A rejected mail-order bride calmed a stallion no cowboy could control—then the rancher realized she was exactly what he needed.

Chapter 6

The storm rolled in from the west without warning — a bruised black wall that turned the day to night. Lightning split the sky in jagged veins, and the thunder that followed shook the ground like a living thing.

The horses in the open pastures panicked. It was a frantic race against the rain to get them into the shelter of the main barn, men and horses and shouting all tangled together in the growing dark.

Ada and Gideon worked side by side in the driving wind, their shouts torn away by the gale. Rain lashed like wet rope. Mud sucked at her boots. Together they drove the last of the young fillies toward the barn doors—

And a bolt of lightning struck the cottonwood tree at the edge of the yard.

The world went white and silent for a heartbeat, then exploded in a deafening crack. One of the fillies — a slender sorrel — screamed in terror and reared, her front hooves flailing wildly in the air.

Ada was directly in her path. No time to move. No time to think.

She threw her arms up to shield her face.

A hard arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her backward with breathtaking force. She stumbled into a wall of chest, her face pressed against a rain-soaked cotton shirt that smelled of leather and ozone.

Gideon held her, his body shielding hers from the panicked horse. The filly scrambled for purchase on the slick ground, then galloped past them into the barn.

But Gideon didn’t let go.

For one long, charged moment, they stood locked together in the heart of the storm. Rain plastered Ada’s hair to her face and streamed down his. She could feel the frantic beat of his heart against her cheek — or maybe it was her own. His hand was flat against the small of her back, a point of burning heat.

The world narrowed to that single point of contact.

He pulled away first. The movement was abrupt, almost violent. He took a half step back, his face a mask of conflict, his storm-grey eyes darker than the clouds above.

The air between them crackled with more electricity than the lightning.

He had saved her. But the intimacy of it had terrified him.

Without a word, he turned and strode into the barn, leaving her standing in the rain, trembling from more than just the cold.

The wall around him was back. Higher. More formidable than ever.

The storm passed by morning, but a colder, more dangerous one was brewing.

Roy Buckman watched from the bunk house doorway. He had seen the whole thing — the way the rancher had held her, the way he’d run from her like a man fleeing a fire. He saw the way Gideon now avoided Ada, the strained silence that had replaced their easy companionship. He saw the rancher retreat into his old, cold self.

And Roy knew it was time to strike.

He gave it three days. Let the distance harden. Let the doubt settle. Let the other men forget the miracle and remember only the gossip.

Then, on the third night, under the cover of darkness, Roy Buckman walked to Sable’s corral.

The latch was heavy, secured by a thick wooden pin. With a furtive glance over his shoulder, he lifted the pin, slid the latch free, and swung the gate open — just enough for a horse to slip through.

Then he walked back to the bunk house, a cruel smile curving his lips.

The stallion stood in the middle of the corral, head high, nostrils flaring into the wind. The gate hung open behind him like an invitation.

And somewhere out in the dark, the night waited with its teeth.