Page 3 of Taming the Wild Cowboy

Maclyn Kane.

He felt like rubbing his eyes to see if she disappeared when he opened them again. What was she doing here? And why was she driving a truck that looked like the front quarter panel would fall off if someone breathed too heavily on it?

They faced off through the gravel-pitted windshield for a few more seconds, then Maclyn squared her shoulders and pushed the truck door all the way open, telling the little dog to stay. The door remained ajar after she’d stepped to the ground, making it easier to jump back inside, he figured. The dog danced on the edge of the seat but followed orders and stayed put.

So, again, why was Maclyn Kane on his ranch?

She appeared to be wondering the same thing as she stopped a few feet away from him, perhaps waiting for him to make the first move. That wasn’t going to happen.

A breeze came up and caught hold of her dark hair, which was about a foot shorter than during their rodeo days, falling to her shoulders instead of to her waist, and her clothes were remarkably utilitarian. The loose-fitting jeans bore signs of wear that were not part of the manufacturing process, and her scuffed boots spoke of actual ranch work. No glitz. No bling. No visible jewelry. If he’d passed her on the street, it would have taken him a few seconds to recognize her. That said, she still had that air about her, as if she were royalty masquerading as a cowgirl.

Or she’s nervous as hell.

She had reason to be.

“Long time,” Maclyn finally said, hooking a thumb in her pocket.

“Six years,” he acknowledged.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Five and a half since you tanked my job chances with Buckley Livestock, but who’s counting?”

Yeah. That. Not his fault. He’d been asked his opinion of Maclyn Kane as a potential employee and had explained his personal experience with her, every word of which was true. He had not sought out the hiring manager of Buckley as she seemed to imply, and was about to correct her, when he thought better of it. Nothing good came of arguing the past, and beyond that, there was something about the way Maclyn held herself, as if about to wade into battle, that stopped him.

“What can I do for you?” he finally asked.

“I’m here about the job you posted in the feed store on the highway.”

Trev tried to hold back the laugh. Failed. Mac’s expression shifted from defensive to pure ice at the choked sound.

“Sorry to have wasted your time.” She turned toward the truck and jerked the partially open door until it bounced on the hinges. The little dog scrambled into the passenger seat.

“Wait.”

Mac turned her head, Sam Elliott style, to wordlessly meet his gaze as he took a few steps forward, making him wonder if he’d imagined the crack in her voice.

“For?” she asked.

He shifted his weight, buying time as he tried to find a place of mental equilibrium. This was fucking weird. “You’re here about the job.”

Her jaw shifted sideways. “I was.”

“Why?” It made no sense.

“I didn’t know that you’d be here.”

She climbed into the truck then and pulled the door handle. Trev caught the frame before the door closed, dropping his hand as she shot him a WTF look. Right. What was he thinking?

He was thinking that he wanted answers. “Mac.”

She abandoned the battle for the door, letting her head drop back against the split vinyl of the headrest. “Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

She closed her eyes as if shutting out a bad memory. It took her a long moment to say, “I need something temporary. A few days even.”

“Why?”

Her eyes came open. “I’m in a spot.”