Olivia hid in her room the rest of the night and when she awoke, sunlight streamed through the window as if it were midday. Jetlag had a way of turning her clock upside down. She looked to the bedside table for her phone—except the one Tawney was sending from ICE hadn’t arrived yet. The room didn’t have a clock either.

The bedsprings creaked when she rolled to her back and looked at the ceiling. How old was this bed, anyway? For all she knew, Logan had been conceived on that bed—his father, too. The thought made her grunt in disgust.

Unusual sounds came through the opened window. Not many words were being spoken, but from the rolling bass, it had to be Logan. He wasn’t yelling, but his voice was firm—S sounds, followed by tongue clicks, and the odd whoa.

Vaguely awake, Olivia pattered to the window. Logan held a whip in one hand and a lead line in the other, except it wasn’t really a whip. The thing had a long stick like a whip, but had a longer piece of rope attached, and Logan moved it gently. First, he made the horse back up by shaking it in a wriggling pattern. He gradually neared the enormous beast. The horse jerked his head up a few times while Logan moved the line over his back, letting it slip off. He repeated the same motion over and over, until the horse dropped his head and stood there like the whip-thing didn’t bother him. That’s when Logan quickened the pace of his flicks. The horse again acted agitated and Logan kept going until the beast relaxed.

It was an amazing exercise in patience. With each acceptance from the horse, Logan moved in closer, his audible commands softer. He had a gentle and effective knack Olivia had never seen before. Well, she’d only seen horses at the racetrack or in a paddock when she’d driven by. She’d never paid the animals much attention. To her, horses were relics of eras gone by. Smelly, unpredictable animals.

On a sigh, she turned and headed for the loo, stumbling over a pile of clothes propped against the outside of her door. Olivia sifted through them—jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy boots, thick socks and a cotton sundress. It all looked so western. The shirt even had snaps.

Compliments of Sylvia?

After a long shower, she pulled the dress over her head and slipped her feet into the flipflops. In the kitchen, she found bread, butter and a toaster. The coffee was already made. When she took her cup and toast back upstairs, Logan was still at it. But now, he was rubbing the horse all over with his hands. Then the enormous animal just stood there while Logan actually climbed onto its back without a saddle.

Olivia expected to see some good old American bronc riding, but the horse started moving around the corral at a slow walk, his tail swishing like he hadn’t a care in the world. What else didn’t she know about the man? He was a SEAL turned spy, but before all that, his roots had grown deep in the American west.

Jesus, he even wore chaps.

***

Three days had passed and Olivia was still playing the hermit, nursing her misery. Logan didn’t buy it. He’d seen her watching him from her window. She was curious. What sane person wouldn’t love it there? Sure, it wasn’t a city, but cities were full of irritable bastards. Cities were for concerts and symphonies. The country was for living, for breathing, for refilling the tank.

And though she might not realize it, Olivia was hewn from the same cloth. She was a lone wolf, a predator, a hunter. Wolves might live in packs, but they kept to themselves. And everyone knew hunters were reclusive, solitary individuals.

Olivia often had insisted she preferred to work alone. Alone in the midst of the masses?

Logan didn’t think so. Yes, he’d seen her watching. Felt her watching, too. And that was all part of his plan. He’d even dusted off an old pair of chaps just for her.

Let the watching draw her in.

Like it or not, though, he was starting to waver on the soundness of his decision. Listening to her move around in the middle of the night had been the hardest. Every night, he lay in bed, forcing himself not to get up and check on her, willing her to come to him. But she hadn’t. Yet.

Moreover, the “royal duchess” routine was growing thin. The “holier than thou” eye rolls made his toes curl. It was as if she hated everything from America’s heartland. But she’d admitted she’d never been here before.

But today, Logan decided it was time to try something new. Olivia sat in one of the old wicker chairs reading on the porch instead of her room. Even a duchess couldn’t resist the sultry Montana summer air. He’d saddled an old gelding along with his horse, Casey. Leading the gelding, he rode out of the barn and up to the porch.

“Good morning.” He grinned, tipping back the brim of his hat.

Olivia looked up, her eyes wary. “Hiya.”

“Want to ride?”

“No.”

He leaned forward on the pommel. “I saddled a gentle old fella for you.”

“Jesus Christ, you sound like John Wayne.” She turned the page of her book. “I said no.”

