Chapter 1

Lauren

Three weeks later

This has got to be the hottest summer ever.

It’s morning in early June, but with the temperature climbing steadily over eighty, it feels like a mid-July afternoon.

I stand under the sun in between the rows of tomatoes and Brussels sprouts, strands of hair sticking to my forehead under my straw hat, my skin coated in sweat.

My throat is parched– the Sahara ain’t got nothing on me. Even though I’ve been under the sun for less than an hour, the front of my thin, pink shirt is soaked.

I fan myself with it. The cotton sticks to the valley between my breasts and my jeans suffocate my thighs.

God, what I’d give to strip down right here.

Pfff. As if.

I toss my gardening shears into the basket of vegetables and stand up, take off my hat.

I’ve picked enough for the day. Maybe I’ll head back to the house and take another shower before lunch.

Life is so leisurely here, so peaceful. It hides the pain that lurks beneath – the memory of losing… “Stop it,” I say.

I put my hat back on then pick up my shears, and pass through the small wheat field. I take off my glove and run my hand through the swaying heads of wheat, something I’ve done since I was a child.

It’s good to be home.

For the past year, I’ve been attending a university in Havre, studying to become a preschool teacher, and I’ve missed Little Peace Ranch every minute of every day.

I’ve missed the open air, the rusty, old barns, the bales of hay, the feel of the dirt beneath my hands, the bleating of the sheep, even the smell of the horses. I grew up on this ranch and it’s a part of me as I am a part of it.

I reach the old, green tool shed, hang my hat on the peg outside, then go in. I place the shears in their drawer, then close it.

My gaze travels up and beyond the small window toward the creek babbling beneath the trees.

I gasp.

There’s a man bathing in the creek. Naked.

His dirty blond hair, almost the same color as dried hay, is short, fluffed by the wind. His shoulders are broad, his back wide, the muscles divided by the pronounced dip of his spine. His skin is pale but marked by cuts and bruises – was he in an accident?

I’m captivated by him – this stranger in my creek.

He’s got a tight ass too, visible just above the line of water.

How would that feel under my skin? My hands?

“Christ, what’s wrong with you, girl?” I whisper.

He turns around, giving me a view which draws another gasp from my lips.

His face is straight from the cover of a magazine, a wide forehead, his nose straight, cheekbones high, bordered by a thin layer of hair that traces his smooth jaw all the way to his square chin.

A pretty face, but manly, strong.

He scoops some water in his large hands and splashes it on his chest.

I stare.

The water trickles over his muscles, and glides down his sculpted stomach, perfect in spite of an ugly, purplish bruise, then drips past his tan V-line.

I swallow, my hand sliding to my chest. My fingers grip the sweat-stained front of my shirt, and the heat rises.

The stranger scoops out more water, this time splashing it on his face. The water creates a temporary mask over his smooth features and drips down his jawline.

My hand goes back up, a finger trapped between my lips as he washes his arm, his hand running over the curves of muscle from his shoulder to his wrist. He does the same with his other arm, then bends over the water and splashes some on his back.

He turns again, wades into the shallows, and my eyes grow wide as they examine the parts of him previously concealed. He’s long and thick and…

I take a step back. My body goes crazy, my pussy buzzes and my breasts tingle.

It’s not like I’ve never seen a man before. I’m a virgin, yeah, and I plan on staying that way until… I don’t know, I’m ready. Or married. Or –

The stranger runs his hands down to that thick cock, past, over his legs, sluicing water off his skin.

I’m caught, my finger wet from my own tongue, trapped staring at this enigma. I pulse, tighten, wetness fills my panties. This isn’t like anything I’ve experienced before. This man electrifies me.

Why?

I don’t care.

I swallow and let my finger slide from my lips, down the front of my shirt, beneath the hem of my jeans and into my panties. He’s so thick. What would it be like to feel him between my legs?

I have no frame of reference except my own finger, and that’s woefully inadequate in comparison to what he’s – uh, packing.

My clit tingles, throbs. It’s almost painful. I place my finger on that sweet button of pleasure, and tap once, a gentle tease.

The stranger scrubs his body down, outside.

“Stop it, Lauren,” I whisper to myself. “This isn’t you. What are you doing?” But the words are breathless. I’m already at the edge. I glide my finger over my lips and collect my juices, slide them back up and circle my clit again.

A moan escapes me, way too loud. Plangent, actually.

“Who’s there?” The stranger calls out, looks up.

Oh god, oh god. What am I doing?

I don’t answer, wrench my hand from my pants and wipe my fingers on my jeans. My heart thuds in time with his approaching footsteps. Is he clothed? Or is he still naked?

