Chapter One
Rule Number 1
No bringing women home.
Next day
Heart Carvalho’s windshield wipers snapped back and forth as her truck barreled down the country highway, meandering between rolling hills of unspoiled countryside and stretches of farmland, toward her next job. Nerves spiked through her as she glanced at the ominous storm clouds, angry, dark, and casting the sky in a pregnant, greenish hue in her rearview mirror.
The screeching of the National Weather Service cut off the radio song with its sharp, punctuated audio.
“Tornado warning in effect for: Rusk County, Nacogdoches County, Cherokee County, Angelina County…” said the computerized voice. “Multiple tornados, causing heavy damage, confirmed. Seek shelter immediately…”
“Jeezus,” she exhaled, trying not to notice the ugly churning of the cavernous heavens. She liked to live on the edge, but this was taking things a bit far.
If she could just get to McClintock-Dixon Farms, she could take shelter. She raced along the road, her GMC Sierra hydroplaning as she hit a curve too hard and spiking a familiar jolt of awareness through her at the thought of a car accident that she quickly tamped down. Finally, the road opened up to reveal an idyllic stretch of land lined with neat pasture fencing, an old brick farmhouse in the distance perched upon the rise of the fossil-rich escarpment that cut through this county, and the big, rustic sign upon the road: McClintock-Dixon Farms.
The fields were empty. An old barn and silo near the house seemed to scurry with activity: farm crew sealing up the doors, trucks ripping back and forth between the barn, two other more modern barns, a shop, and a milking parlor sided in industrial sheet metal. Yet as she flipped on her blinker to turn through the solar-paneled gate guarding the entrance road spanning over a culvert and drainage ditch, her engine died, the steering locking and the brake pedal stiffening.
“No…no no no!” She banged the wheel with the heels of her palms and pressed her weight on the pedal to bring herself to a stop, tried the ignition over and over, but each twist of the key resulted in slower turnovers that couldn’t catch.
A branch whipped across the road. Pine trees bent dramatically. Wind howled across the windshield—hail? The plinking on glass sounded like BBs scattered from their canister.
“Come ON!”
Ugh. This couldn’t be happening! There was no safe place to hide. There was no way she could hoof it a mile up the road to the farmhouse in time in her sandals that were cute as hell but wildly impractical for hiking. She should have gotten up earlier after crashing on Charlie’s couch last night, but hot damn, memories of that tall, dark, brooding drink of cowboy with the magical fingers, rough, soft baritone voice that had vibrated upon her eardrums in the most incredible way as he’d sought raw pleasure from her body, and those protein-fed muscles—a prize from winning the obvious genetic jackpot—honed by pure testosterone, had replayed through her mind all night. By the time she’d finally fallen into a restless sleep, she’d wildly overslept.
She’d relived the quiet yet commanding way “Ty” had sauntered out of nowhere, onto the stage, slouched jeans and faded plaid shirt, reimagined glancing toward the bathrooms over and over again like a stalker for him to emerge behind her, anxious for one more peek at his classically handsome face before realizing there must be a back exit, because he’d never emerged. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his, so dark brown and shiny they were nearly obsidian, soft, dark hair that gently curled behind his ears and across his forehead boyishly, a hint of innocence hidden within the work-roughened armor of a man, the way that hidden smile had quirked his stoic lips when she’d stolen his hat, the way that crease in his cheek had been slow to emerge, whispering of innocence lost…
Ack. Why couldn’t she forget the intensity of his gaze? She was waxing poetic, the way Monarch had always teased. But the man was visual poetry and ought to be described with an artist’s brush, not words: unassuming yet in command, quiet and yet speaking a thousand words with that silence. For the sliver of time that their paths had merged, it had seemed as if she’d had his entire focus, she’d been his sole job, and he was determined to give as much as he was taking. He’d looked so longingly at her once he’d finally capitulated to her silly flirts and hiked up her skirt. His words had said one thing loud and clear: no attachments. But his eyes? They’d been the quietest, most expressive portals to the soul she’d ever seen, and unlike other nameless hookups, this man’s eyes had seemed to linger on her every thought.
She hadn’t wanted him to slip away. Relinquishing his protective hold had meant that the fantasy would burst. She’d been two seconds away from asking for his number, when that question about her scar replayed in her mind and she thought better of it. But in his assessing gaze, she’d wondered if, perhaps, she’d seen that same desire reflected back at her to hold on a moment longer.
Crack!
Something banged her windshield. Her arms torqued as she gripped the wheel and twisted the key in the ignition to no avail, when she saw an old blue pickup bumbling over the ruts in the pasture. A lone cow stood among the swaying grasses, and a man, tall and broad like her Hercules from last night who’d lifted her like she was a feather, jumped out of the door like some lithe athlete, jogging to the cow, too far for her to see any distinguishing features, head shielded by an old Stetson. A shiver washed over her skin. Would every man she saw from now on remind her of her mystery cowboy? Was she hoping to see him again?
And why the hell was she imagining him when she was about to die? She blew a strand of hair fallen loose from her messy knot off her lip.
Despite the direness of the weather encroaching, a laugh played up her throat. The man was gesturing, arguing with the cow, a hand slouched on his hip, as if trying to get her to move. He looked over his shoulder, made some sort of snap command, and a Texas heeler bounded out of his open truck door and streaked across the field, barking, nipping at the cow’s heels and dodging her moody kicks until she finally began to trot away. The man sent her on her way with a slap to her flank.
Should she call for help? He was texting someone as the dog drove the cow toward the barn, turned back toward his truck and began running for cover. There’s no way he’d hear her shout in this wind, and he’d be gone by the time she scrambled across the road. She returned to fighting with her ignition instead, the turnovers slowing, slowing, her wipers squeegeeing to a stop, until the battery seemed to die. Dead as roadkill. She turned the ignition one more time. A click. Then nothing.
She sank her head to her steering wheel, groaning as she closed her eyes—
Bang, bang, bang!
She jumped at the pounding of a fist upon her window. Head whipped up. Eyes locked on…her Hercules?
It’s him…
“Ty?” Were her eyes playing tricks on her? Had she thought about him so hard, she’d willed him back into existence? Was she smiling wide-eyed and awed like a lovesick girl?
As if the swirling clouds had become a peripheral fog, his obsidian eyes—streaked in chestnut and taupe that the crappy lighting last night hadn’t done justice and God they were beautiful—narrowed. His face dropped as recognition dawned. She wasn’t imagining him. A smile ghosted upon his firm lips and chiseled jaw as if cut from steel that vanished as quickly as it surfaced, causing an eruption of fluttering to heat through her belly. He was happy to see her again—
A leaf slapped his cheek, sticking. He flinched, then ripped it away as if snapping him out of his stupor. A laugh bubbled up her throat. He scowled. His eyes dipped to her lips. Then her chest.
“Come on!” he shouted, stabbing her distracting thoughts. “There’s no time!”