March’s Cowboy Torin (Cowboys of Mustang Mountain #3)

Chapter 1

TORIN

I was ten minutes away from the end of a quiet shift when dispatch came over the radio.

“Unit two, we’ve got a possible break-in at the old Hollister place.”

That got my attention.

I reached for the receiver. “Thompson, here. What’s going on?”

“Mrs. Winters drove by about five minutes ago,” dispatch said. “She saw a car in the driveway and lights flickering inside. Thinks someone might be trying to break in.”

I straightened in the driver’s seat, my gaze shifting toward the stretch of road that led out of town.

The Hollister house had been empty since Lois passed about six months ago. And nobody went near it without someone noticing.

“Copy,” I said. “I’m en route.”

The drive took eight minutes. I killed the headlights before I turned onto the long drive, letting the truck coast to a stop near the side of the house where the lilac bushes grew thick and wild.

The front porch light was off, but there was movement.

I could make out a shadow against the window frame, low and struggling.

I stepped out of my vehicle, my hand resting on my belt out of habit, and circled toward the noise.

That's when I saw her.

A woman, half in and half out of the narrow side window, had one leg braced against the exterior wall and the other presumably somewhere inside.

She wore jeans that curved over her hips and a dark sweater that had ridden up enough to show a strip of pale skin above her waistband.

Her hair fell forward, blocking her face, and she was muttering a steady stream of four-letter words that would've made most ranch hands proud.

"Ma'am."

She froze. Then twisted just enough to look back over her shoulder. The ground shifted under my feet.

Claire Hollister.

It had probably been almost a decade since I’d seen her, but I would have recognized that face anywhere.

She had the same wide green eyes that used to watch everything and everyone from the edges of the room.

Her blonde hair was shorter, and she'd filled out since I'd seen her last, but it was her. No question about it.

"Torin?" Her voice was full of surprise and something else I couldn't name.

"Yeah." I stepped closer, assessing the situation with the part of my brain that still functioned. "Want to tell me why you’re breaking into your own family’s house?”

She turned her attention back to the window. “No, but thanks for asking.”

I couldn’t leave her like that, halfway in and halfway out. Not with the snow starting to come down. “Are you planning on hanging out there, or should I help you the rest of the way through?"

"I don’t need help. I’ve got it all under control."

“Yeah, I can see that.” I bit back a grin as she continued to struggle. There was no way she was getting through that window without some help.

She glared at me, but there was no real anger in it. Her hands gripped the window frame, her knuckles white, and that's when I saw the blood.

My chest tightened. "Hell, you're hurt."

"It's nothing."

"Claire—"

"I cut it on the way in. It's fine."

It wasn't fine. I could see the dark smear across her palm even in the dim light, and the way she was holding herself told me she'd been stuck there longer than she wanted to admit.

I moved without thinking, closing the distance between us. "Let me help."

"I don't need—"

"Humor me."

She let out a frustrated huff, but she didn't argue. I braced one hand on the wall next to her and reached for her waist with the other, my fingers settling against warm skin where her sweater had ridden up. She stiffened.

"Easy," I said, keeping my voice low. "On three. One, two—"

I lifted, and she pushed, and between the two of us she slid through the window in an awkward tumble that ended with her landing hard on the floor inside. I heard the impact, followed by another curse.

"Are you okay?"

"Just peachy."

She was still full of that sass that used to get her in trouble back in high school. I bit back a smile and moved toward the front door. It took her a few seconds to get there, and when she unlocked it from the inside and pulled, the door didn't budge.

"It's stuck," she said, sounding defeated. "I tried earlier. That's why I used the window."

"Step back."

She did, and I put my shoulder into it. The door gave with a groan and a shower of paint flakes, swinging inward to reveal the dark hallway beyond. Claire stood just inside, cradling her injured hand against her chest, and I got my first good look at her in years.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Not the kind of beautiful I’d seen on magazine covers, but the kind that burrowed into my chest and stayed there.

I wanted to run my hands over her soft curves and pull her into me.

