Wild and Wanted (Redemption Valley Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

CLAY

Clay Calhoun had never met a horse he couldn’t break and today wasn’t going to be any different.

Sweat ran from the band of his Stetson to bead on his furrowed brow and trickle down the back of his neck beneath the relentless beat of Wyoming summer sunshine.

Grit from clouds of dust kicked up by hooves striking ground lodged between his teeth.

Gripping the reins as the horse reared back trying to dislodge him, Clay stayed calm, concentrating on the steady push and pull of his breath as he rode the wild jerking of the angry animal between his thighs.

There was no time to notice the sweeping vista of the ranch around him – vast pasture land that met towering mountains – or the curious onlookers watching from around the railings.

Every atom of his existence was homed in to the subtle shift of horseflesh as the filly twisted and turned, desperate to make him chew dirt.

But Clay was at one with the horse, his body moving instinctively in counter-balance, his only goal to stay seated until the frightened horse realised who was boss. Until she understood that while people in her past may have let her down, Clay would not. That she was safe and everything was okay.

It was going to be a wild ride until then, though.

And hell if that wasn’t exhilarating as fuck. He felt alive for the first time in months, the thunder of his heart like a stampede of hooves in his chest. Should he be here, sitting astride a snorting, angry tempest being jerked and jolted, considering his career-ending back injury?

Probably not.

But this was what he did. It was what he excelled at and it felt good to be doing this again – man versus beast.

And it wasn’t like this was the pro-rodeo circuit where he’d subjected his body to this every damn day.

Or that horses like Electra – the name he’d given to the filly when he’d started working with her three months ago – were a dime a dozen.

The hard to tame only came along once in a while and rarely gave him this much trouble.

But wasn’t that just like a woman?

A couple of minutes into Electra’s temper tantrum, Clay sensed a subtle shift in her energy. A reduction in the tension bunching the splenius muscles of her neck, a slight decrease in the pull on the bit.

She was calming.

Slowly, for sure, but all the work they’d done getting to this point, all the trust Clay had built and his iron-clad control were cutting through the panic that had flared the filly’s nostrils and widened her eyes as he’d sat his ass in the saddle.

The horse was responding to Clay’s composure, her wild grunts and snorts subsiding to heavy breathing.

The frantic twisting and bucking slowly settled to a frisky trot punctuated by occasional kicking of the back legs.

She tossed her head less, ceased pulling abruptly against the reins as she settled into the foreign sensation of a rider on her back.

‘Good girl,’ he murmured gently, belying the wild staccato beat of his heart, because Clay knew it wasn’t over yet.

Electra was settling but she was still skittish and liable to kick off again. He had to stay vigilant, maintain tight control with the reins and the clamp of his thighs.

It took another couple of minutes for the horse to slow her roll, for her gait to even out, for her pace to moderate. Clay leaned forward as she slowed to a plod, the tautness of her muscles easing.

‘Good girl,’ he crooned again, using the voice he always used for fractious horses, his cheek rubbing her caramel-blonde mane as his hand caressed her sweaty chestnut hide.

‘You did good. So good.’ The horse’s pace slowed even more.

‘Clever girl. Well done. You’re such a pretty filly.

Gonna have all those stallions chasing your tail but you’ll give them a run for their money, won’t you, darlin’. ’

With the words obviously meeting her approval, Electra pulled to a halt. She was still breathing a little hard but she was placid, her ears twitching as if waiting for more of his quiet praise.

A smattering of applause drifted his way on the clouds of settling dust and Clay tuned back in to his surroundings.

The sunshine. The smell of horse and grass and dirt.

The pastures heaving with long grass that swayed rhythmically until it met the sagebrush in the distance which eventually gave way to subalpine fir and aspen as the foothills of the majestic mountains met the valley floor.

This land that struck a visceral chord deep inside him – like a tuning fork humming just the right note. This ranch he loved.

This fucking dude ranch.

Triumph at his success with Electra ceded to resentment.

Clay had vehemently objected to his parents turning the family working ranch into a…

playground for city folks a decade ago. But, struggling to keep their heads above water, his complaints had fallen on deaf ears and, with his departure for the rodeo circuit imminent, it hadn’t really mattered.

