Page 7 of Wrangling Wade

"You into him?"

She doesn't even have to say anything for me to know that's a hell no. It's written all over her face. But she answers anyway. "Oh, sure. I'd justloveto be property for some cowboy who thinks a woman's place is serving him. Who wouldn't want that?" She rolls her eyes at me, her tone acerbic. "You're not the brightest cowboy in the corral, are you?"

I splutter a protest, though I'm pretty sure I insulted her first. It wasn't intentional. I just wanted to make sure I don't need to bury that fucker six feet under. The only cowboy I want her into is me. "I do alright."

"Uh-huh. You're a one-man wrecking crew, Wade Jessup," she says, relaxing enough to loosen her grip on her keys.

How much do I hate that she has the wrong impression of me? A lot, actually. But I'm not sorry I hit him after he called her a cocktease. The prick deserved it. I won't be telling her that, though. If she didn't hear him, she doesn't need to know what he said.

The important thing is, he learned not to say it again. And if he didn't learn the lesson well enough, I have no problem reintroducing his face to my fist.

Hitting him is all kinds of therapeutic.

"Do you two have history or something?"

"Something like that," I say.

"Is that really all you're going to give me?"

"Let's just say that working for him is about as much fun as serving his alcohol," I murmur, not willing to get into all of that at two in the morning. It's not an important story anyway. Shady bastards like Danny are a dime a dozen, especially in a town full of millionaires. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of good ones here. But there are just as many who made their fortunes off the backs of everyone around them.

"Is he dangerous?" There's a tremulous thread in the question, even though she tries to hide it.

"Nah, baby," I say. "He's not dangerous. Just arrogant. And a thief, a liar, and a womanizing bastard."

"Aren't all cowboys?"

I stare at her levelly. "Do I look like a liar and a thief to you, Harlow?"

"I'm sorry." She grimaces, guilt flickering through her eyes. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant the other part."

"Yeah, you've got the wrong cowboy for that part, too, beautiful. I don't fuck around."

"Sorry," she whispers, staring down at the ground. "I just…I've been here for a week, and I've heard the way these guys talk. I've seen how many of them leave with a different woman every night. I just assumed…" she trails off with a gulp. "Um, anyway. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You've been working a week?" I arch a brow. "Morgan said you just started two days ago."

"That was my first solo shift," she says. "But I shadowed Redd beforehand to learn the ropes."

Learn the ropes? Son of a…

"You've never worked in a bar before, have you?"

"Yes." She hesitates. "Kind of."

"Kind of?"

"I worked the bar at a restaurant in Houston a few times."

Jesus H. Christ. What the fuck is Redd thinking putting a girl like her on shift alone when she's never worked a bar, let alone a cowboy bar? Like she said, the Spur is full of cowboys who have nothing better to do with their time off than drink, fuck, and hit on anything that moves. And Danny Palmer isn't the worst thing that's ever strolled through the doors of the Spur. Not by half.

Drifters come through here all the time, and they aren't all on the up and up. I've been a ranchhand long enough to know that when you can't find stable work on a ranch always in need of extra hands, there's usually a reason. That reason is rarely that you're a solid dude.

Harlow may be smart enough to take care of herself, but a predator is a predator. And she's here alone.

Absolutely the fuck not.

"Where the fuck is Redd?"