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  "Did not."

  "I wasn't the one driving like a bat out of hell."

  "Bat out of hell?" she screeched. Ooh, the nerve of him. "I'll have you know, I'm a damn good driver. I've had this car since I was fifteen." She waved at the broken back end. "And until this morning, it's never had so much as a scratch on it. And," she got right into his space, ignoring the incredible spicy scent of him and the way his scruff made his mouth stand out, and wagged her finger up at him. "My driving record is spotless." Where did he get off accusing her of reckless driving?

  "CICI," Jeanine interjected. "Weston's walking over. Just stay calm, okay? Do you know the guy you hit?"

  Jeanine's tone jarred her out of her temper. "I didn't hit him," she corrected, frowning at the gorgeous man. "He hit me. And, no. Never seen him before." Why did his eyes have to sparkle like that? This was not funny. Her car was totaled, and his monster truck only had a tiny dent.

  "Tell Jeanine it's Trace Walker." He crossed his arms, biceps bulging against a shirt so perfectly tailored she was sure it was custom made. A slow, triumphant smile pulled up his mouth.

  Cecilia pulled the phone away from her ear, eyebrows knitting together. "Wait, how do you know Jeanine?" The jerk winked and his smile widened into a grin. What in the heckle? She brought the phone back up again. "He says to tell you it's Trace Walker?" She didn't recognize the name, but the more she studied him, the more she was convinced she knew him.

  This time she held her phone at arm's length as Jeanine squealed. "You hit that hottie? Oh honey, make him give you a ride home and then some. Ride that train all the way into the station."

  Heat raced up her neck. There was no way he hadn't heard. Now would be a good time for the earth to swallow her up whole. That would be better than living with the mortification currently flooding her body. She risked a glance up, and judging from the way his shoulders were shaking, he definitely heard. Great. What more could go wrong?

  Chapter Seven

  Trace bit hard on the inside of his cheek. At least he had one fan in town, although that was small comfort when he was on the receiving end of a dress-down from a pint-sized lunatic. Whatever had happened to this CiCi person, she needed to chill. How could a woman be this wound up before eight a.m.? Immediately, his brain landed on a very dirty answer. Trace McBride would conclude she obviously needed a very thorough fucking. His dick jerked in agreement. He bit down harder on his cheek.

  Sadly, horizontal action of any kind was out of the question for Trace Walker. Even if the tiny spitfire pushed buttons he didn't know he had. He'd always gravitated to willowy blondes whose personalities wouldn't compete with his, so he wasn't quite sure where this spark of interest was coming from. The woman scolding him was the opposite in every way. Short - he'd estimate just a little over five-feet. Healthy curves, silky black hair he bet was long enough to wind around his hand, a full mouth, and snapping brown eyes that drew him to her like a moth to flame. The way she'd swept into the diner looking like something the cat had drug in, practically daring the old-timers to comment, had been a sight to behold. And the challenge that lit in them when they first locked eyes had his brain going down a delightful, albeit naughty rabbit hole.

  "Did you even hear what I said?" Her voice quivered with outrage, and two pink streaks flushed her cheekbones.

  He tossed her a crooked grin, knowing his comment would trigger a reaction. "Something about a train station?"

  She scowled and huffed, right on cue. "You have a lot of nerve, you know that?"

  He arched a brow. "Oh? Tell me more." She growled at his flip response. Trace pressed his lips together to keep from laughing outright.

  CiCi rolled her eyes and extended a tiny hand. "Give me your insurance so I can take a picture while we wait."

  Shit. His identification had his real name.

  Trace widened his stance. "Sorry. No can do."

  She crossed her arms, eyes widening in disbelief. "Excuse me?"

  He lifted a shoulder. "You heard me, no can do." Weston couldn't get here fast enough. If she saw his real name, the paps would be crawling all over Prairie by dinner. He just needed to keep her distracted long enough for Weston to arrive, then his secret was safe.

  "Whyever not?"

  Something an old acting coach said years ago popped into his head. Make the choice that raises the stakes. "I'm not the one at fault." He drew a finger down her nose and tapped the tip. "I need your insurance, sweetheart." Sure enough, he could practically see the steam pouring from her ears.

