Page 13 of Untaming the Cowboy
They ran until voices were lost to the storm—moving cattle toward the east pasture, coaxing the smaller animals into shelter. The wind hit bending the grass flat, rain slicing sideways. Beau shouted something he couldn’t hear, and Luc only caught movement through the blur: Dahlia, drenched, boots sinking in the mud, guiding the goats into the pen with calm, yet stubborn determination.
“Son of a—” He started toward her. “Dahlia! Get inside!”
“Not till these babies are safe! Don’t worry. I got—” she shouted back, the sudden gust stealing half her words. “You can yell at me later!”
He wanted to haul her over his shoulder. He wanted to kiss that sassy mouth, just to shut her up. He did neither. The thought itself pissed him off. This wasn’t the time, and she sure as hell wasn’t the woman to be thinking with the wind clawing and the sky coming apart overhead. He clenched his jaw, forced the thought down, and kept moving toward her.
By the time she pushed the last nanny into the pen, thunder cracked so close it rattled his teeth. He grabbed her wrist. “Now!”
They ran.
Rain hammered them all the way to the storm cellar—the heavy steel door yawning open at the edge of the barn. The men piled down the narrow steps, boots clanging against metal. Luc pushed Dahlia ahead of him, slammed the door shut, and dropped the crossbar just as the first debris hit outside.
Luc took the steps down through the passage, turned, and collided with someone. Unexpectedly soft and solid, but definitely not one of his ranch hands.
“Lord,” Dahlia gasped, palms bracing his chest. “You walk the same way you drive, don’t you?”
A few muffled snickers broke out from his crew. Luc’s head snapped toward them, his glare cutting the sound quick. He looked down at her. “You got a death wish, or you just like testing me?”
She tilted her chin, droplets of rain clinging to her lashes. “Maybe both.” A smirk formed. “Didn’t mean to bruise your pride, cowboy. Just an observation.”
He opened his mouth to give her a piece of his mind, but the lights above flickered once, again, then died, plunging them into dark.
The next instant, she jolted forward and grabbed hold of him, arms wrapping tight around his torso.
He went still, every muscle tensed, the sound of her quickened breathing rising against his chest. Around them, boots shifted, someone cursed under their breath.
Then came the scent that cut through everything else. Despite being soaked, she smelled of cherry, almond, and something else. Vanilla, maybe. It wound through him, grounding and disarming all at once.
He cleared his throat. “Everybody stay put. The generators’ll kick back on.” He lowered his head, voice rougher. “Especially you.”
“Wasn’t plannin’ to go anywhere,” Dahlia murmured, letting out a sigh that sounded like relief. “And for the record, cowboy, you did good out there.”
“So did you.” He huffed a breath, that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Appreciate the help.”
“Well,” she said, that spark returning, “good to know your ranch doesn’t fall apart when I’m in it.”
Thundering boomed above and Dahlia’s fingers dug into his shirt. She pressed against him, her body quivering in a way that had nothing to do with their rain-soaked clothes. This feisty woman was afraid of the storm. And just like that, something in him eased. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped. The fortress he’d built around himself developed its first crack.
The storm growled against the bunker’s steel roof. A mechanical whine cut through the darkness, and the backup generators sputtered to life. Amber light bloomed overhead, casting long shadows across concrete walls.
Luc quickly stepped away, his palm rubbing against stubble to scrub off the ghost of her touch.
“Alright,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone.
Water still cascaded from his hat brim, pooling at his boots. His gaze swept the room—life returning to the storm cellar in a low electric hum.
Around him, the crew stirred to action. Jackets slapped against wall hooks, boot heels scraped grit, and someone drawled something about drowning in the apocalypse. Tension dissolved into the low rumble of men finding their bearings.
“Beau,” Luc called.
His foreman was already hunched by the generator panel across the room. “We’re set for forty-eight at least,” he said, eyes on the gauges. “Solar’s good. Air system’s clear.”
Luc gave a curt nod, taking inventory. The underground shelter stretched wide— reinforced concrete walls, a row of bunks along one side, shelves of rations and gear along the other. Beyond that, a steel door opened to the kitchen area, where long tables sat beneath industrial lights.
A movement caught his eye. Dahlia stood at the foot of the stairs, trembling, arms crossed tight. Her clothes molded to every curve, dark curls snaked against her neck. Her chin stayed high, but her fingers betrayed her, shaking against her arms.
Luc’s tone softened, though not by much. “Storage locker’s by the bunks. Dry clothes, blankets—plenty for everyone. Get changed before you start catching somethin’.”
