Undercover Cowboy Mountain Man (Dangerous Devotion)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

LEONORA

Golden sunlight pierces the waning morning fog as my boots slice through powdery, ankle-deep snow.

In one hand, I hold a metal bucket heavy with fresh eggs—white, blue, brown, green. In the distance, the large coop is alive with fifty hens squabbling over fresh scratch and the preening of a grumpy, handsome burgundy Buckeye rooster.

A large sage-green shed with ample windows houses my prize show rabbit collection of American Chinchillas. Inside, I head straight for Missy’s large cage with a wooden nest in one corner. A couple of days ago, she started pulling fur—a telltale sign of an impending litter.

“How’s Mama?” I ask, opening her cage. The large, thickly furred brown rabbit hesitates between my hand and the nesting box. Protective. Another fantastic sign that the babies are here.

“So grouchy,” I tease, setting down the bucket and pulling the nesting box toward me.

I push the fur layer back with one hand to find six babies cold and stiff. “Dammit!” I check their claws for darkening. That means it’s too late.

I don’t find it. There’s still hope.

One by one, I tentatively lift a baby, check for signs of life, and then tuck it carefully into my bra.

They’re icy against my skin, but this is far from the first time I’ve had to do this—an emergency measure for winter babies.

Then, I turn carefully to my work, cleaning cages, breaking ice-crusted water bowls, replenishing feed, and giving my six does and two bucks dried, green clumps of Timothy hay.

Grassy, nutty smells fill the air as I work, humming to myself. I move more slowly, taking my time, ensuring the babies my body warms won’t fall out of my underwear or get crushed.

“Leonora Winchester?”

I jump at the grumbly voice behind me. “Yes?”

A man steps forward, standing in the doorway of the rabbit hutch. He tips his hat stiffly but doesn’t remove it. “Arlo Kincaid.”

Arlo Kincaid. My mind races for a moment, still caught up in rabbit mode. The new ranch hand.

He’s a good six-four, broad shoulders tapering into a muscular waist his tan Carhartt only teases.

He offers a hand, and I jump again, babies wiggling back to life in the safety of my bra.

“Oh!” It comes out on a puff of air as my hands reflexively grip my breasts to keep the little ones from escaping.

His emerald-green eyes round, his face darkening. “You’re… uh… You’re moving,” he says like he can’t believe his eyes.

I frown, heading for Missy’s cage. “Can you”—wiggle—“uh… open this cage for me?”

He’s frozen for a moment, still unbelieving, and then he lunges forward. The metal hinge squeaks, but my hands are full.

“Now the wooden nesting box. Pull it closer.”

He complies, forehead creases deeper.

“Thank you,” I barely get out before I’m digging in my bra, carefully extracting each little writhing, warm body and depositing it back into the wood chip nest beneath Missy’s layer of fur.

Arlo stands on his heels, mystified, heat climbing his neck.

“What?” I grumble, pushing the nest back into place. “Never seen a woman pull rabbits out of her bra before?”

His jaw tightens. “Can’t say I have.” His hands curl once at his sides, as if he’s bracing for impact.

Silence stretches.

Most men would’ve filled it with something crude.

And that unsettles me more than a bad joke would have. Crude, I know how to handle. Decent is harder.

I secure the cage door and wheel around to get another look at him. His shoulders stiffen, eyes snapping to my face.

That’s when I notice the thick thighs perfectly emphasized by his tight-fitting Wranglers, spit-and-polish embroidered leather boots that still look stiff, and big, muscular hands with calluses in all the wrong places. Not rope-burned. Not fence-cut. But at least they’re there.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he drawls. “But that has nothing to do with cows.” I chuckle, scrutinizing him, trying to figure out what it is about him that’s—off. Can’t think of how else to put it.

“Has to do with animal husbandry, first-aid. Bringing things back to life.”

The last statement has him still as stone, expression puzzled. Clearly, he takes himself too seriously.

“All kidding aside,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “This job’s ninety percent in the saddle with a good dose of homesteading thrown in. Hope you’re good at multi-tasking.”

His face tightens, thick red hair and beard blazing in the light bleeding through seams in the outbuilding. “You could say as much.” His tone is flat, like he’s said that before and meant something else by it.

I nod once. “Let’s get to it, then. Hand me some more of that hay?”

He holds up a clump, eyebrows arching. “You mean, this?”

I shake my head, taking the grass. Our fingers brush for a second, sparks dancing between our flesh.

No, Leonora. Can’t do that. All cowboys are good for is leaving.

“Gonna be a long day if I have to identify hay for you,” I tease.

He frowns, fingers tugging at his shirt collar as if he’s suddenly sweating bullets.

“Gonna be even longer if you don’t know when to take a joke.”

Our eyes meet. God, his irises are stunning, deep and rich like a Sierra Nevada pine forest.

He shrugs, red hair still blazing in the light threading through the building’s windows. “Not here to joke. Here to work.”

“Good. Because I’ve been all winter without a hand, and this place is in rough shape.”

An understatement. But he doesn’t need the full laundry list—yet. Men who know too much start calculating exits.

Fences falling apart. An auction coming too soon. A neighbor circling like a vulture.

“A hundred head of cattle, half a dozen horses, chickens, and rabbits… that’s a lot of work for one person.”

I shrug. “I don’t think too much about it. Just dig my heels in. I’m good at that.”

“Me, too,” he replies a little too seriously.

“Coffee? Grub?”

“Yes, ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble?”

“Part of the deal,” I reply.

“Room and board. Mind pointing me in the direction of the bunkhouse?”

“No need.”

He shifts his weight, face ambivalent.

“You’re my only hand, and the ranch house has plenty of room.” Better to keep him close. Easier to see the leaving coming.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Follow me.”

At the porch, I pause as he grabs a large, khaki cargo bag.

“Military?” I ask.

“Marine,” he answers, following me up the squeaking stairs.

“Careful,” I warn, pointing toward one area of planks. “Needs patching, about to give way.”

“I could do that for you,” he offers.

I chuckle, eyeing him curiously. “Let’s see how much work you feel like doing after a full day in the saddle.”

“Won’t bother me.”

I stop dead in my tracks. “Should it?”

He rubs a hand over his beard. “Figure of speech.” But his jaw locks, like pain is something you’re not supposed to admit.

After black coffee and grits with scrambled eggs, I can barely hold my tongue. He clocks exits and windows as if he’s on a security detail. He speaks and moves in ways I’m not used to… too refined, maybe? Too educated?

In the stable, I side-eye him as he tacks up Thunder, a black Arabian gelding. A little too slow, a little too precise. Not like he doesn’t know how to do it. More like highly practiced.

When he mounts, he winces, and I can’t take anymore. “You don’t sit a saddle like a man who grew up in one.”

He swallows loudly. “Military’s good at tearing up bodies… not leaving them the same.”

That’s when I notice the silvery sheen of scar tissue running along one side of his neck. The kind that doesn’t come from ranch work. The kind that comes from places men don’t talk about.

My breath hisses as I suck it in. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He avoids my gaze, urging his mount forward.