Wicked Cowboy (Dirty Cowboys #14)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Frankie

The GPS lady tells me to “turn right,” so naturally I do, and that’s how I end up driving my rental car straight through a pumpkin display.

Not around it.Through it.

Orange orbs explode under my bumper. Seeds everywhere. One jack-o’-lantern grins at me through the cracked windshield like it knows I’ve just committed agricultural manslaughter.

I sit in stunned silence for a full three seconds before I laugh. It’s that or cry, and I didn’t use waterproof mascara this morning.

It’s fine. I’m fine. Just another day in the glamorous life of Francesca Andrews—recently dumped, recently laid off, and on her way to a “Witchy Women Healing Retreat” where I was supposed to find inner peace and maybe hex my ex for stealing my dog.

The universe, however, decided I needed a pit stop in humiliation first.

I climb out in heeled boots that are definitely not meant for dirt gravel roads. The cold mountain air nips at my cheeks, smelling like pine and rain. My coat flaps in the wind as I try to pry a pumpkin out from under the car. It’s wedged tight.

“Okay,” I mutter. “You win.”

Bootsteps crunch behind me.

When I turn, a man fills the horizon. Tall.

Broad. Dark hair, darker beard, green eyes that I wouldn’t mind staring into for hours.

Flannel rolled to the elbows, jeans worn in all the right places.

Every romance novel cowboy hero I’ve read runs through my head, and this guy has them beat in the sexy department by a gazillion percent.

“Let me guess,” he says, voice deep enough to rattle the gourds. “You thought this was a parking lot.”

“I was testing the display’s durability,” I reply. “You’re welcome, it failed.”

He crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You realize you’re on private property.”

“Then your road needs better signage. Maybe a moat.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. “Lady, you just flattened half my pumpkins.”

“Technically only a third,” I say. “The rest committed group suicide.”

He gives a low exhale that might be a laugh. “City people.”

“Guilty. I’m Francesca. Frankie.” I stick out my hand.

He looks at it like it’s radioactive. “Rhett Carson.”

“Hi, Rhett Carson. Sorry about your squash casualties.”

He takes in my heels, my coat, the half-murdered pumpkin clinging to my mirror. “You headed somewhere important?”

“The Witchy Women retreat,” I admit. “Supposed to be just up this road.”

“This is Brush Creek Ranch. Retreat’s another five miles past the ridge.”

Of course it is. “The GPS lady lied! I think I’m stuck.”

“Probably.”

He crouches beside the car, inspecting the damage. I try not to stare at the way his flannel pulls across his back. “You flooded it,” he mutters. “I can tow you up to the shop.”

“I can call roadside assistance.”

“Cell service here’s spotty.”

“I have faith.”

“Faith doesn’t pull you out of a ditch.” He stands, holding out his hand. “Keys.”

Something about the quiet authority in his tone makes me hand them over. He slides into my driver’s seat, forearms flexing as he shifts gears. The car groans, then sighs in defeat.

“Dead,” he says. “You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

I glance at the mangled pumpkins. “Are you sure about that?”

He smirks. There’s sin in that smile—slow, lazy, confident. I could drown in it.

“Stay put,” he says. “I’ll get the truck.”

Five minutes later, my poor car is hitched to his pickup. He opens the passenger door. “You can ride up front.”

“I don’t know you.”

“You just let me hook up your car.”

“Touché.” I climb in.

The cab smells like cedar and soap. He drives slowly over the gravel, the wipers beating in time with the rain that’s starting to fall. The ranch stretches wide with rows of pumpkins, a red barn trimmed with bunting, and a white-haired woman waving from the porch of a big farmhouse.

“That’s my grandma,” Rhett says.

“She seems nice and grandmotherly.”

“She’s dangerous.”

I grin. “My kind of woman. I like people who know what they want and what’s good for everyone else. She gives off the vibe that she’s in charge.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, as if he’s not sure what to do with my mouth running this fast. “You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m nervous.”

“Then you must be terrified.”

“Maybe I just like making grumpy men twitch.”

His hands tighten on the wheel. “I don’t twitch.”

“Mmhmm.”

We reach the workshop, a big metal barn filled with tools and the smell of oil. He unhitches the car and pops the hood. I wander in behind him, brushing rain off my sleeves.

“You work here alone?” I ask.

“Mostly. My little brother works on the ranch too, but we have different strengths.”

“And you handle the pumpkins.”

“I handle everything.”

“Of course you do.”

He shoots me a look that could melt steel. I smile back because someone has to bring balance to the universe.

Lightning cracks outside, close enough to make the walls shake. He glances at the sky, jaw set. “Storm’s rolling in. You’re not driving anywhere tonight.”

“I can Uber.”

He actually laughs. “You’ll be waiting until spring.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“We have a guest room.”

I open my mouth to protest, but thunder interrupts, loud and mean. He’s already moving, grabbing my bag from the trunk like it’s decided.

I sigh. “You always get your way, don’t you?”

He looks back over his shoulder, green eyes steady. “Usually.”

Well, damn.