Heartland (Wild Rose Ranch #2)

Cotton Candy

SLADE

When I see the woman in the bubblegum-pink bunny costume on the side of the road, for a brief moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating.

It wouldn’t be the first time. There was that one occasion my hockey teammates and I took ayahuasca down in Mexico as part of a team building exercise. It didn’t go well for me back then and maybe now there’s a flashback coming to haunt me.

But no. As my truck approaches, the candy-colored vision doesn’t dissolve. Instead it becomes clearer, more distinct. When I pull over, I cut the engine, push my Stetson back on my head, and get a good picture of what I’m looking at.

It is indeed a real, live woman. She’s dressed in a tight pink satin corset with fluffy feathers around the neckline. Big bunny ears atop her hair, which is long and silky and just as pink as her costume.

My gaze snags on the curve of her waist, then the fluffy bunny tail perched on top of her lush, round butt, currently wrapped in hot pink tights. I sit there for a full three seconds with my hand on the door handle before I remember how to open it.

I approach slowly, hoping she won’t be scared off by a gruff 6’5 man approaching her.

“Uh, miss?” I offer. “Can I help you?”

She’s technically on my family land, but I can’t say I’m too threatened by her trespassing. She’s basically a tuft of cotton candy in the form of a beautiful woman.

And she is beautiful. A heart-shaped face. Flawless skin. Pillowy lips. Big eyes with irises a warm brown color that make me think of my favorite whiskey.

Those big brown eyes look up at me anxiously. “Do you know whose property this is?”

“Sure do. Why do you ask?”

She points at something beyond the fence line, partly hidden by the tall sweetgrass. “There’s an injured dog right there. It was limping across the road and I nearly hit it, but now it’s crossed over the fence line and I can’t reach it.”

I look where she’s pointing. Sure enough, there’s a dog laying in the grass, panting. Its fur is an indeterminate color somewhere between beige and grey, the coat matted and filthy. There’s blood on its hind left leg.

“Shit,” I mutter. “Hang on.”

I find the top rail of the fence and go over in one easy movement, the same way I’ve been clearing fences on this land since I was four years old and following my dad around like a shadow. My boots hit the ground on the other side, sending up a dust cloud.

I approach the dog. Big scared eyes peer up at me. I go slow. No sudden movements, no looming, just making myself smaller and less threatening, which isn’t easy when you’re built like I am.

Growing up on a ranch, you learn from an early age how to deal with frightened, injured creatures. It’s one of the first lessons my dad ever taught me: scared animals need to know you’re not the worst thing that’s happened to them today.

I kneel by the dog.

It whimpers as I slowly move to examine the injured leg.

“Easy there,” I murmur as soothingly as I can. “Just wanna see what happened. We’re gonna help you.”

I know the dog probably can’t understand a single word I just said, but my low, reassuring tone of voice seems to do the trick. It lets me touch it. The obvious injury is the mangled leg, but I need to check if there’s anything else wrong before I try to move it.

The dog doesn’t object to any other part of itself being touched, so I figure it’s probably safe to move.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the dog. As if it understands.

I go back to the beautiful woman in the bunny costume, currently leaning over the fence and watching me anxiously.

“Leg’s in bad shape,” I tell her. “We gotta get it to a vet. I’ll drive over to the other side of the fence so I can lift it into my truck. Come on over and keep the dog company for a second. It’s scared, but it’s docile. I wouldn’t touch it though, just in case it bites.”

I hold out a hand to her. My hands are not pretty hands. Ranch work and hockey have seen to that, twenty years of both leaving their marks in scar tissue and calluses and fingers that have been broken and reset more times than I can count. She takes it anyway without hesitation.

Her small fingers disappear into mine and I’m suddenly very aware of how busted up my hands look next to hers, even if she doesn’t seem to mind the difference. Her hands are soft. Manicured with pink nail polish. Bejeweled with rings.

But no wedding ring.

As she clambers over the fence, she slips a little coming over the other side and my hands go around her waist to steady her automatically. My finger sink into her plush curves.

I make myself let go of her quickly.

“Are we going to get in trouble for trespassing?” she asks.

“Nah. I know the owner.”

I don’t know why I’m being coy about it except that I’m enjoying the fact that she clearly has no idea who I am. In Marble Falls, that means she’s either a tourist or new to town.

Luckily the Wild Rose Ranch entrance gate is about a hundred yards up the road. It takes less than two minutes for me to punch in the entry code and drive back around to where the woman and the dog are waiting.

The pink haired girl is talking softly to the dog, who is gazing up at her pleadingly.

