From Baby It’s Cold Outside

Alana was never going to find help. Or the ranch house. Or her dream man. She and Bambi were going to end up like Popsicles. Popsicles that wouldn’t be found until spring when some cowpoke wandered upon their decaying bodies. Or possibly it would be Clint who found them. Sweet Clint who loved Shakespeare and poetry and would no doubt write a poignant poem for her eulogy and mourn the love they never knew.

Suddenly, she wished she had asked for a better picture than the blurred one that had been posted on the dating Web site. Instead, she hadn’t wanted physical traits to taint her opinion of Clint. She wanted their relationship to be built on something more than a pretty face or a sexy voice. Which was why she had refused to Google him and kept their conversations strictly to e-mails and texts. But now, with the wind beating her in the face and the last of her willpower dwindling, she wished she had a clear image to hold on to.

It was strange, but she had no more than thought it when a man materialized in the icy night. Not a blurred businessman with glasses and a kind smile, but a rugged cowboy slouched low in his saddle with his hat pulled low and his sheepskin coat tugged up around his ears. One gloved hand was draped over the saddle horn, and the other held the reins, expertly guiding the horse through the snow.

Alana blinked and tried to dork her hallucination down by putting on a pair of glasses and a button-down shirt, but they didn’t want to stay put. The bulky jacket remained, as did the snow-dusted cowboy hat and leather chaps. In fact, as the image grew more vivid, the man grew more virile, his handling of the thick-muscled horse twice as alpha as any surfer balancing on a waxed board. He came straight toward her like some ancient Nordic warrior stalking his prey. Although the deep voice that sliced through the whistling wind sounded like all-American cowboy.

“What the hell?”