  Her eyes burned like two black coals. "Oh like hell you do. You hit me."

  "Says who?"

  "Says me. And what makes you think Weston's going to believe you? I'm the one who lives here."

  "Oh really?" He walked around to her demolished back end. "Plates say Illinois."

  "Well I do... now," she added, almost sheepishly.

  "So do I." He might have dragged out the words a little too long. Just to see how she reacted next. He wasn't disappointed.

  CiCi scowled and stepped forward. "You're a damned liar. Your plates say California. And this... getup?" She waved her hands. "You're no cowboy. Real cowboys don't prance around in designer jeans and custom-tailored shirts. You look like you bought this getup on Rodeo Drive, not Anders' Feed 'n Seed."

  She had a good eye, he'd give her that. Sterling might have raised an eyebrow at his choice of clothing when he first showed up, but he'd proven himself to be a hard worker, which is what mattered to those guys. "I think the only one prancing is you." His gaze slowly slid down her body, fully appreciating the way she filled out her very proper pencil skirt, before landing on her silver high-heeled sandals. Shoes like that belonged in Beverly Hills, not here in the sticks. "You're no cowgirl either, sweetheart-"

  "Stop calling me that."

  He grinned broadly. He'd bested her alright and damn, it had been fun. He lifted an eyebrow in challenge. "Make me."

  Her eyes snapped and the air between them charged. Trace's nerve endings lit up in anticipation. She was either going to smack him or kiss him. He half-hoped it was the latter. Without meaning to, but unable to stop himself, he dropped his gaze to her mouth, mesmerized. Her lower lip was plump, perfect for nipping, and up close, it was the most beautiful shade of pink he'd ever seen. He shouldn't, couldn't, but damn, he wanted. He leaned in, unable to resist, barely registering her sharp intake of breath. Arousal curled through him, stirring low in his belly. A flash of pink tongue darting out to slick lips turned the fire in his veins up a notch while buzzing filled his ears to the point of dizziness. Jeezus he ached for the tiniest taste of this forbidden fruit.

  Behind them a throat cleared. "Something I can help with?" Weston Tucker asked.

  They both stepped back, startled. Shit. That had been a close call. What had he been thinking? Trace snuck a gaze her direction and bit back a smile as CiCi concentrated on the gravel while she quickly smoothed her skirt, cheeks bright pink.

  "I hope so," she answered Weston brusquely, all business. "This... person here," she waved his direction. "Hit my car... there." She gestured toward her wreck of a car. "And now he won't turn over his insurance."

  "That's not how it happened," Trace argued. "She hit me."

  Weston stepped over to the vehicles, peered inside the shattered window, then walked around to the front of Trace's truck. "Can I have both your driver's licenses and insurance?" Trace had to hand it to Weston. The guy was unflappable, the perfect Chief of Police.

  "Of course." CiCi reached into her vehicle, skirt tightening against a perfectly heart-shaped ass as a silver shoe left the ground for balance. For a split second Trace had a view of shapely legs disappearing into dark recesses. His cock chubbed up and Trace turned away, looking skyward. Anywhere but at her. It wouldn't help his case if he shamelessly ogled, and it would be ten times worse if Weston caught him like this. "But I don't know why you need mine," she answered, still straining to reach the glove box. "Like I said-"

  "Stand
ard procedure, CiCi. Nothing to be concerned about," Weston assured her with his hand outstretched.

  Trace returned to his truck and dug around in his glovebox until he found his insurance, then handed both his license and the paper to Weston. Without an upward glance, Weston examined both sets of identification. "Walker, your license is expired."

  "Wait, what?"

  "You heard me. You've been driving with a license that's three months out of date."

  Behind him, CiCi snickered.

  Weston pulled out a ticket pad and started writing. "I'm going to have to fine you. You'll need to go to the DMV tomorrow and get a new license."

  He handed Trace the ticket. Trace glanced down, then scraped a hand across his mouth to keep from smiling. What he held was no ticket, but a note from Weston. Smooth move dumbass. Stop by the station tomorrow and I'll have a new ID for you. Trace cleared his throat and jammed the ticket into his pocket. He'd been to enough Sunday dinners with Travis and Sterling to understand that Weston still had deep connections with off-grid organizations. If he thought about it too hard, it was a little freaky, but right now he was too relieved to be anything but grateful.