I grab a spare blanket from the bed of my truck, digging past the coil of rope and a first aid kit and half a dozen other things a ranch upbringing teaches you to never leave home without.

Then I make a sling for the dog the way I’ve made slings for injured animals a dozen times before.

This isn’t the first time I’ve done this kind of work and it shows, I think, because the dog goes quiet and trusting while I position her.

She’s a big dog, at least eighty pounds, and I’m real grateful I’m one month past my shoulder surgery instead of one week.

My shoulder still screams when I lift her anyway.

After depositing the dog in my rear passenger seat, I go to the girl. “I’ll take care of the dog.”

“Thank you. Could you do me just one more favor?”

She could ask for pretty much anything with those pretty brown eyes gazing up at me like that, and I think I’d be compelled to give it to her. “Shoot.”

“Can you let me know how the dog is doing? I’ll give you my business card. My number is on there. I won’t be able to stop thinking about it otherwise.”

“Sure. Of course.”

I help her over the other side of the fence again, trying not to notice how silky her skin is, how touchable.

She opens the car door. Or rather, tries to. A few more tugs, increasingly frantic, and then she puts her nose to the window. “Oh no,” she says. “I locked my keys inside.” She looks at me, stricken. “Do you know a locksmith I can call?”

“I actually do. But listen, I gotta get this dog to the vet. We don’t have time to wait for a locksmith. Could be an hour or more.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she says. “If you give me his number, I can just wait here for him.”

A beautiful woman, dressed like she is, alone on a country road? With less than an hour of daylight left? No way am I leaving her here like that.

“I can’t leave you alone and stranded. It’s not safe.” I pause. “Hang on. One more idea.”

I pull out my phone, put it on speaker, and dial the non-emergency line for the Rockland County Sheriff’s office.

It rings twice.

“Rockland County Sheriff’s, non-emergency, this is Diane.”

“Hey Diane, it’s Slade Rhodes.”

“Slade! Lord, it’s been a minute. How’s your daddy doing?”

“He’s good. Keeping busy. Listen, I hate to be blunt but I’ve got a situation. I need a favor.”

“Of course, honey, what do you need?”

“I’ve got a stranded vehicle on Route 21. Owner locked her keys inside. Any units out that could pick her up in the next ten minutes?”

More typing. “Oh, we’re slammed today, sugar. There’s an overturned semi eating up every unit I’ve got. Liquid nitrogen tanks everywhere. It’s a mess.”

So much for that.

“All right. Thanks Diane. If highway patrol does drive by, tell them not to tow the car. It’s a white Jeep Cherokee, owner is…”

At my expectant look, she supplies, “Lila. Lila Sherwood.”

I relay it to Diane. “I’m heading for Dr. Monroe’s right now, but we’ll be back for the vehicle.”

“Got it logged,” she answers. “Tell Walker and Sadie congratulations on the twins, we’re just thrilled for them.”

“Will do. Thanks Diane.”

“You take care now, sweetheart.”

I hang up. Look at Lila. “Sorry. Anyone else who can be here in the next ten minutes? Do you have a roommate or…” Or boyfriend, I want to ask. No. Too transparent. “Or a friend or anyone who can pick you up right now?”

“No. No one who could be here in time.”

I’m torn, because she’s beautiful, and I’m not immune to that. But the things you let yourself want are the things that can be taken from you. It’s easier to just remove yourself from temptation.

This girl is very tempting.

But it’s just a ride to the vet, and it’s just for her safety. Then we’ll go our separate ways and never see each other again.

“I think you ought to come along to the vet with us, then,” I tell her reluctantly.

She bites her full bottom lip. “All right. Let’s go.” Her head tilts, sending silky pink hair spilling over her shoulder. “But if you’re planning to do bad things to me, the cops are gonna know you’re suspect number one.”

Do bad things to her. Yeah. I can think of a few.

I try very hard not to look at her sexy bunny costume or the curves it’s clinging to. My gaze finds my cowboy boots instead.

Her soft voice says, “That was a joke, Slade.”

When I look up, she’s smiling.

I push my Stetson back on my head. This girl is too damn pretty. It’s rattling my composure. “Let’s go.”

Once more, we do our little fence maneuver, with me helping lift her down smoothly. Her pink hair tickles my nose as she slips past me. Her hair is just as soft as her skin.

I open the passenger door for her and she climbs into my black Ford F-350, looking even more incongruous in all her pink fluffy glory against the blacked-out rugged truck.

There’s mud on the running boards, a coil of rope and a pair of worn leather work gloves in the bed, and now there’s a woman dressed as a sexy bunny in my passenger seat.

It almost makes me smile.