She looked tired, the bone-deep kind, but there was a stubborn set to her jaw that I remembered from when she was younger.

"You're bleeding on the floor," I said.

She glanced down at the dark spots on the hardwood. "I'll clean it up."

"After I bandage that hand."

"You don’t need to—"

"I've got a first aid kit in the truck. Let me grab it, it won't take long."

Her jaw tensed, but she didn't argue. I took that as permission and headed back outside, grabbing the first-aid kit from the cab and returning to find her standing in the same spot, still holding her hand like she could will it to stop bleeding through sheer stubbornness.

"Kitchen?" I asked.

"This way."

She led me down the hallway, flicking on lights as she went. The house smelled like dust and old wood and something faintly citrusy. Maybe it was lemon oil her Aunt Lois used to polish the woodwork. The kitchen was cold and Claire moved to the sink.

I set the kit on the counter and turned on the tap, testing the temperature before nodding toward the stream of water. "Rinse it first."

She obeyed, wincing as the water hit the cut. It wasn't deep, but it was a nice, clean slice across her palm that would need cleaning and wrapping. I pulled out gauze, antiseptic, and tape, laying them out in a neat row while she dried her hand on a dish towel that had seen better days.

"Now, sit."

"I can do this myself."

"I know you can."

That stopped her. She looked at me, something unreadable flickering across her face, and then she sat.

I pulled a chair close and took her hand in mine, palm up. Her skin was soft, warmer than I expected, and I had to force myself to focus on the injury instead of the way her fingers curled slightly against my wrist.

"This is going to sting," I said, uncapping the antiseptic.

"I've had worse."

I didn't doubt it. I dabbed the cut clean, working carefully while she sat perfectly still, barely breathing. When I wrapped the gauze around her palm and secured it with tape, she finally exhaled.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

I didn't let go right away. Couldn't, for reasons I wasn't ready to think about. Her hand sat in mine, small and warm and real, and I had the sudden, irrational urge to keep it there.

She pulled back first, tucking her bandaged hand against her stomach. "I'm back to settle Aunt Lois's estate. For some reason, she named me executor."

"How long are you staying?"

"However long it takes."

That could mean weeks. Months, even, depending on how complicated Lois's affairs were. The thought settled somewhere behind my ribs, equal parts anticipation and concern.

"Are you planning to stay here?" I asked.

"It's my house now. Technically."

"It's cold."

"I'll figure it out."

Of course she would. Claire Hollister had always been the kind of person who figured things out on her own, even when she didn't have to. Even when it would've been easier to ask for help.

I stood, gathering the first-aid supplies and tucking them back into the kit. "If you need anything—"

"I'll be fine, Torin."

She said it gently, but firmly, and I recognized the boundary she was drawing. I nodded, respecting it even as every instinct I had told me to stay, to make sure she had heat and food and someone watching her back.

“You’re going to need to board up that window until you can get someone out here to fix it. Want me to see if there’s some plywood in the garage?”

“I’ll deal with it in the morning.” She stood like she was eager for me to get going. “I just spent fourteen hours on the road and all I want to do right now is make a cup of tea and go to bed.”

“The hot air’s going to go right out the window. You’ll be paying to heat the outdoors.”

She smiled, a gentle reminder that the Hollisters could probably afford to heat the whole state of Montana, even during an early March snowstorm.

“Thanks for your help. I appreciate it.” Claire walked toward the now-functional front door, clearly expecting me to follow.

“At least lock the door behind me.” I didn’t feel right leaving her there, hurt and tired and cold. But she was an adult… a gorgeous, all-grown-up woman… and I didn’t have a legitimate reason to stay.

She pulled the door open with her uninjured hand. "I will."

“Goodnight, Claire. Welcome home.” I left her standing in the doorway, light spilling around her like a halo, and forced myself to walk back to my truck without looking over my shoulder.

When I reached the cab, I sat there for a long moment, engine idling, and watched the house until I saw the porch light flick off.

Then I pulled out my phone and updated my patrol route, adding a few extra passes by the old Hollister place over the next few days.

Just in case.