts he’d known she
possessed but never really noticed until two weeks ago. His gaze locked on the
words peeling across the chest. Not that he cared what they said with her
nipples prodding so diligently through her bra.
Mentally castrating himself, Mason sat up and reached for
the coiled rope attached to his saddle. “When are you going to take that
piece-of-shit horse to the glue factory?”
“Just shut up and throw me your rope.”
Ignoring her demand, Mason swung the lasso and sent it
sailing over the calf’s head. He pulled the rope taut, wrapped it around the
saddle horn, and directed his horse to back up. The bull calf cried louder as
the mud slowly relinquished its hold. As soon as the calf’s legs found firm
ground, he dug in, resisting the pull of the rope.
Bradi laughed and reached for the calf just as it wrenched
to one side and kicked. Twisting, she dodged a hind leg, but her feet were
still stuck in the mud and she went to her knees. Another kick and brown sludge
splattered her chest and neck. “Shit.”
Mason chuckled. “Yep, I imagine so.”
Shooting him another scathing glare, she struggled to stand.
“You’re an ass.” Able to finally extract one leg and then the other, she
trudged out of the creek toward the calf. “Give me some slack.”
He signaled his horse forward and Bradi deftly slipped the
rope from the calf’s neck. The bull bolted for its mama and together they
ambled up and over the high bank then disappeared. Looking back at
Mason crested the hill overlooking the creek and reined in
Rocky, his favored mount for riding the range. He’d heard the bawling calf a
quarter mile away and figured he’d find it stuck in the mud. He hadn’t expected
to find Bradi Kincaid. In fact if he’d known she’d already ridden to the
rescue, he would have headed the other way.
But here she was not ten feet away, ass in the air, up to
her knees in green slime and mud, her arms around the struggling calf’s neck,
and she still managed to light a fire in his gut. And dammit, that was just all
wrong.
They were best friends, for Christ’s sake. Practically
raised from the cradle together. They’d fished and hunted side by side, ridden drag
to bring up the tail end of cattle drives. And they’d gotten into more trouble
than a switch could whip out of them. She was his best bud, one of the guys.
So why did his dick suddenly become a divining rod every
time she was near?
She wasn’t unattractive. But Bradi was nothing like the
women he preferred. She wasn’t sleek or polished or sophisticated. Her
fingernails were cut close to keep the dirt out instead of long and
meticulously painted to match her outfit. Her dirty blonde hair was either in a
ponytail or a braid, and as far as he knew, had never been streaked, colored or
cut to the latest fashion. And she might carry ChapStick in her front right
pocket to ward off the blistering Texas sun, but that was the extent of her
makeup.
Bradi was Bradi—natural, earthy and blessed with athletic
grace that made ranch work look easy—and more often than not these days left
him wondering what that lithe and flexible body would be like in bed.
“You gonna sit there all day, or are you gonna help me?”
Leaning forward to rest his forearm on the saddle horn and
hopefully hide his growing erection, he tilted his head to one side and smirked
at the picture she made. “I don’t know. You look like you’re doing just fine on
your own.”
She blew wispy bangs out of her green eyes and gave him a
withering glare over her shoulder. “Throw me a rope.”
“Where’s yours?” He looked around for her horse but the only
other animal in sight was a cow waiting for Bradi to rescue her calf. “Wait,
don’t tell me. You were riding Dahlia.”
That damn horse had a habit of leaving Bradi high and—his
gaze wandered over her again—not so dry. Covered in muck, the front of her
faded yellow T-shirt was wet and clung to her breasts. Breasts he’d known she
possessed but never really noticed until two weeks ago. His gaze locked on the
words peeling across the chest. Not that he cared what they said with her
nipples prodding so diligently through her bra.
Mentally castrating himself, Mason sat up and reached for
the coiled rope attached to his saddle. “When are you going to take that
piece-of-shit horse to the glue factory?”
“Just shut up and throw me your rope.”
Ignoring her demand, Mason swung the lasso and sent it
sailing over the calf’s head. He pulled the rope taut, wrapped it around the
saddle horn, and directed his horse to back up. The bull calf cried louder as
the mud slowly relinquished its hold. As soon as the calf’s legs found firm
ground, he dug in, resisting the pull of the rope.
Bradi laughed and reached for the calf just as it wrenched
to one side and kicked. Twisting, she dodged a hind leg, but her feet were
still stuck in the mud and she went to her knees. Another kick and brown sludge
splattered her chest and neck. “Shit.”
Mason chuckled. “Yep, I imagine so.”
Shooting him another scathing glare, she struggled to stand.
“You’re an ass.” Able to finally extract one leg and then the other, she
trudged out of the creek toward the calf. “Give me some slack.”
He signaled his horse forward and Bradi deftly slipped the
rope from the calf’s neck. The bull bolted for its mama and together they
ambled up and over the high bank then disappeared. Looking back at
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