Porsche McCoy froze. Her heart lurched into her throat and her pulse thrummed as she stared at the enormous bull poised on the crest of the hill. A breeze riffled through the leaves of the oak tree and the grass was green; the sky was a glorious blue, flecked with wispy clouds. Odd, how such a lovely, peaceful scene should send shivers of dread down her spine, but there it was.

She should have known better.

She’d made this trek a hundred times.

Never once had there been a bull in this field.

But she should have known better. She was a country girl, born and raised. Ranching was in her blood, whether she liked it or not.

A couple years in Dallas and she’d completely forgotten all the rules. It was never wise to ride into a pasture on an active ranch without checking it first, but she’d been so anxious to get over to the neighboring property to welcome Cody home, she just hadn’t been paying attention.

And now, here she was. Alone and defenseless and facing one of the most dangerous creatures around. A bull during mating season.

She stood as still as she could. Her idiot horse had thrown her to the ground and bounded back home, taking the fence in a magnificent leap. Its frantic whinny had captured the bull’s attention, but it hadn’t seen her yet.

Oh, why had she worn red?

Well, to capture Cody’s attention, of course. She’d read as much in one of those magazines that featured articles on how to win your man. Males of the species are instinctual beasts and respond to visual cues. Red creates a visceral response evocative of true love and passion.

What idiot had written that? Obviously they’d never been stranded in a field with a rampaging bull.

Well, it wasn’t rampaging yet, but it could—and probably would—at any moment.

She held her breath as the bull turned its head and spotted her. It shook its head, gave an outraged snort, and pawed the ground. Her body responded with a twang of humming tension. With dark, empty eyes, it tracked her every twitch.

Could she outrun it? Make it to the fence first?

Her optimism plummeted as she gauged the distance. Of course not.

Damn it all. Why hadn’t she called ahead and asked if the field was clear?

The bull took a step toward her, narrowing its eyes as though to get a better look at her. Considering, perhaps, where to gore her first. Her lungs burned, screaming that she take a breath, but she didn’t dare. She didn’t dare move . . .

A glorious thunder of hooves rose to her left, and the bull turned toward it. Ignoring the gush of relief—it was far too soon for any such nonsense—Porsche followed its gaze and saw a man on a familiar stallion thundering toward her. Though she recognized the horse, the man was a stranger. She hardly cared. He was on the other side of the fence, but he distracted the bull, inciting it to paw the ground at someone else, which was a mercy. Without hesitation, she bolted for the fence line, running for her life. She knew—instinctively—when the bull shifted direction and came after her.

She imagined she could feel its hot breath scorching her neck. She most certainly felt the quiver of the ground at its menacing approach.

The stallion jumped the fence and cut between Porsche and the snorting behemoth. The man, her angel, her savior, grabbed her arm in a painful clench and swept her up behind him, never pausing in his furious ride. As she clambered on and wrapped herself around his waist, he made a quick cut to the right, avoiding a treacherous horn, and then barreled for the fence. As the horse bunched its powerful muscles for the jump, the man said, in a raw voice, “Hang on,” and she did.

Of course she did. She hung on for dear life.

She couldn’t help noticing that he was hard and warm—his body was a sturdy, stony landscape—and he had an earthy scent, as though he’d been riding a while, long enough to sweat. It was a delicious smell and it made her head spin.

Or maybe that was their manic ride.

They sailed over the fence in a perfect, lyrical maneuver. It was like flying.

And the release, the splendid relief, the knowledge that she was not going to die—or be maimed, or any of the other horrible fates that had spun through her mind as she stood there frozen, paralyzed with fear—that was like flying too.

And it was all thanks to him.

When he was sure they were safe, that the bull hadn’t smashed through the fence in its frenzy to trample her, he brought his horse to a stop. He glanced over his shoulder and down at her and it was then she realized how tall he must be.

She noticed his eyes too, a pale blue ringed with black. And his nose, a long straight blade. And his cheekbones, high and strong.

But for the dark hair and the bristles on his chin, he could have been an angel. Or maybe a fallen one.

Point was, he was very attractive, and when he spoke, in that low rumbly voice, and asked her if she was all right, she made some kind of strangled sound that might have been “fine.” But it might have been something else.

No doubt her bemusement was due to her recent exploit, or the adrenaline still pumping through her veins, or the fact that he was so beautiful her brain had trouble processing such perfection. She was rarely addlepated, but she was definitely addlepated now.

“You sure?” he asked, his brow lifting in a lovely ripple. She stared at it. Fascinating. “Miss?”

“Huh?” Yeah. Hardly her usual quick-witted banter. But she had had a shock. It was totally understandable.

“Are you sure you’re all right? He didn’t wing you?”

She shook her head.

“You’re kind of pale and you’re shaking. I’m going to take you to the Silvers’ ranch house. You can recover there. Just hold on, okay?”

“Mmm hmm.”

Apparently that was enough for him. He nodded and turned the horse around and held on to her hand as he kicked the horse’s flanks. She couldn’t help thinking how comforting it was, the feel of his hand on hers. It was hardly a clinch, but it made her feel so safe. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his broad back and sent up a prayer of thanks that this man had been there.

