Heart of a Rancher

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” Dana jumped out of the Escalade and surveyed the damage. Front end bashed in, and big white cow, motionless on the ground. “Oh, what have I done!” She ran back to the driver’s seat and grabbed her purse, yanked out her cell and, with hands trembling, dialed Ryan.

No signal flashed back from the display.

She’d never in her life been unable to get a cell signal. “No way, no way.” Trees surrounded the road and stretched as far as she could see in both directions. She’d been in the curvy stretch of road for quite some time and couldn’t remember seeing any houses. How long had she been driving? Surely she wasn’t that far from the Cutter farm. “Okay, Brooks, you can do this.” Sliding her purse strap over her shoulder, she began the walk ahead while trying her very best not to take another look at the large, white, undeniably dead animal in the middle of the road. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she passed. For all she knew, she’d killed someone’s pet.

She peered ahead, didn’t spot any sign of civilization and realized she’d never felt so alone. “God, please, help me get there safely.” Prayer still felt a little foreign on her lips, but she planned to work on that, starting now. She’d killed a cow and had virtually no idea where she was.

Definitely a time for higher guidance.

The walk started easily, and she was glad her Christian Louboutin pumps were so comfortable. However, the “paved” road was pitifully surfaced, and by the time she’d gone fifteen minutes, even the Louboutins were feeling a bit defeated. She was certain some of those pointed rocks had pushed through her soles. A trickle of perspiration edged down her spine, as well as along her forehead. She unbuttoned the cardigan and thought about taking it off, then she noticed that she actually had a sweat line on her shell. Sure, she liked to sweat in a gym with her personal trainer, but she didn’t want to be drenched the first time she met John Cutter.

“Hit a cow, wreck a truck and walk a mile. Welcome to Alabama,” she said, finally spotting a break in the trees ahead. In spite of her aching feet, Dana picked up her pace and hurried to the gravel side road. An oversize aluminum mailbox at the end had Sanders painted in white on the side, as did a big wooden arch that hovered over the apparent driveway. She looked down the length of the gravel and couldn’t spot the end. There was a farm down there, no doubt, but it wasn’t close. And it didn’t belong to John Cutter.

Walk the driveway and hope to find help, or keep going and find the Cutter farm? Assuming one farm probably led to another, she kept walking. Ten minutes later she saw the next opening in the trees, this one with a dirt road and the name Cutter on the equally large silver mailbox, as well as burned into the wooden arch that showcased the driveway. A new sign had been added under the center of the arch that read Cutter’s Fish Camp—Guests Welcome.

He had told her about the business venture that the bank had approved, and Dana looked forward to seeing a “fish camp” in action. But right now she mainly looked forward to finding the house, briefly meeting the cowboy—she didn’t want to spend too much time with him before she had a nice, long shower—and getting to her hotel so she could freshen up. Oh, and letting someone know she’d left a dead SUV and a dead cow in the road on the way to the farm.

That probably wasn’t the best form of an introduction. But, unfortunately, that’s all she had.

She started down the driveway but didn’t make it far before she heard a loud pounding and a lot of grunting. Slowing her steps, she approached the cowboy apparently stretching wire across the fence. A black Stetson covered the top of his face, and sweat visibly dripped from his chin to the ground as he worked. He was, in a word, quite beautiful.

Dana’s throat grew dry. He wore a navy T-shirt that showcased broad shoulders, notable biceps and abs that would impress any personal trainer. His jeans had that well-worn look, displaying his long legs. At least six feet tall, possibly six-one or six-two. She certainly never saw guys who looked like that in Chicago. And if this was a hired hand, she had to wonder what the ranch owner looked like. She cautiously stepped toward the working cowboy, and when he only grunted and pulled the wire some more, she took a few more steps closer and cleared her throat.

He stopped midgrunt, looked up and treated her to the most exquisite pair of amber eyes she’d ever seen. Almost gold, and squinting in the late-afternoon sun.

He grinned, straight white teeth amid a perfectly tanned face. Goodness, she should’ve found a reason to visit Alabama years ago.

“Kind of overdressed there, aren’t ya?”

She thought she recognized the voice, but she wasn’t certain. Did all guys down here sound that way? Or was this the rancher she’d been talking to for weeks? Only one way to find out. “I’m looking for John Cutter.”

His grin broadened, the two deep dimples creasing his cheeks somehow managing to make him look even better. “Well, Ms. Brooks, you’ve found him.”

Dana’s pulse quickened. Have mercy, his looks matched the voice. John Cutter was real, genuine, honest and gorgeous.

He lifted a brow, peered past her down the road then quirked his mouth to the side. “Where’s your car? Did you break down? Are you okay?” He took a step toward her. “Hey, I can help you out.”

