Page 5 of Untaming the Cowboy
A lone sheriff’s deputy stepped out, a young white man in his thirties with a small notepad in hand. “Evenin’ folks.” He addressed both of them. “Everybody okay? Got a call for a fender bender?”
“Yeah,” Dahlia said, cutting her eyes at the cowboy. “He backed right into me.”
He tipped his hat slightly. “She’s right. I did. But there aren’t any injuries. We’re getting a report so the insurance companies can handle the rest.”
After the deputy took their official statements, he started documenting the scene, moving between the two vehicles.Dahlia stood off to the side, tracking his movements as he scribbled notes. When he finished, the deputy explained he was going back to his car to log it all into a report.
She caught the cowboy watching her from beside his truck, his gaze fixed in that unreadable way that made her wonder what ran through his head. She wanted to look away, but he pinned her where she stood. Was he angry with her? For what?Hehither.
For a moment, the noise of distant chatter and engines starting faded, leaving only those storm-gray eyes locked on her. The air between them shifted, something unseen brushing over her skin, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold. Dahlia exhaled and forced her focus back to the deputy’s cruiser.
A few minutes later, the young officer returned. “Alright, folks. Luc, I gotta hit you with a citation for failure to yield. Here’s y’all’s copy to obtain the report for insurance.” He handed them each the printout before cautioning, “Be careful and have a good night.”
“Will do, and you too,” the cowboy said, giving an affirmative nod.
Dahlia took her copy with a polite smile. “Yes, thank you, Deputy.”
As the cruiser rolled away, Dahlia glanced down at the report. There it was in bold print:Lucas A. Stanley.
Without another word, Lucas turned on his heel and strode back to his truck. Dahlia stared after him, her fingers tightening around the report. Unbelievable—hit a woman’s car, then walk off as if courtesy cost extra. She slid into her driver’s seat and pressed the push-start, trying to shake the irritation curling through her chest.
The engine gave her nothing.
She tried again, foot firm on the brake and pressing the ignition button harder than necessary, then once more for pride. Still nothing—just the tired blink of her dashboard lights and the bar’s neon spilling color across her hands.
“Come on,” she whispered, forehead resting against the wheel for a brief second.
A tap at the window made her jerk. She whipped her head up.
Lucas Stanley.
Great. This guy again.
Drawing in a lungful of air, Dahlia lowered the glass halfway.
“What’s wrong? Won’t turn over?” His tone was curt, all business.
“It would’ve, if a certain cowboy hadn’t rearranged the front end.” The sarcasm came easy, but her stomach pitched at the thought of a dead rental in the middle of nowhere. She sighed. “No. It’s not starting.”
Lucas shifted his weight, the loose gravel crunching under his boots. “Hang on. I’ll make another call.”
He moved a few feet away, phone back at his ear, not waiting for a response. Two men stumbled over, slurring offers of directions to places she had no intention of going. Dahlia ignored them until they wandered off.
Watching the cowboy’s broad back, irritation seeped through the rip in her confidence where her plans had been. She wasn’t even supposed to be there. Then again, maybe she was.
The universe had a habit of putting her where she needed to be, even when it didn’t make sense. A few months back, Dahlia had stumbled across a viral clip of Haven’s Chicks performing at The Hen House and was instantly hooked. The group’s soulful country rhythm—the Black cowgirl energy—spoke to her. Supporting women who looked like her and created from the soul was second nature, so she’d planned a girls’ trip with Teylor to see them live.
Only problem? She booked her ticket for the wrong weekend.
Typical. Time was more of a suggestion in Dahlia’s world. Rather than cancel, she decided to roll with it. If the cosmos wanted her in Ironhaven early, she’d trust the detour. Still, sitting in a mangled rental outside a honky-tonk, she had to wonder what exactly the universe was trying to say this time.
The low rumble of an engine pulled Dahlia from her thoughts. A tow truck rolled into the spot where their vehicles had collided. She opened the door and stepped out, loose stones shifting under her boots.
The driver unfolded himself from the cab. He was taller than Lucas, burly, brown-skinned, wearing a weathered Stetson and work boots that had seen years of dust. Dahlia had to tip her chin up to meet his gaze. There was kindness in it, enough to put her at ease before he said a word.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” he greeted in a cheery drawl. “Name’s Beau.”
“Dahlia,” she returned, nodding toward Lucas. “He called you?”
