Page 9 of Her Steamy Cowboy
Lindsay turns to look at me, something soft in her expression. “That’s... surprisingly insightful, cowboy.”
I shrug. “I have my moments.”
She’s quiet for a minute, fidgeting with the corner of the blanket. “Do you think she’ll find someone? Who gets her?”
The question feels loaded somehow, like we’re not just talking about Rachel anymore.
“Yeah, I do. Sometimes the right person’s been there all along, you know? You just have to be brave enough to see it.”
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning I shouldn’t be putting there.
Lindsay’s already finished her coffee and is eyeing mine with those big brown eyes that have always been my undoing. Without a word, I hand it over, trying not to notice how ourfingers brush in the exchange, or how that small touch sends electricity racing up my arm.
“My hero,” she says softly, and I have to look away from her smile before I do something stupid.
Like beg her to tell me who she’s meeting on New Year’s Eve, to give me a chance to prove I could be better for her.
An hour into our drive, the visibility has gone from bad to worse. The snow is falling harder now, thick flakes that promise the storm isn’t messing around. Lindsay’s been quiet for the past twenty minutes, obsessively refreshing her weather app and chewing her bottom lip—something she only does when she’s really worried.
“This doesn’t make sense,” she mutters, tapping her phone screen harder than necessary. “I checked three different forecasts last night. They all said the storm wasn’t supposed to hit until tomorrow afternoon.”
I squint through the windshield, trying to make out anything beyond the wall of white. The wipers are fighting a losing battle, and the wind is starting to push at the truck in a way I don’t like. “Weather’s got a mind of its own out here.”
“But the signs—” Her voice catches. “Mr. Henderson is expecting us. He specifically said today was the only day?—”
“Hey.” I reach over without thinking and catch her hand, stilling her nervous movement. “It’s going to be fine. We’ll figure it out.”
She stares at our joined hands for a moment before pulling away, and I try not to feel the loss. “I should have checked again this morning. I should have?—”
The truck slides slightly, and I tighten my grip on the wheel. “What you should do is help me look for somewhere to stop. We’re not making it to Antler Creek in this.”
“But—”
The protective instinct that always flares up around her is in full force now. “No buts, sweetheart. I’m not risking it.”
Lindsay looks like she wants to argue, but another gust of wind rocks the truck and she presses her lips together. “Okay. Yeah. You’re right.”
“There’s a ranch about two miles up that runs a B&B. The Circle J, I think. We’ll stop there. Wait until this storm passes.”
It takes us fifteen tense minutes to find the turnoff, and another five to navigate the winding driveway. Through the curtain of snow, the Circle J B&B emerges like something out of a winter postcard.
It’s a sprawling two-story ranch house with a wraparound porch and warm yellow light spilling from every window. Smoke curls from the river rock chimney, and someone’s hung evergreen wreaths with red ribbons on the front doors.
Under different circumstances, it would be romantic as hell.
I park as close to the entrance as I can, knowing Lindsay’s going to make a fuss about me being overprotective. Sure enough, when I jump out to help her down from the truck, she gives me that look—the one that says she’s perfectly capable of handling herself.
But the snow’s already halfway up to our ankles, and the wind is whipping her hair around her face, and sometimes a man’s got to risk annoying the woman he loves to keep her from falling on ice.
Somehow, we manage to make it to the front door of the inn in one piece. Before we can knock, the door swings open, bringing with it a rush of warmth and the mingled scents of cinnamon and woodsmoke.
The woman who greets us is exactly what you’d expect from a ranch B&B owner—silver hair in a neat braid, laugh lines around her eyes, and a warm smile that reminds me of my mama.
“Lord have mercy, you two look half-frozen,” she says, ushering us inside. “I’m Grace Jenkins. Been watching folks battle their way up our drive all morning. This storm’s turned into a real doozy.”
The entryway opens into a great room that could have been pulled straight from a magazine—soaring ceilings with exposed beams, a stone fireplace tall enough to stand in, and comfortable leather furniture arranged in conversational groupings. A massive Christmas tree still stands in the corner, its white lights twinkling against antique ornaments. Several other couples are scattered around, all looking as wind-blown and grateful for shelter as we must.
“We’re really sorry to drop in like this,” Lindsay starts, pulling off her snow-crusted gloves. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, her hair a mess of static and snowflakes. “We were trying to get to Antler Creek, but the storm?—”