"This can't work. There's no possible way," she muttered. How could her father do this to her?
She could come up with only one answer: Because he doesn't love me.
Think about it. There was just no way that the man who had raised her could love her. He'd put her in the wilds of Montana with a bunch of cows and wheat fields. Ten thousand acres of that stupid wheat and those wretched cows. Or bulls. Or whatever.
The only thing she knew about cows was that they tasted damn good when prepared by a top-level chef. Maybe that wasn't sensitive - some of her best friends were vegetarians. But get real. She knew nothing about the world's bovine population, and she wanted to keep it that way. Sensitivity had its limits.
Once she finally made it to the wide front steps, Brielle reached a tentative hand out to the railing. It didn't look sturdy enough to hold her weight, and she didn't weigh much. She made sure of that.
When the rail didn't rock, she felt better, but not much. Holding on tight, she made her way up. But when she reached the porch, she felt a tickle on her hand. Crap! She looked down to see a huge, hairy, ugly-ass spider scurrying across her fingers. And Brielle lost it.
Screaming as if she were being attacked, she jerked her hand back, lost her balance and went tumbling backward, landing hard on the dry grass, dirt and rocks in front of the steps. She felt a bruise forming on her rump, and then Brielle did something she hadn't done since she was thirteen years old. Twelve years of repressed emotions ended in one hell of a tantrum.
"I hate it here!" she shrieked, feeling like a fool but not caring. She hadn't been at the ranch for five minutes and already her world was crumbling. "Spiders, cobwebs, rocks, dirt, grime, and who knows what else! Lions and tigers and bears … "
Her angry tears soon stopped, but Brielle was still in a foul mood as she sat there trying to breathe normally. After a few moments, she pulled herself together. Wasn't she better than this? When she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her, she grimaced, not wanting to deal with anyone or anything else right then.
Whipping her head around, she got ready to tell whoever it was to go away when her tongue got stuck on the roof of her mouth. When the person who'd invaded her privacy spoke, she felt even more disoriented.
"May I help you?"
Brielle couldn't seem to find her voice. Since she was still sitting on the ground, the man standing before her was so tall, he seemed to block out the sun. His boots looked old, his jeans dusty - like that truck - and the shirt plastered to his chest had seen better days. Brielle tilted her neck all the way back to examine his face, which was shadowed by the brim of his faded cowboy hat.
"Are you real?" she asked.
When his lips tilted up in a sardonic smile, she thought for a moment that she might be fantasizing. No, not likely. Where she was from, girls never fantasized about cowboys - she preferred a man in a suit. Still, she had to admit, if only to herself, that the guy towering over her was one hell of a hot piece of man candy.
And then he spoke again. "You must be Brielle Storm. I'm Colt Westbrook."
The velvet-voiced giant of a man held out a hand to help her up, and his deep drawl sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine. And yet Brielle found herself hesitating to give him her hand.
Nonsense! She wasn't attracted to him, and she did need to stand up eventually.
Firming her shoulders - it helped that they were on the ground - she stuck out her hand. When his fingers clasped hers and he lifted her up easily, Brielle felt her breath rush from her lungs. But when he held her hand just a moment too long to be appropriate, Brielle finally tugged against him, needing to step back.
"Thank you, Colt. Do you work for me? You must if you know my name." Thank heaven her voice had come out smooth and controlled, that it was finally working again!
His eyes crinkled as if something she'd said had amused him. She was more puzzled now, but quickly covered that up with a snotty comment - her specialty. "I asked a question. Would it be too much to expect an answer?"
He chuckled. But all he said was "No, ma'am."
What in the hell did that mean? No, he didn't work for her, or no, she shouldn't expect an answer? Was this place already messing with her head? Was she living in some alternate reality where she found herself instantly attracted to the wrong sort of man, and she couldn't understand the language?
Baloney. This was nothing but nonsense. Firming her shoulders again, she decided to bail out. "All right, Colt. I'm tired, not happy about being here, and so not into playing games." If he wouldn't answer her simple question, she would just walk away.
Besides, his smell was now beginning to drift over her, and the combination of sweat, leather, and something else she couldn't pin down was making a few butterflies flutter low in her belly, which again made zero sense. She loved cologne, expensive cologne. Not sweat!