Free Cowboy's Kiss by Victoria Pade

advice, finally making it into the saddle. She felt good about it until she realized she couldn’t reach the reins to untie them.
    Jackson realized it, too, at about the same time.
    â€œDamned woman,” he muttered under his breath. And with that, he reached over to yank the reins free and handed them to her.
    Then he nudged his own mount and headed away from the barn, leaving Ally to play catch-up again.
    â€œOh, this is going to be loads of fun,” she grumbled to herself so softly she didn’t think he could possibly hear her.
    She was wrong.
    â€œWe aren’t out here to have fun. We’re here to work,” he barked at her.
    And though she knew it was childish, she couldn’t help sticking out her tongue at his back.
    His broad, straight back...
    She hated herself for noticing that. For admiring the magnificence of the man in the saddle. For appreciating the graceful way he rode, flowing with the rhythm of the animal so smoothly horse and rider could have been floating on air.
    And it didn’t help matters at all that her wayward gaze slid to the jeans pockets that so snugly hugged his great derriere, then slipped right on down the thick, hard thighs that finessed the horse with subtle pressure to do his bidding.
    Ally suffered a sudden horribly delicious image of those same thighs on either side of her, nudging, guiding, riding....
    Her mouth went dry, her heart raced, and beads of perspiration erupted on her upper lip.
    Could she be suffering heatstroke already?
    But she knew better.
    Hunk stroke was more like it.
    And it would never do. She had to fight it. To keep her thoughts—and her eyes—off him.
    It helped that about then they reached the section of the range where the ranch hands were.
    It didn’t help that Ally couldn’t keep herself from comparing the other men to Jackson or that they came up short as he did a cursory, first-names-only introduction.
    Then he solved the problem of distraction for her.
    â€œYou’ll take up the rear,” he told her. “That means you keep an eye out for any of the herd that try to stray, and don’t let them.”
    At that, one of the cowboys grimaced and exchanged a glance with the man beside him.
    Ally wondered why but didn’t say anything as she waited for Jackson to explain how she was supposed to keep a cow with wanderlust from roaming.
    But further instructions never came. Instead he shouted, “Let’s move ‘em out of here,” to the ranch hands and they all took off.
    For a moment Ally just sat there, watching them go and feeling like an idiot for not knowing what to do. Then she realized the only way she was going to learn was by trial and error, because Jackson was not likely to fill her in. So she set her horse to a canter and followed along, taking up a place behind the herd as the cowboys hee-yawed them into motion.
    It didn’t take long for Ally to understand the reason she’d been given the rear position, or the cowboys’ reaction to her being relegated to it. Driving cattle on a dry, ninety-five-degree day was dirty, dusty work. And Ally got the worst of it as she rode straight into the clouds the cattle and horses stirred up.
    By the time they stopped near a stream for lunch, she felt as if she’d personally experienced the dust bowl. She was covered with grit from head to toe. It crunched beneath her teeth, clogged her nose and scratched her eyes. Every fold of her clothes carried enough soil to pot houseplants; it had settled into the creases of her skin and sifted through her hair to her scalp. Even her ears were full of it.
    Off their horses the men all went to the stream to wash their hands and splash water on their faces.
    Ally joined them and then—though she hated having to do it and turned away from them when she did—she had to use some of the canteen water to swish in her mouth and spit out, and blow her nose on the tissue she’d luckily stuffed