The door to the tool shed opens, and I grab the closest thing I can – the gardening spray bottle – and point it at him.

I have no time to think about my choice of weapon. The moment he’s in front of me, all of my thoughts vanish. His eyes are the color of the cloudless summer sky.

He opens his lips. “Who –?”

“Don’t come any closer.” I hook my finger around the trigger of the bottle.

Those slightly upturned lips curve into a sexy half-smile. “Go ahead. Shoot. I don’t mind getting wetter.”

Right. His skin is still moist, beads of water glistening on it. He hasn’t had time to dry himself, though thankfully, he’s managed to put on his pants, the button popped open.

God, what would I have done if he was naked? Handed myself to him on a platter? I’ve clearly lost my damn mind.

My gaze travels up the tapestry of muscles on his torso, the sight even more tantalizing up close. My mouth waters.

I’m the one who’s getting wetter.

“You need that bottle more than I do.”

His eyes go to the stain in front of my shirt, above my breasts, those turquoise irises gleaming.

I place my hand on my chest, well aware that clothes stick to me. Next to his body fresh from a bath, I’m a mess.

Still, he has no right to stare.

“What are you looking at?”

“You,” he answers simply, finger to his chin.

He’s not even trying to hide it. Despicable. And yet, I can’t help but blush.

“Who said you could look?”

“It’s only fair,” he says. “No, actually, I’m still on the poorer side of the bargain. After all, you were watching me earlier, weren’t you?”

My cheeks burn even more. Great. Now I’m Pervy McPerverson. What will dad say about this?

I break eye contact, spot my trowel hanging on the wall and swap the spray bottle for that.

“Get out of my tool shed.” I brandish my new weapon.

It’s not as good as a knife or the pitchfork but it’s still better than a spray bottle.

He takes a step back, hands up. “Whoa. Easy.”

“Out!” I repeat, stepping forward. “I want you off my property.”

He stops, thin eyebrows creased. “Your property?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “You’re trespassing.”

He pauses then nods. “I see, and you’re wrong. I’m not trespassing.”

I’m wrong? “Who the hell do you think you are?” I ask.

“Put down that tool and I’ll explain.”

“Like hell I will.” I shake my head. “I don’t trust you. Now get out!”

I lunge, but this time, he doesn’t step back. He steps to the side, avoiding the trowel, then knocks it out of my hand, grabs my wrist and turns me around. He holds me against him and wraps his other arm around my chest.

The moisture from his chest seeps into my back. His warm breath tickles my cheek. The smell of his skin, fresh from his bath, overwhelms me. His heart pounds behind me. Can he feel mine?

It’s terrifying having a man this close to me for the first time. And exciting.

The tool shed feels smaller, hotter. A fresh bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face.

“Let me go.” I struggle, afraid he’ll feel my nipples poking against the pads of my bra, but he holds me fast.

“Not until you listen,” he says, his lips close to my ear. “You’re Lauren Calver, aren’t you?”

I lose my breath and my fight. He knows my name?

“Who are you?” I ask him.

“Chase Donner,” he answers. “I work for your father, Isaac Calver.”

“Liar,” I spit. “My father hasn’t had a farmhand in months.”

“Which is why he needs one.”

“And he would never hire someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone who doesn’t have any manners,” I say, struggling to free myself from his grip again.

He holds me tighter and I try to ignore the fact that his crotch is buried against my backside even as I try to push the memory of what it looks like aside. But in vain.

“You’re the one who attacked me,” he points out.

“You trespassed!”

He sighs. “Like I said, I work for your father. He’s in his late fifties with gray hair, a beard and…”

“Anyone who’s seen my father knows that,” I tell him. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Your father has a dog, a border collie named Smoke.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“And does everyone know Smoke hates the sound of wood being chopped? Or that your father likes to take his afternoon naps in the stable? Or that he can’t carry his alcohol and yet, he still drinks, even though he sometimes suffers from gout which gets so bad he can hardly walk?”

I relax. Only someone who’s spent a reasonable time on the ranch with my father would know those things.

“Fine.” I exhale. “I believe you. Now let me go.”

He does and I distance myself from him and slip out of the cramped shed.

He smiles as he offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lauren.”

What did he say his name was again? Chase?

I don’t care.

I don’t return the gesture. I grab my hat and march off. I may believe that he’s working for my father at the moment but I still can’t believe Dad hired him.

Embarrassment chases my steps. And desire. Too much for one simple glance, one touch. I don’t dare look back. I don’t dare find out if he’s watching me.