  "But what about my car?" CiCi interjected.

  "Want me to have it towed down to the body shop?" Weston offered. "I can make the call."

  "I'll pay for it," Trace offered quickly. "The repairs, too. No harm, no foul?" Although her car looked so old it probably wasn't worth fixing. Hell, he could buy her a new Volvo and not miss the money.

  CiCi's eyes narrowed. "So now you want to help? What gives?" Her eyes darted between the two men and her mouth pulled down. "You're all bluster until Weston shows up and writes you a ticket. What's he have on you?"

  Shit. He looked over to Weston for guidance. What was he supposed to say now? Weston barely shook his head. "Take it easy on Trace, CiCi. He's new to town and still learning how we do things here. Let him help you."

  CiCi crossed her arms, eyes still flicking between them, toe of her right foot tapping like a machine gun. She clearly wasn't having it. "Why?"

  "Because he's volunteering out at Resolution Ranch, that's why," Weston shot back. "You know the vetting our volunteers go through. He's not trying to yank your chain."

  Well, maybe he was a little. Okay, a lot. But not to be mean or because he wanted to get out of paying for something that might be his fault. Yanking her chain was hella entertaining. There was something about her when she was riled, something wild and slightly out of control that he found damned irresistible. It made him want to keep poking at her.

  CiCi's nose flared as she huffed out a breath. "Fine. I'll let you call the tow."

  Weston clapped Trace on the shoulder. "If you can wait ten minutes while I walk Trace over to the station to have a little chat about safe driving, I can come back with the patrol car and give you a ride someplace."

  "No, thank you," she said primly. "I'll walk."

  Weston raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her shoes. "It's a long walk out to your place if that's where you're headed. Trace can give you a ride. He's headed back to Resolution Ranch."

  He swore he heard her mutter oh hell, no under her breath. She shook her head firmly. "I'll be fine."

  "Suit yourself, then. I'll have Tyler over at the body shop give you a call when your car's ready to be picked up."

  Weston cocked his head the direction of the police station. "Let's go have that chat, shall we?"

  Trace fell into step and walked with Weston through the lot to the next block. As soon as they were around the corner and out of sight, Weston spoke. "What in the hell was that back there?"

  "What do you mean? She hit me, we got into it. It didn't occur to me I'd need to change my driver's license."

  "I mean, CiCi is an investigative journalist. She works for one of the big papers in Chicago. I don't know what she's doing here, but she's sharp, and like a terrier when she gets something into that hard head of hers. Steer clear of her."

  Trace didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. At least Weston hadn't noticed their almost-kiss. As for staying away? Weston was right, especially if CiCi was a reporter. But that didn't mean he liked it. What would happen if he said no?

  For the span of a breath, he let himself go down that path. He wasn't used to denying himself, and he'd been on excellent behavior for the two months he'd been in Prairie. Why not let go a little? Until it ended with paparazzi swarming Prairie and his career over for good. No Oscar, no more movies, no more "sexiest man alive" titles or screaming fans when he showed up on the red carpet. No more parties where he held court until four a.m. Just him, Trace Walker McBride, out-of-control-has-been who threw away his career.

  "You bet, Chief." He saluted with a wry smile.

  "Stop by the station after ten tomorrow, and I'll have a new license and papers for you. Anything else you need to change? Credit cards? Checks?"

  Shit. Those, too. "Holy smokes, you're connected."

  "It used to be my job," Weston replied stiffly.

  "Your secret's safe with me, Chief."

  "It's Weston. And I'll let Sterling know you're on your way. See you Sunday for dinner at the ranch?"

  Travis nodded as they reached the station. "I'll be there." Weston stopped and turned to him, hands on his hips. Even though his eyes were shielded by aviators, Trace could tell the man was staring hard at him. "Uh... everything okay?"

  "Anything else you want to tell me?"

  Trace tensed. So Weston had witnessed his almost- kiss with CiCi. He flashed his signature grin. "Nope, all good."