Logan’s fingers clamped around the reins. “Suit yourself, princess.”

He rode off at an easy walk, sauntering back to the barn like he couldn’t care less. But all the while, a black hole spread in his chest. What had he done to make her so angry? She acted as if she hated him. Sure, she might be upset because he’d taken her to Montana, but a good tongue lashing would be a lot easier to take than the silent treatment she’d been dishing out.

After dismounting, he removed the saddles and threw them into the tack room. He managed to hold in his anger while he turned the horses out, then he marched back to the barn willing someone to get in his way so he could lay them flat.

But it was Sunday and Jason had the day off. He grabbed a pitchfork and started in on the stalls. The damned things needed cleaning anyway. He worked fast, loading the wheelbarrow and hauling it out to the compost heap. Hard labor was the best way he knew to burn off steam.

He dumped the barrow and shook it far harder than necessary.

What else could he do? Taking Olivia back to Iceland right now just didn’t seem like the right move. She was bottled up like a time bomb ticking away inside that pretty head of hers. Anyone in the same room with her could feel the tension. An explosion was inevitable.

He pushed the wheelbarrow back down on its supports.

How can I break through?

On his return trip to the barn, movement in the corral caught his eye. He should have known. Olivia might not be ready for home on the range, she needed something familiar. Wearing her leggings and the striped t-shirt, she went through the motions of a black belt form, moving stealthily on the smooth dirt surface he’d grated that morning.

He dropped the barrow handles, removed his gloves and walked to the rails.

She worked barefoot, her hands slicing through the air like hissing whips, her kicks lightning fast. The woman was long and lithe. Art in motion. Watching her stirred a fire in his blood as it stirred the smoldering embers deep in his groin.

Logan kicked off his boots and crept into the ring. He moved behind her and assumed a defensive stance. “Want to spar a round?”

She spun and faced him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight and reflecting a look of defiance—a gorgeous expression he’d grown to love. “I figured there had to be a good use for an arena this size.” She mirrored his pose. “I won’t be so easy on you this time, cowboy.”

Logan chuckled. During their training, he’d learned her moves. But she’d learned his as well. “Give it your best shot.”

This time, her eyes didn’t betray her as she lunged for his legs. Logan had no chance. He crashed to the ground on his backside, but rolled away and swung a roundhouse from his butt. Olivia skittered back just enough to give him leeway to spring to his feet.

They circled, her breathing deeper than his, her eyes wild. She needed a win, but he couldn’t hand it to her. She needed to earn it. Needed to think she’d beat him. She threw a jumping round. He ducked, catching her leg and knocking her off balance. From her knees, her right jab went for the groin. Twisting, Logan moved enough to take the hit to his inner thigh. No question, the woman had improved…or else she was pissed enough to nail him.

By the time they were both sucking in air, she got him in a choke hold—not so tight that he’d pass out, but close enough.

“First round to me?” she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Yes, ma’am.” He took a deep breath when she released her arm. “But don’t get too cocky.”

She shook her legs and arms, preparing for another bout. “Best of three?”

Logan liked that. Why the hell hadn’t he thought of sparring before? It had been a sure-fire way to connect at ICE. He waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s put some skin in the game—if I win, you’ll help me finish cleaning the stalls and agree to going on a picnic with me tomorrow.”

Pursing her lips, she scowled. “A wager? In that case,” she spoke slowly, “If I win, you’ll take me back to ICE.”

He dropped his hands to his sides, the smolder from earlier turning to lead. “Holy hell. That’s a whole lot different than a picnic. Besides, Garth gave us a month’s leave.”

“All right.” Her chin ticked up indignantly. “I’ve seen your ranch. The least you can do is agree to see my townhouse in London.”

Better.

He looked her in the eye. She hadn’t given him a timeline—something he could manipulate after…If she won. “Agreed.”

Logan barely won the next round with a takedown and a hip lock.

Round three was a different game altogether. They were both winded, hurting and fighting like street gang members. Nothing was sacred. Olivia attacked with a series of kicks and Logan countered, throwing punches that would kill an untrained man, but she defended every one. His muscles burned as the sun grew hotter and his breath shorter.

