It had turned into the day from hell.
“Come on.” Carolina Cruthers patted the pockets of her jeans one last time. “Please tell me I didn’t do what I think I did.”
But her denim pants didn’t hold the keys to her truck any more than her hands did, which meant she’d either lost them in the barn or they were somewhere inside her truck.
Dang it. She peered quickly around the parking area of Misfit Farms, her blond braids nearly slapping her in the face. The bright afternoon sun turned the farm’s newly installed fence the same color as the new cars on Via Del Caballo’s main drag: pristine white.
In truth, Carolina had no idea why she bothered to look around. She knew she’d dropped her keys somewhere in her truck. She’d done it enough times the past month it was a sure bet. Nobody would come to her rescue, either. Today was Monday. Misfit Farms was closed to clients and visitors. This was the day when she and her boss, Colt Reynolds, reviewed rodeo business. They had talked about their specialty act this morning, the upcoming schedule and any changes they needed to make after their weekend performance. Her boss had left earlier along with his wife, Natalie. There was nobody walking around the state-of-the-art horse facility.
Now what? She cupped her hands and peered through the truck’s window. Her keys weren’t in the ignition, so they were most likely—
On the floor.
Yep. Just beneath the edge of the driver’s seat, glinting in the sun, sat the horseshoe charm Colt and Natalie had gotten her for Christmas. The charm lay on the black mat of her truck as if making fun of her dilemma. Lucky. Yeah, right.
She’d done it again. She’d locked her stupid keys in her dang truck. This was...what? The third time in the past month? And all because of...
James.
The reason for her absentmindedness settled into the pit of her stomach like a load of cement. She probably had a million texts on her phone right now, the same cell phone tucked inside her purse, the one resting on the bench seat in the rear of her vehicle.
Think.
She picked up a braid and absently started chewing—a habit of hers. Colt and Natalie wouldn’t be back for at least an hour. That meant it was just her with no cell phone and no access to a landline unless the barn office was open or she broke into her boss’s house. If that was the case, there was a phone upstairs in the abandoned apartment above the barn. Abandoned...but not for long.
That had been the other piece of news that had rattled her. Her boss had decided to stay home the rest of the season. Colt was putting his brother in charge of their rodeo specialty act. Chance Reynolds was the guy’s name. A man who’d been out of the business for years. And yet Colt thought he’d be better suited to take over. Not fair. She’d been around longer. She’d put in years of blood, sweat and tears, not with Colt and the Galloping Girlz, but with another team. She’d even taken over when her friend Samantha had decided to run off with her movie-star boyfriend. Why Colt had decided to put some former Army Ranger in charge was beyond her, but it had seriously bummed her out.
Keys, she reminded herself. She wouldn’t be able to go home and sulk unless she found her keys.
The walk to the main barn was a short one. The horses in the stalls hung their heads out to greet her. Hanoverians, Trakehners and other imported warm bloods mixed with the occasional Thoroughbred. They peeked at her curiously, ears pricked forward as if asking, “Food?”
“Not yet, guys,” she said.
Carolina kind of understood why Colt had decided to sit out the rest of the rodeo season. His wife, Natalie, a famous hunter/jumper rider, with a waiting list of people wanting to train with her, was about to have a baby. The doctor had recently grounded her. Colt wanted to be around to help with the baby when it came. Someone needed to keep riding all the horses, and that was Colt. Carolina didn’t blame him. She just couldn’t stand the idea of some flatlander telling her what to do. It made no sense.
At the far end of the barn, near a patch of sunlight that nearly blinded her, was the office, its fancy French doors closed. She said a silent prayer heavenward and turned the handle.
It didn’t move.
She rattled it some more, just in case, jiggling the door so hard dust fell from the sill above. The door wouldn’t budge. Okay, fine. Up to the apartment she would go. No big deal. When she got home she’d pour herself a big glass of wine. Maybe even take a bath. It’d been forever since she’d had one of those.
The stairs to the apartment were outside at the back of the barn. It was a steep climb that had her heart thumping from the exertion of taking the steps two at a time, but her reward was a door handle that slid down easily. Carolina released a breath of relief and all but dived for the phone.
A man stood in front of her.
A tall man with black hair and green eyes and a face that resembled her boss so much she knew in an instant who he was.
Chance Reynolds.
And he was naked.
* * *
HE SHOULD MOVE, Chance thought, standing in the living area of his new home. He should, but he couldn’t seem to make himself, because there was something so incredibly priceless about the look on the woman’s face.
“Oh, my goodness, I’m so—”
The rest of what she’d been about to say was lost in her mad scramble to run away.
You would have thought he was naked. As he glanced down at himself he admitted she probably thought exactly that. He wore military-issue underwear that happened to be the same color as desert sand. In other words: nude.
“Hey, wait,” he shouted. He grabbed the jeans he’d thrown over the back of the small couch.
“Really.” He ran and tugged, ran and tugged, hopping and skipping as he headed for the door. The woman was already at the bottom of the steps by the time he poked his head outside, his pants still open at