  Weston's mouth thinned. "See that it stays that way."

  Message received.

  Chapter Eight

  Seven minutes later, Weston's warnings still ringing in his ears, Trace pulled his truck out of the diner parking lot and made his way toward the high school, taking the short-cut to the ranch like the guys had taught him. "Aww, shit." Up ahead on the left, hobbling unevenly and dragging her suitcase behind her, was CiCi. Trace brushed a hand over his beard. He should drive on. Sterling had tried to hide it, but the foreman was more than a little irritated with his tardiness. Unable to help himself, he slowed to below the speed limit. Why was she limping like that? Blisters maybe? No. Trace let out a low chuckle. The woman had broken a heel. He lifted his foot from the gas, ready to brake, then thought better of it and sped up, passing by.

  Weston's words echoed in his mind. Steer clear. Trace had to agree - an investigative journalist was a hard pass. Still... Stay away from the local color. He glanced at her in the rearview. Double shit. Had she been crying? "Hell and damnation." He hit the brakes and made a U-turn. If he'd learned anything from the cowboys he'd worked with in the last two months, it was to never leave a lady in distress. And CiCi probably knew every single one of the guys he worked and practiced with. Better to help her than risk their wrath.

  He punched the window button and slowed to a stop, pushing open the passenger door. "Get in," he said gruffly.

  She gave a dramatic sniff. "No."

  She had been crying, dammit. Was that because of him? His chest pulled tight. He hadn't meant to push her to the point of tears. "C'mon... I swear I won't bite."

  "I'm fine."

  Shit. Damn. Fuck. They were vaccinating cows this morning and Sterling was going to tan his hide. But there was no way was he letting her walk the rest of the way to wherever she was going. He wasn't that big of a jerk. Trace jammed the truck into park, hopped out and made his way around the back. "Oh hell, no. You're not walking," he snapped, more pissed at himself than her. He reached for her suitcase, half-expecting her to put up a fight when he took the handle. A spark shot up his arm as he came in contact with her fingers, but it was so fleeting he pushed the shock of awareness aside, more surprised she didn't resist. Without a word she let him place her suitcase in the truck bed. "Well? Hop in. I've gotta get to the ranch."

  She shot him a withering glare.

  "Sulky much?"

  She let out a l
ittle growl. The corner of his mouth twitched. Damn, that sound appealed to him. It stirred right down to his groin. "I. Can't. Reach. The. Running. Board," she answered through gritted teeth.

  He shouldn't laugh. It would only irritate her more. But he couldn't help the deep rumble that erupted from his belly. There was no way she could hop up in her tight little skirt. "You wouldn't want my help would you?" he asked with a shameless grin. There was a certain kind of satisfaction that came with besting her.

  Her eyes shot sparks.

  Still chuckling and before she could protest, he scooped her up and lifted her into his truck. Her body was soft and pliant beneath his hands, and he caught a whiff of expensive perfume. Notes of sandalwood and jasmine hit his nose, arrowing through his body and making his pulse trip. His stomach flopped, like he'd just been flipped by a rogue wave. He'd held plenty of women, on set and off, but none had ever made his chest go tight like this, or made him feel like his balance was off-kilter. She practically curled into him, fisting the material at his shoulder. From out of nowhere, the urge to shelter her rushed through him, to protect her from whatever had brought this obviously strong woman to the breaking point. What in the hell was he supposed to do with that? The only person he knew how to protect was himself, and if he was honest, he did a piss-poor job of it. Again, Weston's words echoed in his head. Steer. Clear.

  He settled her in the seat, then braced his hands on either side of her hips, scanning down over shapely legs to her silver sandals, now decidedly worse for wear. Just to make sure she wasn't hurt anywhere, he justified to himself. Trace's mistake was in scanning back up, over the navy hem that rode up her thighs, and the pull of fabric at her hips, up each pearly button on her blouse and the clasp of her pearl necklace that had slipped rakishly to her collarbone, to meet her eyes. This time when they locked eyes, a flicker of heat arced between them. His fingers curled into his palms as he held her gaze. "There," he murmured. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"