There was no doubt in her mind, he had saved her life. At the very least, saved her from some horrible injury.

Perhaps he was an angel after all.

***

Holy God.

It was all Brandon Stewart could do to focus on his seat, to focus on getting this beautiful sprite back to Cade’s ranch house without falling off his horse. His mind spun and his body shook with reaction. When he’d seen her, that tiny woman—dressed in brilliant red, of all colors—facing down a two-thousand-pound bull, his heart had stopped.

Horror at the thought of her being mauled had whipped through him and, without thinking, he’d sprung into action. That he—and Cade’s prized stallion—could have been gored had never occurred to him. Not until now.

It wasn’t the first time he’d reacted without considering the consequences. He’d spent years in the service in dangerous surrounds doing just that, leaping in where angels might fear to tread—and he’d paid the cost.

At least this time, it had only been a bull.

To the best of his knowledge, they rarely exploded.

It was a blessing that he’d been there, in that spot, in that moment, right when she needed him. He liked to believe in fate, that everything happened for a reason. Recent events in his life had tested that philosophy, but hope was still there, a brave shoot clinging to a stony cliff.

Of course, that was probably his errant attraction to her talking.

In the few heartbeats he’d had to assess her, before he’d launched into action, he knew two things. First, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and he wanted her.

And second, she was way out of his league.

Oh, there had been a time, before Iraq, when he’d been whole, when he would have approached this woman with all confidence of seducing her. And he probably would have. But those days were gone. He didn’t seduce women any more. With damn good reason.

Now—as sad as it was—his best bet was to win this gorgeous woman’s eternal admiration and appreciation for snatching her from the jaws of death. Or the horns of death. Whatever.

Point was, just because he’d been there in the very moment she needed his help did not mean they were meant to be, the way that tiny voice in the back of his head kept whispering. The best he could hope for with a woman like her was the damnable “friend” zone. But he’d take it. Hell, he’d take whatever he could get with her.

While he acknowledged the truth, the reality of his situation, he couldn’t help but wish for more. It was probably human nature to wish for more, but it still annoyed him.

It annoyed him that things couldn’t go back to the way they’d been before Iraq. That they never would. That was the thing about life. It just kept plodding along, no matter what happened. One incessant step after another.

But a man did have some power. A man had choices. And Brandon was at a crossroads. The path he’d intended to follow for the entirety of his life had been suddenly and irrevocably closed to him with the blast of one IED.

When his Marine Corps buddy, Cade Silver, had invited him to come visit his ranch, just when Brandon was wondering who he was and what he could be without the military, it had seemed like a lifeline. A place to be while he found himself again.

And then here, now, he’d spotted her.

Had the chance to be a hero again . . .

It seemed positively providential.

And that ceaseless optimism that continued to plague him? It needed to be silenced. He knew better than to think fate would toss him a bone, the opportunity to meet a woman who could accept him as he was. A woman who could love him as he was.

He and fate were hardly on good speaking terms.

But when she’d wrapped her arms around him and clung, it felt so . . . right. It still did.

It seemed to take forever to get back to the barn, probably because of the torment raging though his system at her proximity. He hadn’t been this close to a woman for . . . well, longer than he could remember.

He walked Gotham to the mounting block and slipped from the saddle first. He winced when he landed on his bum leg a little wrong, and then reached up to help her down. Not surprisingly, considering the shock she’d had, her legs collapsed beneath her. While he loved the feel of her against him—damn, did she feel good—he was naturally concerned and tightened his hold.

“You okay?” he asked into her hair as she clung to him.

“Mmm hmm.” Such a brave lie.

They stood there while she struggled to find her feet. He rubbed her back in slow arcs that made him ache for more and breathed in her perfume and allowed himself this moment of bliss.

At long last, she looked up at him and that bottomless brown gaze cut through him. Her lips kicked up into a wobbly semblance of a smile and she said, “I swear, I’m usually not a wilting flower.” Ah, he loved the indomitable look in her eye, the proof that, though she’d had a fright, she clung to her insouciance.

He’d met a lot of women in his life—and he’d loved a few—but never had he met someone whose gaze hit him that hard, whose scent made his heart stutter, whose presence made him witless.

It probably wasn’t a good thing, the witless part. She didn’t seem to be a woman who suffered fools and, for a minute or two there, he just kind of gaped at her. Like with his mouth open and everything. Thankfully she was gracious, and waited for him to respond. “You’ve, ah, had a shock.”

He continued to support her as he stood back, but her knees wobbled, then folded, so he lifted her into his arms. She gave a squawk, but then settled in, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Eye to eye, like this, he was slammed once again by the intensity of his reaction to her presence. When she smiled impishly, he felt it to his core. “My hero,” she cooed, but in a teasing tone.

She was such a petite thing, it was like carrying a bale of feathers, but his damned leg twinged nonetheless. He sucked in a deep breath and headed for the ranch house.

The house was far too close. Because, he found, now that he had her in his arms, he never wanted to let her go.