Page 2 of The Rancher’s Bride

Outside, I move my suitcases into a narrow slice of shade and wait. Half an hour comes and goes. By the time an hour has passed, the heat has worked through my top and my optimism is wearing thin.

Finally, a battered truck turns into the lot, kicking up dust as it rolls toward the station. It stops right in front of me. The driver’s door opens, and a man steps out.

My annoyance doesn’t disappear, but it does lose its place at the front of my mind.

The man walking toward me is tall, broad-chested, and built with the dense strength of someone who works with his body every day. The faded denim shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest, tucked into worn jeans that fit close through the hips and thighs. His dark hair is mostly hidden beneath a worn cowboy hat, stubble shadows his hard jaw, and his gaze is direct and assessing.

When he stops in front of me, his gaze moves over my jeans and top before returning to my face. “Thought you were coming tomorrow.”

It sounds accusatory and not at all apologetic. I bite back the response that comes to mind and keep my tone light. “Well, here I am.”

His lips twitch with amusement, as though this situation is somehow funny. “Yup. Here you are.”

Then he turns away, giving me an unhelpful view of the way his jeans hug his ass. He lowers the tailgate of his truck with a thud, then steps aside to let me handle the suitcases myself.

I haul the first one off the platform and lift it into the truck bed. The second is heavier, but I brace it against the edge and push until it slides in beside the first.

Damian watches me with open amusement. “Hell, woman. What’ve you got in there?”

Is this guy for real?

Before I can come up with a response, he’s shutting the tailgate and heading for the driver’s side. I go around the other side and climb into the passenger seat. Inside the cab, the bench seat is cracked, a pair of work gloves rests on the floor, and a coil of rope sits behind us beside a dented metal thermos. Sunlight has heated everything inside, and warm air moves through the open windows as Damian pulls onto the road.

The town falls behind quickly, replaced by fences, pastures, and long stretches of road. Damian drives with one hand resting high on the wheel. “You ever done this before?”

I glance at him, unsure whether he’s teasing. “If I’d done this before, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

“Could’ve gone badly the first time.”

I keep my voice even. “This is my first time doing anything like this. What about you? Have you ever done this before?”

He gives a short laugh, as though the answer should be obvious. “Hell no.”

“What made you decide to try it?”

His eyes flick toward the rearview mirror before returning to the road. “Needed a change, I guess. Whole thing’s weird as fuck, isn’t it? Mail-order brides. I thought it was a joke at first.”

Heat rises into my face. Hearing him say it out loud makes the whole thing sound so…dehumanizing. Like I was sitting on a shelf somewhere, waiting for a man to choose me.

I steer the conversation to safer ground. “What’s your ranch like?”

“Big.” He gives me a self-satisfied grin. Then his gaze drops to my hands. “You aren’t afraid of getting those pretty hands dirty, are you?”

The pretty hands comment flusters me, but I refuse to let him see it. “I’m perfectly capable of helping around the ranch. As long as you aren’t looking for someone to work all day and wait on you hand and foot.”

He scoffs. “C’mon now. Do you think I’m a complete asshole?”

“You haven’t exactly made a strong case for yourself.”

His laugh rolls through the cab, full and deep. The laughter changes his face, making him, to my dismay, even hotter.

Goddamn it.

I face the window before he can see my reaction. Of course he has to be ridiculously attractive. It would be so much easier to dismiss him if every arrogant thing out of his mouth weren’t paired with that face, that body, and a voice that seems determined to work its way under my skin.

Still, I haven’t agreed to marry him. Technically, I’ve only agreed to spend thirty days getting to know him. That’s it.

And if Damian Nash turns out to be the kind of man I suspect he is, I can get back on that train and never see him again.