But he was home now and it was still grinding his gears.

He wasn’t some low-rent actor playing at being a cowboy for the entertainment of people who couldn’t find a saddle horn with two hands and a map much less ride a horse.

This wasn’t a movie set. This was an actual working ranch and he had no time for people who thought slumming it in a deliberately rustic log cabin for a weekend made them country.

People who asked endless dumb questions and expected city-style amenities despite Redemption Valley being in the wilds of Wyoming and this being a dude ranch and all.

People who loved it – except for the heat or the cold or the patchy internet signal.

People who didn’t understand the inherent dangers of ranch life and didn’t listen to instructions, wandering off and getting themselves lost or bit by snakes.

Be nice.

That’s what his mom, the Calhoun matriarch, said every morning Clay left the main ranch house after pecking at the breakfast she insisted he join them for before heading out for the day to do the real work of the ranch.

Not tourist coddling. That was for the hospitality side of the business.

But it was hard to avoid their guests around this area of the ranch and she knew it.

Smile, honey. No one wants to see a grumpy cowboy.

Theresa Calhoun might appear small and softly spoken, and Clay might be twenty-eight and a rodeo superstar who’d been taking care of himself for over a decade, but he had no desire to be at the ass end of his mother’s feisty Irish temperament should one of the guests tattle on him for not smiling enough.

Not saying boy howdy enough. And giddy up. And freaking purrrrdy.

Dutifully, Clay lifted his hat in acknowledgement of the half dozen people applauding from the small set of wooden bleachers that sat ringside, wiping at the sweat and the cling of wet hair to his brow with the inside of his upper arm.

And that’s when he saw her, the applause fading away as his gaze landed on a woman standing to the side of the bleachers.

Fancy new boots, pristine new hat, shiny new belt buckle catching the sun as it threaded through blue jeans that looked like they’d been bought yesterday. Jeans that did not cling or bling but still showcased her long coltish legs anyway.

Despite her curated garb, she looked as out of place as possible.

Like she was trying too damn hard to fit in, too damn hard to be a weekend cowgirl, which was everything he despised about the dude ranch, and yet…

something grabbed at him and he couldn’t look away from her as she shimmered like a mirage in the last vestiges of the dust.

Despite the dust and the distance, a strange hyperawareness of her sharpened his visual acuity as he assessed the mystery woman.

She was a few years younger than him – maybe?

– and her hair was the colour of Electra’s mane, the caramel blonde disappearing down her back.

There was a smattering of freckles speckling her nose and cheeks, and her eyes – currently locked on him – were some kind of blue-grey that reminded him of the purple haze over the mountains in the evenings.

She looked vaguely familiar and yet not because he’d have definitely remembered her.

Clay realised he was staring. But then, so was she.

And not in that bold, knowing way that he was used to from women.

That how about it look, accompanied by a flirty smile and a hip pop.

Maybe a chest thrust. She seemed… surprised.

Or maybe that was wary? Unsure of herself.

But also… curious? Her teeth worried her bottom lip at the same time her fingers tangled together in front of her in a nervous gesture.

Like a skittish horse wanting to come closer but unsure of the consequences.

Whoever she was, she wasn’t anything like the women that usually caught his attention. She wasn’t busty, curvy or flirty. She wasn’t giving him the eye and walking toward him with a confident swing in her hips. And yet there was something utterly compelling about her he couldn’t explain.

Since his injury, his appetite – and not just for food – had taken a hit. He was still so fucking angry about his body letting him down. Angry at the doctors and officials who had clanged the death knell on his career. Angry that he hadn’t had a say in any of it.

Too angry for socialising. For flirting. Way too angry for fucking.

Until now. Until something stirred in him for the first time in months. Something that plucked at places he usually kept hidden away deep inside. As well as places that he didn’t.

Like his dick.

Nodding in mystery woman’s direction, he crammed his hat on his head.

He didn’t know what to expect; maybe a nod in return, hopefully a smile lifting those luscious lips that mirrored and acknowledged this strange pull he felt?

But she just blinked as if startled and most definitely skittish as her left foot took a tiny step backwards.

‘Boy howdy,’ slipped quietly from his lips without conscious thought.

Now there was a filly he wouldn’t mind riding.