Words weren’t coming, and she’d never been one to be at a loss for words. But she’d also never been this close to a cowboy who looked as if he’d stepped off the front of a romance novel, standing there all muscled and sweaty from good, honest work, with the mountains in the distance and the fields full of horses and cattle behind him. Horses and white cattle. White cattle that looked...oddly familiar.

Suddenly the words came, and she wished she had thought a moment before blurting them so clearly.

“Oh, no. I hit your cow!”

Chapter Two

With the fence taking longer than he’d expected, John figured Dana Brooks would show up before he finished, so he’d resolved himself that he’d be a sweaty mess when he met the classy lady. What he hadn’t anticipated, however, was that she’d be a sweaty mess, too.

The silky blond hair he’d seen in so many photos online was now a combination of flat and frizzy at the same time. Her face had a perspiration glow, and her clothing was way over the top for farm attire. She looked like she did in those online photos, except she didn’t look quite so put together. And she’d definitely had better days, because she’d just announced that she’d hit his cow. He didn’t have to wonder which cow.

Removing his gloves, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve then, glad the repair was done, stuck his pliers in his back pocket. “I’m guessing Gypsy is dead?”

“Gypsy?” Her eyes widened so much he could see white all the way around the vivid blue. “Oh, no, I killed your pet!” A hand flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry.” Her words were muffled behind her palm. Then she looked back toward the road. “Maybe, maybe she wasn’t dead. Maybe she was just knocked out or something.” She turned back to John with a slight look of hope.

He raised a brow, quirked his lip to the side. “Exactly what were you driving?”

“An Escalade.”

He shook his head. “Probably not just knocked out.”

Another whimper, and he found himself moving toward the pretty lady who’d killed his oldest cow. “Hey, come on, I’ll get you a glass of water, and then we’ll get everything taken care of.” He opened the gate to let her in. “It’ll be okay.”

She trembled from head to toe, so he wrapped an arm around her as they moved toward his cabin, then he guided her to the nearest rocker on the porch. “Gypsy has been on her last leg for quite a while, and we were really just waiting for her time to go. She wasn’t a pet—” he lifted a shoulder “—but we tend to get to know all our cattle.”

“I am so sorry.” She looked miserable, and she kept glancing back toward the road as though she half expected Gypsy to make a miraculous recovery and show up at the gate, ready to be let in.

John was fairly certain that wouldn’t happen. “It’ll be okay. I’ll call my brother, Landon, and tell him what’s happened. We’ll get everything taken care of, and I’m gonna go get you that glass of water.” He went inside and fixed two glasses of ice water, called Landon and gave him a heads-up on the situation then walked back out to find Lightning, his hound dog, sniffing Dana’s expensive shoe. “All right, boy. She’s had a bad enough afternoon already. Don’t even think about it.”

“Think about what?” Dana asked.

Lightning, only slightly younger than Gypsy, raised a droopy eye, moved to one of the porch rails and proceeded to do his business.

John nodded toward the dog.

Dana sputtered on her water with a little laugh. “Oh, I see.”

“I’d kind of expected to welcome you to the ranch a little more appropriately.” He took a long drink of water, the cool liquid hitting his parched throat like a balm, almost as refreshing as having a stunning woman sitting on his front porch. “Don’t suppose hitting a cow and walking a mile in high heels would send you running to the hills, would it?”

Her eyes glittered above her glass and the corners of her mouth turned up as she took another sip. “As long as you don’t want to banish me to the hills for killing your cow.”

“As I said, Gypsy was probably ready to go. She may have even gone out to the road with a death wish, hoping someone would put her out of her misery.” He took another drink of water. “Her arthritis was pretty bad.”

She looked suspicious. “Are you serious?”

He grinned. “Nah, just trying to make you feel better.”

She gave him a full smile, and he noticed she was even prettier when she smiled. “Well, it worked.”

“Good.” He finished off his water, nodded toward her nearly empty glass. “Want more?”

“No, thank you.” She relaxed in the rocker and leaned her head back, her blond hair tumbling past slender shoulders.

John took in her appearance again. Even a sweaty mess, Dana Brooks made his pulse kick up a notch. She was taller than he’d imagined, merely a few inches shy of his six-two, and her eyes were bluer than the photos depicted. Her bio on the internet said she was twenty-six, two years younger than John, but she had a softness to her complexion, a tenderness to her features, that made her appear even younger. But her eyes, those inquisitive Caribbean-blue eyes, appeared wiser than her years, studying everything around her as she sat on the porch.

In fact, while he studied her, she visibly took in her surroundings—the porch, his dog, the fields, grazing livestock and the other colorful cabins lined up along the pond’s edge. Then she drew her attention back to John. “Is this where you live?”

He knew about her high-rise apartment in Chicago and how it overlooked Lake Michigan and the ritzy art district. “This is it. But don’t worry, I’m not putting you in one of the fishing shacks.” He cleared his throat. “Fishing cabins, I mean. Gotta get used to that.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean for your family to provide accommodations. I made a reservation at a hotel in town.”