Perhaps it hadn’t been fair to stereotype the llama rancher, Bert Winston, but she'd imagined a hick in baggy suspenders, maybe worn out jeans, a plaid shirt, and cowboy boots. She’d even included a piece of straw sticking out between the gap she’d imagined between his two front teeth. Oh, and a cowboy hat!

The llama rancher surprised her with his wool trousers, buttoned-up Oxford, tweed blazer, sleek boots, and what looked like a fedora perched with impeccable style atop his head. Impeccably groomed, even his gray beard had been trimmed and combed. Instead of chewing on a piece of straw, Bert puffed a cigar. Deep laugh lines crinkled the skin around his eyes and told her his huge smile was a comfortable, and lifelong, friend.

Blueish black smoke curled around his head. A puff made the tip of the cigar glow. He even blew honest to goodness smoke rings. And what was that in his hand?

Abby leaned forward, eyes pinching, and caught the unmistakable title. A Wuthering Heights fan? And she could label him a fan without feeling guilty about it because the edges of the leather-bound cover were worn and the pages curled as if they’d been lovingly handled many wonderful times.

She looked into his twinkling eyes, such a contrast to Drake’s black pools of mystery and pain. Jade colored gems rounded with mirth as Bert puffed on his cigar.

"Well, Miss Abby," he said. "Sounds like you've had a frightful night."

"Yes, sir," she said. "It began with a moose."

"Began?" He cocked his head to the side. "What did it end with?"

Now that was a question she didn't have an answer to, considering her evening still seemed to be a work in progress.

"Wolves,” Drake answered.

Bert popped the cigar out of his mouth with a squelching sound. "You found the curs it seems.”

"Found and killed.” Drake swung his rifle over his shoulder and puffed out his chest. “Five down. Had to leave the bodies on the side of the road, though.”

Bert shoved the fat cigar back into his mouth and drew in a breath. The tip crackled and reddened with the smoldering fire. "I'll call Charlie and let him know."

"Don't bother. I'll tell him. We’ll grab them in the morning and send the pelts to Fish and Game.” He jerked his thumb toward Abby. "And her car is in a ditch somewhere a few miles outside of town.”

“Ah, gotcha,” Bert said. “I’ll call Henry to bring his rig in the morning."

"The morning!" Abby looked between the two men. "I thought we'd be able to get it out tonight."

They gave her twin expressions like she was crazy.

"Why can't he come tonight?" Where was she going to stay? With Bert and his llamas?

"She's not from around here is she?" Bert twisted the cigar in his mouth.

"Not even close," Drake said.

Bert wrapped an arm around her shoulder and tugged her toward the door. "Come child, let's get you out of this weather. I've got a nice fire going, and even some leftover stew.”

At the mention of food, Abby's stomach rumbled. In her haste to get to Peace Springs, she'd skipped dinner, thinking her uncle would have something laying around. Little did she know she would nearly run down a moose and become wolf bait.

"That would be very nice," she said, "but please don't go to too much trouble."

“No trouble at all. You're in Peace Springs, child. The people here take care of each other.” Bert swept her into his home, while Drake remained outside.

She twisted around. "Isn't he coming?"

Bert pulled the door shut. "Naw, Drake’s going to check on the llamas, but don't worry, that brooding bastard will be back to join you by the fire in no time."

"That's not what I meant." But then why did the thought of sitting by Drake have her stomach twisting in knots?

"I know what you meant,” he said with a wink.

He walked her through his kitchen, and unlike the man, the kitchen fit every country stereotype she could imagine, from the copper molds displayed over the cupboards, to the hen and rooster knickknacks tucked into every available corner, and even to the wooden bread box on the counter top. The kitchen could easily grace the cover of Country Living or Southern Comfort magazines. Even his stove was one of those cast iron antiques. Its jade green metallic paint contrasted perfectly with the floral wallpaper and wooden butcher block countertops. The whole place would've been terribly garish, except it all worked perfectly together. It was a home made for making people feel welcome.

The living room continued the quaint feeling, but instead of the expected plaid sofa and rocking chair with crocheted throws, the living room had an understated elegance to it yet very masculine with its dark brown leather couches and mounted gun racks over the fireplace. One glance at the roaring fire in the stone fireplace and her muscles relaxed, reminding her how exhausted she was from her tromp across two miles of countryside, and three miles the wrong way on the county highway.

Bert took Drake’s coat and gestured to the sofa. "Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'll heat up the stew and get you a drink. You a wine or whiskey girl?"

"Wine. I've never had whiskey." She didn't take the offered seat. Instead, she reached beneath her shirts and felt the innermost layer. Ugh, slick with sweat. ”Um, Bert, is there a place I can..."

