Protected By the Mountain Man Cowboy (Wrangler Creek #5)

Chapter 1

KATHERINE

Airports feel different in December. Everything is softer somehow.

Warmer, lighter, full of love and happiness.

And they look even better. Strings of white lights are wrapped around pillars that don’t need them, fake pine garlands hang above arrival gates, and a Mariah Carey song is playing faintly somewhere it really shouldn’t be.

People move with purpose, but there’s a lightness to them too, like they are all carrying a little more hope than usual.

Christmas does that.

It’s my favorite holiday. Always has been. I love the lights, the music, the way cinnamon seems to appear out of nowhere this time of year, woven into candles, pastries, and warm drinks meant to be held with two hands. December is supposed to feel like comfort and belonging.

Which is probably why being here, at the airport, alone, on my birthday, feels wrong.

I recheck my phone.

Landed.

Thank the heavens. Because if Addison doesn’t walk through those sliding doors soon, I might actually start overthinking everything, and that would be tragic even by my standards.

Twenty-seven.

Another birthday wrapped in twinkling lights and unmet expectations. Another year of smiling politely when people ask what I’m doing for the holidays and pretending I don’t hear the unspoken follow-up: Who are you doing them with?

I’m happy. I really am. December always makes me happy. I’m just… also sad.

Single again, watching couples embrace under the mistletoe someone hung too early, and families fold into each other in perfect reunion.

My mother’s voice hums quietly in the back of my mind, reminding me that twenty-seven is not young anymore.

That time moves whether I’m ready or not.

As if I’m not already painfully aware of that.

I shove my phone into my bag just as the crowd shifts. Then I see her.

Addison strides out of arrivals like she’s immune to exhaustion, her coat slung over one shoulder, eyes sharp despite the fatigue clinging to her.

Afghanistan hasn’t left her yet. I can see it in the way she’s scanning the room and how her posture never fully relaxes.

Still, she smiles when she spots me, and something in my chest loosens instantly.

We collide in the middle of the terminal, my arms wrapping around her like I can anchor her here just by holding on.

“Addy,” I breathe.

“Someone missed me,” she laughs.

“I need to confirm you’re real,” I mumble. “And alive.”

She pulls back. “Alive? Absolutely, but traumatized, starving, and very ready for civilization.”

I smile, my chest feeling lighter with her here. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” She grins. “Happy birthday,” she adds, studying my face. “Or is it not a happy birthday?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“A bit contradictory. You have holiday lights in your eyes and disappointment in your aura,” she mocks dryly. “Classic December birthday behavior.”

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. I fiercely love this time of year. I just didn’t expect to still be celebrating it alone.

“Come on,” Addison beckons, already grabbing her bag. “Let’s fix your mood. Drinks are on me tonight.”

“It’s late,” I protest, even as I follow.

“So? It’s December. The rules are different.”

She glances back at me, smile turning wicked. “There’s a bar here in the airport. It’s actually really nice. Live music. Strong drinks. And”—her voice drops conspiratorially—“it’s the perfect place to hook up with strangers you’ll never see again.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you,” she counters, “are twenty-seven, single, and allergic to indulgence. It’s your birthday and your favorite holiday. Let yourself feel good.”

I look around the terminal again. At the lights, music, and people heading somewhere warm and familiar. Maybe she’s right.

“Fine,” I relent. “One drink.”

Her grin widens. “That’s my girl.”

We turn the corner toward the elevators, chattering on about her trip. She fills me in on some details, but not all, since most of her work is very sensitive.

We pause to wait for the elevator, and when the doors slide open, I take a step forward but pause suddenly when I take in the person inside, causing Addison to bump into my shoulder.

“What—?” she starts, then follows my gaze.

Holy mother of all that is wonderfully and sinfully made. Who is this man?

He takes up space in a way that has nothing to do with size alone, though he’s big.

Broad shoulders straining the seams of a dark jacket, long hair pulled back into a low ponytail that brushes the collar of his coat.

A beard covers most of his face, thick and untrimmed, like he doesn’t bother with mirrors unless absolutely necessary.

His eyes are what stop me.

They’re dark. Not just brown—dark in a way that feels bottomless, like the light gets swallowed whole before it can find purchase.

When they flick to mine, it’s brief, assessing, and sharp.

Then he looks away just as quickly, like I’m nothing worth lingering on.

Which, annoyingly, makes my pulse kick harder.

He steps aside without a word, making room for us, a long, hard case slung casually over one shoulder.

Guitar, my brain supplies automatically.

The shape fits, and the vibe almost does too.

A rugged, broody, vaguely unapproachable musician who probably writes songs about loss and women who don’t call him back.

I step inside, Addison at my side, the doors sliding shut behind us with a soft chime. Addison reaches out to press the button for the floor the bar is on, but pulls her hand back. It seems we’re all headed to the same place.

The space suddenly feels smaller. Not because it actually is, but because he smells so good. Like cinnamon, my absolute favorite spicy scent. It’s comforting in a way that feels entirely unfair coming from someone who looks like he could break bones without breaking a sweat.

I inhale before I can stop myself. Addison notices. Of course she does.

She smirks, leaning in close. “You’re staring.”

“I am not,” I whisper back, mortified.

“You absolutely are. And he smells like Christmas. Your favorite kind of scent. You might as well be devouring him in your mind.”

“I’m not.”

“Bitch, please, I know that look only too well.” Her grin turns wicked. “Birthday gift from the universe?”

