Wild Wyoming Nights. Joanne Rock

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       Two

      Four miles into her evening run, Emma regretted the decision not to take the cast shuttle back to her lodgings at White Canyon Ranch.

      She’d been in a hurry to burn off the keyed-up awareness she’d felt all day working with Carson McNeill and thought maybe she could jog away that hypersensitive energy. Now, her thighs burned with a soreness that no workout had ever given her before. As a personal trainer strictly for female clients, she had plenty of thigh workouts in her personal inventory. In the future, she’d have to start recommending a day in the saddle to women who complained about their inner thighs.

      Slowing to a walk on the grassy path alongside a fenced-in field between the Creek Spill lands and the guest ranch where second unit cast and crew members were staying, Emma checked her directions on the GPS. She’d asked one of the stable workers about the route she’d chosen, and he’d assured her the dirt road was good enough to drive on in a pickup truck. Running would be no problem. She’d thought she’d been well prepared, peeling off the jodhpurs and stuffing them in her nylon knapsack along with an extra bottle of water. She’d changed into a clean pair of cropped leggings along with the running shoes she’d packed for her evening workout. Her boots she’d left tucked in a corner of the tack room, at the suggestion of the ranch hand who’d told her about the path.

      The sun was sinking low on the horizon, though, and it occurred to her that it was liable to be very dark at sunset. Not like her neighborhood in Studio City, where she could run at all hours of the night and still see because of the streetlamps. Taking a moment to stretch in the hope it would ease some of the stiffness in her muscles, Emma breathed in the scent of fresh air and wildflowers. The breeze stirred the tall grass inside the four-rail fence.

      She was just about ready to start running again when the hum of an engine alerted her that a vehicle was heading her way. Her shoulders tensed. Yes, Emma had taken plenty of mixed martial arts classes, training that served her well in stunt work and helped to make her feel sure of herself in isolated places. Still, she couldn’t shake some of the old fears. Her ex-boyfriend was a fellow fitness trainer who’d hit her in a public place, in front of a room full of witnesses after a kickboxing class he’d taught. He’d tried to play it off like he was giving her an extra lesson, but thankfully no one else in the class believed that. An off-duty cop had been among the attendees, leading to the battery charges that kept her ex locked up for almost three years.

      She didn’t want to ever need saving again, though. She tightened her ponytail and started a light jog that irritated her burning thighs.

      As the sound of the engine drew closer, punching up her heartrate, she turned to see a two-seater utility vehicle with an open cargo bed in back. The compelling cowboy she’d been trying to excise from her thoughts sat behind the wheel.

      Her fears dissipated fast.

      Carson McNeill braked to a stop beside her. The tension inside her shifted from fright back to the attraction she’d been fighting all day. She told herself it shouldn’t matter that she was red faced and sweating. But it was tough not to be aware that she looked like roadkill when he looked like he’d just had a shower, with his hair still damp and his face freshly shaved. He wore a white button-down with the sleeves rolled up and a clean pair of jeans.

      She paused beside the vehicle, swiping the back of her hand over her damp forehead. “You can’t possibly be here to critique my form. On my own two feet, I absolutely know what I’m doing.”

      He didn’t even crack a smile. “My foreman told me you decided to run back to the White Canyon.”

      “When running alone, it’s a good safety practice to let someone know where you’re going.” She’d taken extra precautions. “I told Zoe, too.”

      His jaw flexed. She’d seen that look often enough today when she’d tried his patience. Now, the furrow in his brow said he was downright aggravated.

      “Speaking of safety practices, how many times did I mention that a Wyoming ranch can be dangerous? That animals can be dangerous?”

      “Several.” Hot, tired and sore, she was beginning to feel her own patience fray. “But since I’m off the clock for the day, I’m no longer your concern.”

      “If you’re on McNeill lands, you’re my responsibility.” He swiped his Stetson off the passenger seat and tossed СКАЧАТЬ