Free The Cowboy and the Princess by Lori Wilde Page A

headrest, Lady Astor curled up in her lap. He cut the engine and glanced over at her. Her flawless skin glowed pale and ethereal in the darkness. Her breathing was deep, untroubled. She looked so damn naive.
    As quietly as he could, Brady opened the door and got out. He chalked the tires, but left the trailer hooked to the truck. He’d leave the unhitching details for tomorrow. He let Trampas out of the trailer to go to the bathroom, stretched, yawned, and stared up at the stars.
    For the most part, the rain had passed. Sprinkles dampened his skin and water stood in puddles. Bullfrogs shrieked. The wind whipped his shirt and a lock of hair fluttered across his forehead. He ran a hand over his jaw, rough with beard. He was one of those guys who started sprouting a five o’clock shadow fifteen minutes after he shaved. His fingers gingerly explored the fresh cut clotted with dried blood. Not deep. He would live and the scar would enhance his cachet with the ladies.
    He felt peaceful here, more than in most places, although Brady adapted quickly to new environments. He knew how to make himself at home wherever he went. But Jubilee was special and even though he knew he would never really settle down, if he ever did, this would be the place.
    But right now, an uneasy feeling rippled the surface of his peace. The woman sleeping inside his pickup truck spooked him. He wanted her with a hard, insistent craving, and that was dodgy stuff. She was a hundred and ten pounds of trouble and he’d gone and offered to let her sleep in his bed.
    Biscuits and gravy, Talmadge. What the hell were you thinking? You haven’t been thinking straight since you picked her up.
    Guilty.
    He was guilty as charged. Addled. Empty-headed. No excuse for it.
    The moon had come out, glowing ghostly against the black shadows. In the distance, he heard a horse nicker. Trampas’s ears pricked up. The dog loved horses almost as much as Brady did. Unfortunately, horses weren’t always fond of the dog. And Brady always did what was best for the horses. Unlike many cowboys, he never wore spurs, or used a crop. He believed slow and gentle was the best way to approach a horse. No exceptions.
    Brady remembered his first glimpse of this ranch. It had been from the bed of Dutch’s pickup truck. How he immediately felt at home here and everyone had made him feel welcome. He wasn’t new to the ins and outs of hard labor. He was a country boy after all. What was new to him were cutting horses, cutting horse cowboys, and the cutter way of life.
    Dutch had led him to the barn, showed him the cutting horses in the stable. Told him to muck out stalls. Brady had been happy to do it. He loved the smell of hay and leather and horses. His only problem was that he got so caught up in grooming and riding and tending the horses that he forgot all about his other ranch hand responsibilities.
    “You remind me of me when I was your age.” Dutch laughed. “Except you’re better-looking.”
    Then one day one of Mr. Daniels’s pregnant mares got hung in a downed barbwire fence and cut herself up pretty badly. They called the vet, but the high-strung horse was hysterical and wouldn’t let the vet anywhere near her. She reared up on her hind legs and pawed the air, lips frothing, nostrils flaring. Even Dutch, who was a wizard at taming horses, couldn’t calm her. Everyone stood around scratching his head, watching blood stream down her damaged flank, afraid to approach her in case she did herself more harm or the stress caused her to go into early labor.
    Brady could literally feel her pain. A visceral pummel straight to his gut. The sensation burrowed under his skin like a sickness. A candle flame of terror burned in the mare’s eyes. She tossed her head, mane flailing. The pulse beat hard in her long neck nicked with barbwire wounds.
    He took a deep breath, dived to the bottom of the calm, serene pool inside himself. The place he dived whenever his old man went on a rampage and