He pointed down the hall. "Bathroom is the second door on the right. The guest bedroom is the first one on the left, just across from the study."

"Thank you."

While he disappeared back into the kitchen, she located the bathroom. There wasn't a lock on the door, which made her nervous. She took care of business and then stood in front of the mirror. A quick inspection of her ears eased her fears about frostbite. Bright red, she had the very beginning of frostnip, barely missing the more serious frostbite. It had been too close, and she thanked her mysterious stranger yet again. No lingering damage would occur to her ears. Her cheeks and the tip of her nose pricked with sensation as circulation and heat slowly returned.

She peeled out of all seven shirts. The two innermost layers were damp, but the ones in the middle were still dry. Maybe Bert had some hangers or a place where she could dry out her damp clothing? Her sweats were a wet mess. The snow had melted, and the moisture had spread to her jeans. It would have been more comfortable to spend the rest of the night in sweats, but they had to be dried before she could wear them. She hadn't seen a washer or dryer in the small country kitchen, but maybe Bert wouldn't mind if she placed them by the fire. In the meantime, damp jeans it was, and she needed to get out of this wet bra.

Abby unsnapped the constricting band of fabric and hung it on the towel rack. Her reflection stared back at her, rosy cheeks, pinker than the ruddy red of a few moments ago. The warmth of Bert’s home seeped into her bones, and her shivering had stopped. She toed off her wet sneakers and yanked at her socks, tugging them off. Those would need to dry as well.

As she grabbed for one of the dry shirts, the door creaked open. Abby jumped, pulling the fabric close to her chest, and glanced down at the tawny tabby cat rubbing up against her leg.

“Oh, you surprised me.” Hadn’t she shut the door? “My, aren’t you a friendly kitty?” She draped the shirt over the edge of the sink and bent down to pet the cat.

A creaking of the wood flooring in the hallway had her snapping her eyes to the half open door where they collided with the coal black of Drake’s dark visage.

She squeaked and grabbed for the shirt hanging off the sink, clutching it yet again to her chest.

Drake didn’t react, just stood there, all six-foot-plus of his stoic body framing the doorway. He didn’t look away. Instead, his eyes took a languid journey over her body then wandered up to caress her face. Under his penetrating assessment, she froze. The muscles of his jaw bunched and a winter storm churned in the depths of his eyes. He took in a sharp breath. Only then did he turn to the side and avert his gaze.

Her body went haywire, responding to the full force of the man standing before her, looking as if he had every right to feast upon what he saw.

Her pulse thrummed through her veins as her heart jackhammered with conflicting emotions. A glance down revealed her failure to fully cover her breasts. She’d just given him a peep show. Clumsily, she spread out the fabric of the shirt and covered herself. Her breaths huffed in and out, as he turned back and transfixed her with the intensity of his gaze.

He gave a tight nod and then spoke, his words clipped and tight. “Bert thought you needed something dry to wear.” His voice was deep and cautious, as unhurried as his gaze. He pushed the bathroom door until it was fully open and took a step forward, holding out a pair of pink flannel pajamas.

One hand clutched the bunched t-shirt against her chest, while the other stretched for the clothes. Their fingers touched and the air crackled between them. His gaze drifted down again, and his chiseled jaw tightened. The heat swirling in the depths of his eyes caused her ribs to expand as she took in another staggering breath.

She took the pajamas from him and spun around, placing her back to him, straightening her spine. Her insides knotted as tremors skated down her spine. Her legs weakened, and her balance wavered. Her entire body pulsed with an odd inner warmth, even as goosebumps shivered across her skin.

“Thank you,” she tossed a clipped response over her left shoulder. “Did you see enough? Or are you waiting for more?”

Drake cleared his throat. “I don’t think it’s possible to see enough of that perfection, but I apologize for invading your privacy, city girl.” He shifted back, pivoted, and headed back to the living room.

Abby shut the door, making sure it closed this time. Only then did she look down at the clothes Drake had given her. The tabby had disappeared.

Pale, pink, flannel pajamas with roses and red bows. She glanced at her wet jeans and decided on comfort. Lifting the fabric to her nose, she gave it a sniff, perhaps hoping to smell a little bit of him. Nothing. It smelled with the freshness of fabric softener.

When she was dressed, she returned to join the men in front of the fire.

Bert sat in the leather recliner, puffing on what looked to be a new cigar, the copy of Wuthering Heights held open by the spread of his fingers. Reading glasses perched on his nose, and he stroked his bearded chin. On the coffee table, two bowls of steaming stew sat beside two empty cups and a pot of tea.

