“Help!”
He looked up. In the haze of headlights stood a woman.
“Help!” She pumped her hands wildly up and down as though yelling the word wasn’t enough.
He threw open the door and jumped down. “What’s wrong?” he yelled, jogging toward her. She wore tattered jeans, scuffed leather boots, a blue-and-white checkered shirt. She didn’t appear to be physically hurt.
“My—” She gasped a breath. “My friend and I need a ride.”
He halted. “You’re hitchhiking in these mountains at night?” The heat of his breath condensed into frozen particles on his mustache. Damn. It was too cold to be chatting with some hitchhiking cowgirl.
And too cold for her to be dressed in nothing but a shirt and jeans.
He started to take off his jacket to offer her when an instinctual warning shot through him. “Friend?” He looked around.
“Pe-pet,” the street girl said softly, waving her hand dismissively as though she’d simply misspoken. “My pet and I are…lost.”
A strength shone through her big, gray eyes. In his gut, he trusted that look. She wasn’t helpless, but she needed help.
He unzipped his jacket and tossed it to her. “Put this on. Let’s get you and your—” he looked around for a puppy or a dog “—pet into the van before all three of us turn into icicles.”
Her smile was so appreciative as she slid her arms into the jacket that, despite the cold, his insides melted. Alicia had never given him a look of such sweet gratefulness.
Forget sweet looks. You’re almost married.
“Your pet can sit on your lap in the front seat.” There should be enough fuel to get them to a gas station. He’d traveled this stretch of mountain road plenty—around the bend was the Sundance Lodge and Café, a few miles farther was a place to fill up.
“He’s, uh, too big to sit on my lap.”
He? Oh, yeah, the pet. “Okay, option two.” Kirk walked briskly to the van’s rear doors. “Back here.” What did this girl own? A Saint Bernard? Great Dane?
He opened the doors, figuring he’d drop this girl and her dog at the station, where they could call for a ride home and have a warm place to wait. He’d fill up and continue into Denver.
His thoughts were interrupted by the thud-thud-thud of steps punctuated with heavy, beastly snorts.
Kirk’s stomach clenched. His mouth went dry.
Staring him down, heaving breaths of steam, stood a ferocious-looking bull with a hump on its back the size of a small mountain. The moonlight, gilding the beast in a surreal silver, added to the monstrous effect.
“He’s gentle,” the girl said, as though hanging out with ferocious animals was an everyday sort of thing.
Kirk glanced around—where had she hidden this creature? Spying the clusters of trees that hugged the road, he had his answer.
“His name’s Valentine,” she continued.
“I—I don’t care if his name’s Sweetheart,” Kirk said, finding his voice, “that’s one big mother of a—” This was not the time for conversation. This was time to move. Run like hell. Unfortunately, his body had other ideas. Like remaining frozen where he stood. If only he hadn’t tossed her his jacket, part of him would be warm enough to flee, encouraging the rest of his body to follow.
The girl blinked, obviously realizing the terrifying effect of her “pet.” “Oh, I’m sorry.” She grabbed the brass ring in the beast’s nose. “See, he’s under control.”
A street cowgirl holding a ferocious bull by the ring in its nose. Oh yeah, that would definitely stop the animal from charging and pummeling Kirk Dunmore into a grease spot.
“I’ll take him to the back of the van,” the girl continued breezily. “I’m sure Valentine can fit easily inside. He can lower himself onto his knees and scrunch down. He’s special that way.”
He’s special that way? Kirk had to put a stop to this, now. What would Tarl Cabot, the mighty, solitary hero of Gor do at a time like this?
The beast raised one mighty hoof and struck the road, the sharp thud reverberating through the chilly air.
“No ro-room,” Kirk stuttered. “Va-van too small.” He held up his gloved hands, the flattened palms parallel to each other, indicating what “small” meant in case she didn’t know.
But she ignored his visual clue. Pulling on the halter, she led the bull to the back of the van. “What is this—about twelve by six?”
“Probably less,” he said quickly, following at a safe distance.
“No, it’s definitely twelve by six.”
Her confidence was irritating.
She continued talking as though this was nothing more than an evening stroll. “I used to put Val into Mr. Connors’s small cattle trailer and it was twelve by six.”
Three cheers for Mr. Connors’s cattle trailer.
“How are its shocks?”
“Excellent. I cart heavy tools.” Damn. This wasn’t the time to tell the truth. Unfortunately, lying had never been a skill he’d learned.
The cowgirl opened the back doors. “What’s back here?”
“Some pickaxes. Shovels. Box of fossils.”
“Fossils?”
“They’re in a metal crate up front.”
“Metal. They’re safe. Valentine is a pussycat, trust me.”
Damn irritating, that confidence of hers.
“Come on, Hot Stuff, let’s get inside,” the cowgirl said, followed by some kissing sounds.
Before Kirk could suck in another brain-numbing breath, the beast had placed one mighty hoof then another on the van’s carpeted floor. Then, with the grace of a meaty ballerina, the beast disappeared inside as the van creaked and lowered with the added weight.
The girl shut the doors carefully, as though she’d just loaded the back with china, then walked back to Kirk. “You saved our lives.” Her voice was soft with appreciation. It was too dark to see her face, but he imagined her having that same grateful look she’d flashed him earlier when she’d stood in the headlights.
And for a sweet moment, he knew how Tarl Cabot, the mighty warrior of Gor, felt when he’d rescued a damsel.
The cowgirl damsel slapped Kirk on the arm, one of those good-pals gestures that wiped out his Tarl Cabot fantasy.
“Let’s go—or we’ll freeze our you-know-whats out here!” She trotted toward the passenger door.
Stunned with the occurrences of the last few minutes, Kirk walked stiff-kneed toward the driver’s door. As he sloshed through a chilly puddle, he experienced literally the meaning of “cold feet.”
Was the anxiety he felt due to his impending marriage or the adventure he’d stepped into?
2
“NEDERLANDER HIGHLANDER RANCH,” Louie repeated for the umpteenth time, rolling the words in his mouth as though tasting them.
“Some Scottish guy?” asked Shorty, taking a last drag on his cigarette and flicking it out the window. The lighted stub seared a thin orange flame