I shoot her a look, but my attention betrays me anyway, drifting back to him. He’s staring straight ahead now, jaw tight, one hand resting casually at his side like he’s perpetually ready for something to go wrong, the other one on the guitar case strap.

The elevator hums upward, and the silence stretches. I risk another glance, and he catches me this time.

Our eyes lock, and for a split second, the world narrows to just that—his gaze holding mine, unreadable and intense. Something shifts in his expression, something dark and curious, before he looks away again, as if whatever he saw wasn’t worth pursuing. Damn, why does his dismissal hurt?

The elevator dings, and he steps out without looking back, heading straight for the stairwell that leads outside instead of the glowing entrance to the bar. A musician who doesn’t drink before a show, apparently. Or maybe he’s not a musician at all. We step out after him.

Addison lets out a low whistle. “Well.”

“Don’t,” I warn.

“Oh, I’m doing,” she cheers. “Because that was criminal. Did you see his hands?”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

I did. She knows I have a thing for hands, and his were perfect—manly, rugged, veined, filled with callouses, and big enough to wrap around my neck.

“Please tell me you’re not about to spiral over a random bearded man with a guitar case.”

“I’m not,” I defend harder.

She narrows her eyes at me disbelievingly. “We’ll see.”

She hooks her arm through mine and drags me toward the bar entrance before I can overthink it. “Relax. You’re allowed to notice hot strangers. Especially on your birthday, and especially in December.”

The bar is warm and buzzing, low lights reflecting off polished wood and glass. A small band is set up in one corner, tuning instruments, and the air smells like citrus, alcohol, and cinnamon again, only this time it’s coming from candles and cocktails, not a single dangerous-looking man.

We slide onto stools at the bar. Addison orders something strong and brown while I settle for something festive and sweet, because if I’m going to be sad on my birthday, I might as well lean into it aesthetically.

We clink glasses.

“To surviving another year,” she toasts.

“To pretending we’re thriving,” I reply.

She laughs, then sobers slightly, studying me over the rim of her glass. “You okay, Kate?”

I nod. “Yeah. I mean, yes. I’m good. I just…” I trail off, swirling my drink. “It’s stupid.”

“Try me.”

“You know how much I love this time of year,” I admit. “I really do. But it also makes everything louder. Expectations. Timelines. My mom.” I groan that last part.

Addison visibly grimaces. “The grandbaby agenda?”

I nod in confirmation. “The ever-present grandbaby agenda. Apparently, twenty-seven is when women spontaneously combust if they’re not married.”

“You could always tell her you’re joining a convent.”

“She’d ask for grandchildren from the nuns.”

Addison laughs, then her phone buzzes. She checks it, eyebrows lifting. “Well, speak of indulgence.”

“What?”

“That guy I met in Kabul? He’s in town and wants to meet up.” She grins unapologetically. “He owes me a drink or two.”

That’s Addison Avery Sinclair in a sentence.

Five foot nine, all sharp lines and restless energy, dark hair that is usually pulled into a messy bun that looks accidental but never is.

Her eyes are a piercing hazel that miss nothing, always scanning, calculating exits and angles like danger is something she expects to find, and secretly hopes to.

She’s an investigative journalist by trade, the kind who runs straight toward gunfire instead of away from it, who embeds herself in war zones and unstable regions because truth, to her, is worth the risk.

She thrives in chaos, feeling most alive when things are on fire.

And then there’s me.

Five foot five. Softer curves. Lighter hair that behaves only when bribed.

I write gossip columns for one of the largest media houses in Los Angeles, dissecting celebrity scandals and whispered affairs from the safety of my desk.

My biggest occupational hazard is an angry publicist or a cease-and-desist email.

Addison chases danger across continents while I observe drama from a comfortable distance.

She exposes corruption, and I uncover cheating spouses and PR disasters.

We work for the same company, but we live in entirely different worlds, yet somehow, we’ve always balanced each other.

I arch a brow. “You disappeared for months into a war zone, and now you’re ditching me on my birthday?”

“You said one drink.”

“I said one drink with you.”

She squeezes my hand. “You’ll be fine. You’re charming, and who knows?” Her eyes flick meaningfully toward the exit. “Maybe your cinnamon mystery man will reappear.”

I snort. “Highly unlikely.”

“Stranger things have happened,” she says lightly, already sliding off her stool. “Text me when you get home.”

She kisses my cheek, and I watch her go, equal parts amused and resigned.

The bar feels different alone. Louder and quieter at the same time.

I finish my drink slowly, the buzz creeping in just enough to soften the edges of my thoughts.

When the room starts to spin slightly, I decide that fresh air is the responsible choice.

I’m not ready to leave yet, so I find myself on the stairwell leading to the rooftop.

I push through the door, stepping out into the night.

I unsteadily walk up to the railing. Cold air rushes over me, the city stretches out below, lights blinking like constellations that have forgotten where they belong.

The wind carries the faint hum of traffic and distant laughter from below.

I turn, and that’s when I see him—the long-haired, bearded, handsome musician from the elevator, hiding in the shadows.

A startled gasp escapes my lips, catching him leaning against the railing, back to me, guitar case resting beside him.

The city lights catch in his hair, outlining his broad frame in silver and shadow.

He’s been up here the whole time? Wow, it’s been hours. Or has it?

His dark eyes are already on me, unwelcoming and icy. For a moment, I consider retreating. Then I remember it’s my birthday, so I can do whatever I want. Maybe even indulge a little bit. He straightens slightly, like he’s been waiting for something, though I can’t imagine it was me.

“Hi,” I wave awkwardly and step towards him, looking forward to seeing where the night will take me.

Under him, I hope.