Drake sat on the sofa, a paperback clutched in his hand. From the cover, it looked to be a mystery or thriller. His gaze took her in from head to toe and landed on her face. A storm brewed in his eyes, a war in the making between desire and need. She felt the energy pulsing between them but was unsure what to do about it. This was something she’d only read about. It had certainly never happened to her.

He’d stripped out of the white camouflage he’d been wearing, and had changed into jeans and a collared shirt. The fabric stretched over the expanse of his chest and strained over the muscles of his arms. He affected a casual pose, relaxed with one leg kicked over the opposite knee, but she caught the hitching in his breath as she approached.

“Ah,” Bert said. “I thought Bethany’s clothes would fit you.” He placed his book on the side-table and moved the recliner to its upright position. “I’m a recent widower and still have a few of her things. I’m glad they fit you.”

“Oh, well, thank you,” she said, unsure how to respond to his statement about being recently widowed.

He filled in the pause of conversation. “I’m not a coffee drinker, but I made some hot tea. I’ve got cocoa if you’d prefer that?”

Next to the teapot and cups, two tumblers of amber colored fluid waited.

“The tea is perfect,” she said. “Thank you for your hospitality.” She pointed to the glasses. “What’s that?”

“Bert said you’ve never tasted whiskey,” Drake answered. “Time to make you a whiskey girl.”

“I prefer wine.”

“Doesn’t matter. In Peace Springs, we drink whiskey.” Putting his book down, Drake uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. He grabbed the two glasses and handed one to her. He tapped his glass against hers. “Cheers, and welcome to Peace Springs, Miss Abby…?”

“Abby Knight,” she gave her full name.

“Now that is a pretty name,” he said. He pressed the cup to his lips and tilted his head back, downing the entire glass. The hardness of his eyes glittered, waiting for her to do the same.

She sniffed the aromatic liquor. It was definitely stronger than wine. She tipped the glass against her lips, coating them in whiskey. Then she licked her lips, closing her eyes at the sweet flavor.

“What kind of whiskey is this?”

Drake poured himself another drink. “Tennessee Honey, a good starter drink.”

His eyes locked onto her mouth as she licked her lips.

She took another sip. “It’s like wine, with all the different flavors, but very different.”

“Do you like?”

Another sip, this one bigger than the previous one. The burn of alcohol lit a fire inside her mouth and throat.

“Oh my, that’s strong stuff,” she said with a cough and sputter.

Drake smiled at her, then turned to Bert. “I think we have a convert.”

“Seems so.” Bert barely followed their conversation. He seemed to have become one with his chair and turned the page of his book.

Drake picked up a bowl of the hot stew and handed it to her.

“Eat,” he ordered. “You’ve had a hard night.”

The ceramic filled her palm with warmth, while the steam carried the savory aromas of the stew to her nose. Without warning, her stomach rumbled.

With a laugh, Drake sat back on the couch, cradling his bowl in his massive hand. Dipping a spoon in the thick mixture of meat and vegetables, he blew at the surface to cool off the stew before taking a bite. She joined him on the couch, tucking her legs beneath her as she took another sniff.

“It smells heavenly. Thank you.” It didn’t take long to empty her bowl. With a yawn, she stretched.

Bert lifted his nose out of his book and glanced at her. “You ready to hit the sack?”

“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”

“Drake,” Bert said, “why don’t you show your city girl to your room.”

Drake stood, his towering presence causing her to catch her breath. He collected their bowls and carried them into the kitchen. Her whiskey glass sat on the side table, empty. She’d taken her time drinking it, savoring the sweet burn. Her face felt flushed from the alcohol, a welcome change from the burning sensation of near frostbite.

A strange twisting knotted her stomach when Drake returned. She didn’t understand why her pulse quickened or her breathing hitched, but there was something about him which unsettled her on a gut level.

“Come,” he said, and then headed down the hall to the first door on the left.

Opening the door, he gestured for her to go inside the room. She stepped through the open doorway and stopped short at the pair of twin beds. A glance over her shoulder caught his grin. Bert had said ‘your’ room, not ‘her’ room, as in a guest room. Surely Drake wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room?

He waited while she approached the far bed and crawled under the covers. Once she pulled the sheets up to her neck, he flicked off the light switch and closed the door.

That’s when she realized the men had literally ‘put her to bed.’ Warm and soft, the flannel bedsheets sucked her into a blissfully relaxed state where thoughts of moose, snow, and wolves became a distant memory. In their place, images of a man with raven hair, and even blacker eyes, filled her dreams.