Olivia spun, the sweat from her forehead splattering him in the face. His vision blurred. He fended off her strikes while blinking furiously to regain his sight. Acting fast, she took advantage of his temporary handicap, grabbed his arm and went for a hip throw. Logan bared his teeth and rolled with her momentum. Only through shreds of brute strength did he hold on and spin her into the same choke hold she’d used on him in the first round. “Third round to me,” he growled through clenched teeth.

“Fuck you,” she croaked.

“Not the right answer.” He tightened his grip, well aware she’d be unconscious in less than twenty seconds.

She coughed out a snort, her legs ineffectively kicking. “Yes, you goddamned ape.”

He released his grip and dropped to the dirt.

She collapsed beside him, coughing and breathing like she’d just run a marathon.

“You’ve improved,” he said.

“So have you.”

Catching his breath, he rolled to his side. “I wouldn’t want to meet you in a dark alley, that’s for sure.”

“I’m just glad we’re on the same team.”

Logan sat up grinning. Same team. “You can say that again.”

***

After a tall glass of ice water, Olivia followed Logan to the barn. He handed her a pitchfork, the lout. She gave it an aghast stare. “People still use these things?”

“Best way to muck out a stall.”

She cringed when they stepped into the aisleway. Though the pall wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, there was a distinctive smell to the barn. And Logan looked so at home. He had a lazy swagger to his gait she hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it was the cowboy boots he’d put back on when they’d left the arena. Maybe it was the way his jeans hugged his bum. Maybe it was his shoulders—relaxed but sculpted by pure masculine muscle power.

He showed her the basics of stall cleaning and then worked alongside her, filling the wheelbarrow and hauling it out. Mucking was a workout in itself. Had she known that, she might have been a more willing participant in the first place. But then, she’d been madder than a magpie guarding her chicks. Olivia’s temper had a way of taking over when missions failed…well, at least they’d found the harem and got the girls out before al-Umari decided to execute them. Regardless, in her mind, she’d failed.

Indeed, she’d had to work through her anger first. Anger at her own failure. The anger she felt toward Logan for absconding with her had passed after the first day. She leaned against a stall when it was his turn to take out the barrow. A horse with a white blaze down its nose stuck its head out and gave her a nudge.

“I beg your pardon?”

The beast snorted. Loudly.

She gave him a sideways glance before raising her hand to give his neck a pat. She touched him gingerly at first, then smoothed her hand down his fur. The horse shook his head with another snort.

“Did you like that?” she asked.

He nodded as if he did.

She ran her fingers through his mane. “Your hair is courser than I would have thought.”

Logan wheeled the barrow back inside and came up beside her. “That’s Chicken. He’s buttering you up to give him a treat.”

“Chicken? Now that’s an oxymoron...and he eats treats? Like a dog?”

“What animal doesn’t like a treat?” He grinned, teal eyes, dark beard that hadn’t been shaved in a few days, looking as handsome as the devil. “Hold out your hand.” He dropped a brownish nugget in her palm.

“What is it?”

“An apple and oat treat—good for horses.” He pointed to Chicken. “Offer it to him with your fingers flat.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t intend to bite you but, nonetheless, those teeth can crunch your fingers if they get caught between the treat and his mouth.”

She swallowed. “I see.” She kept her hand flat and velvety lips snatched it up. But Chicken didn’t think the treat was anywhere near enough. The snorting grew louder, his head bobbing like he was demanding an entire bucket full of apple and oat treats.

Logan pushed on the big fella’s nose making an S sound.

The horse pulled his head back into the stall and stood obediently.

“He listens to you.”

Logan grinned. “He knows what’s good for him.”

“What was that stick and string you used the other day? It wasn’t a whip was it?”

“Nope. It’s called a carrot stick—used for training, kinda like a horse whisperer.”

“Had you ridden that horse before?”

“No. That was his first ride.”

“And no bucking?”

“That’s old-school training. Not very humane either.”

“I see.”

Logan handed her the pitchfork. “One more stall to go, your grace.”

She chuckled. “A duchess would never stoop so low.”

“I think you’re pretty good at mucking out stalls.”

“Well, don’t grow accustomed to it. We’ll be returning to Iceland before long.”

“Yeah, but I’m not thinking about going back just yet. I’ve got a picnic to plan.”

“You are a sadist.” Olivia didn’t want him thinking she’d suddenly turned a corner. Oh no, there was still a great deal of sass she needed to issue before she let on that she might be enjoying anything.