Page 30 of Her Dirty Defender

Angus shoots me a baleful look. “Don't encourage her. She’s got a bigger ego than a prize-winning buck in rutting season.”

Cheese Puff pauses her escape to peer back at us. The hat slips, momentarily covering her eyes. Then, with a sassy toss of her head, the pint-sized terror takes off, zigzagging down the porch steps.

Despite his exasperation, a hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Angus’s mouth. “I swear, the little monster is trouble. It’s only a matter of time before she decides my boots look tasty too.”

I lose it then, doubling over with laughter. “You've got a goat kleptomaniac called Cheese Puff. Gotta admire her spirit, though.”

Angus chuckles. “Come on, let's rescue my hat and introduce you to George. Between the three of us, we might just get that tractor running.”

Chapter8

Beckett

I follow Angus to the workshop, squinting against the harsh morning sun. The air carries the musk of livestock and the freshness of grass that permeates every inch of this place. A chorus of bleating goats and nickering horses provides a constant backdrop, evidence of the bustling life on the ranch.

A sharp bang echoes across the yard, like a gunshot. My body tenses instinctively, hand twitching, reaching for a weapon that's no longer there.

Angus doesn't miss it. “Still adjusting?”

I grunt. No point in denying it. “I'll handle it.”

We round the corner of the burned-out barn, which is now under construction, and head toward the workshop. The screech of metal grinding against metal sets my teeth on edge.

Angus grins. “Sounds like George is making friends with the equipment again.”

I nod, picturing some grizzled old-timer with tobacco-stained fingers. Every ranch has one—the guy who can fix anything with duct tape and stubborn determination.

A string of creative cursing erupts from the workshop, followed by the clang of metal on concrete. “Holy fucking shitsticks! Dammit, Bertha! Don't you dare give up on me now, you goddamn piece of rusted garbage! I swear by all that's holy, if you don't start right this second, I'm gonna dismantle you bolt by bolt and sell you for scrap!”

The voice is female, frustrated, and achingly familiar.

It can't be.

I'm already moving toward the workshop, drawn by that voice. By the impossible possibility.

Another clang echoes through the air. Angus lunges for the baby goat that streaks from the workshop, but the demon-in-fur-form is faster, bouncing away.

A woman steps out from under a truck's hood, and everything in me goes still.

Chestnut hair escaping a messy braid. Grease smudged across one cheek. Those curves that fit perfectly in my hands two nights ago now draped in coveralls.

The woman who wrapped herself around me like she belonged there, moaned my name like a prayer and then disappeared before sunrise, leaving nothing but the ghost of her taste on my tongue. The woman who slipped out of my hotel room, taking a piece of me with her.

Seeing her again loosens something inside me while something else clicks into place.

Fuck.

What are the chances?

But this can’t be chance. Feels more like…

Fate? Destiny? Inevitability?

I almost laugh out loud at myself. Since when did I believe in any of that woo-woo shit?

But I can’t deny that I’m drawn to this woman like gravity. It’s unstoppable. Absolute.

She hasn't seen me yet, too busy threatening a goat with a wrench.

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