4) A Little Girl, Apparently

Smoothly, I backed out of the spot I'd parked beside the old fence line, trying to catch the last bit of daylight. I glanced over at Ryan and caught him studying me with a smirk, one hand carefully covering most of his mouth to hide his amusement.

He probably knew goading me in this situation wasn't in his best interest.

Despite that, he looked surprisingly relaxed, with one leg stretched out and the other bent to brace himself against the bumps. His opposite elbow rested comfortably out the window, as if I wasn't about to challenge every piece of authority he had to offer.

We bumped our way carefully down my driveway. Every few yards, I found myself slamming on the brakes or wrenching the steering wheel to avoid dropping us into a rut big enough to swallow the front end of my truck. Ryan managed to keep his amusement to himself until we hit a particularly nasty one that sent us both momentarily airborne.

"When's the last time you had this thing graded?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Last year. Before winter," I muttered, concentrating on the road with both hands firmly gripping the wheel.

The thought crossed my mind that I really needed to get it done before the rodeo in three weeks. Something else to add to the ever-growing list of things that needed doing.

From the back seat, Buck was having the time of his life. He bounced from one open window to the other every time we hit a bump, his tail wagging furiously. He let out an excited yip as we went airborne again.

Apparently, he thought this was the best ride he'd ever been on.

By the time we reached the end of the driveway, Ryan practically launched himself out of the truck. I couldn't tell if he was running for cover or trying to save what remained of his spine.

Either way, he wouldn't get far. My nearest neighbor was actually the farm my family owned. My cabin sat tucked away at the back of the cow fields, secluded by a thick line of trees and the beginning of the mountain.

I sighed and started gathering the scattered parts and pieces of his motorcycle, tossing them into the bed of my pickup.

Following the trail of debris like breadcrumbs, I eventually found Ryan attempting to wrestle the bike upright from the dirt and gravel. Crossing my arms, I watched him struggle to get a decent grip. He managed to lift it halfway before his boots slid out from underneath him, sending him stumbling back into the gravel.

I bit back a grin.

"Need some help, Sparky?"

His eyes narrowed as he looked up at me from the ground.

I waved him out of the way and stepped beside the bike. Finding some leverage near the ditch, I planted my boots, grabbed hold, and brought the motorcycle upright. I kicked the stand down before it had another opportunity to kiss the dirt.

It wasn't particularly heavy. Most of our cattle weighed twice what this thing did.

I glanced briefly at the markings on the motorcycle. Even covered in dirt and road grime, the club insignia was hard to miss. The winged skull and lettering matched the patch I'd seen on his leather cutte.

Riders of the Badlands.

I was beginning to suspect there was considerably more to this man than a bad attitude and a busted motorcycle.

"Not bad for a little girl," I teased, lifting my chin as I walked toward the truck to retrieve my ratchet straps from the toolbox.

Ryan watched me go as though he couldn't quite believe what he'd just witnessed.

"What is it you do?" he finally asked.

By then, he'd shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts and leaned against the battered remains of his motorcycle. He was doing a pretty poor job of looking unaffected. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I'd managed to bruise every ounce of his pride.

"Why? Thinking about putting me to work?"

His mouth twitched.

"Just trying to figure out how someone your size manages to make a living throwing things around like that."

I ignored his small talk and concentrated on getting the motorcycle positioned closer to the truck. I'd barely started figuring out the angle when he stepped in, popping the kickstand back up.

"Whoa. Wait. You're going to hurt yourself. Let me figure something out to get it up there."

He started looking around, apparently searching for a solution that didn't involve me lifting it.

I took a deep breath and let my exasperation settle. After all, it was his bike. He just didn't know what I was capable of yet.

I appreciated the concern, I really did. But my thoughts were already drifting toward my bed and how many hours of sleep I'd actually manage before having to get up and do this all over again.

I leveled my eyes at Ryan.

Then I knocked his hands away from the motorcycle, grabbed hold, and wheeled it toward the waiting truck before he could come up with another objection.

With a quick adjustment of my footing, I hoisted it up and into the bed with a solid thud.

Pulling the ratchet straps from my back pocket, I climbed into the bed just as I'd done countless times before and got to work securing everything.

Ryan's shadow loomed beside me. He seemed unsure what to do with himself or where to look.

"What's do you do?" he asked again, quieter this time.

I let out an exasperated breath.

Apparently, ignoring him hadn't worked.

I finished tightening the last strap before jumping down from the bed. My boots landed firmly beside him, and I straightened to my full height.

I stood a respectable five-foot-nine in my boots. Ryan, this wall of muscle and self-appointed authority that was the Sergeant-at-Arms, had to be every bit of six feet.

I wasn't exactly intimidated.

Jabbing a finger into his chest, I looked him square in the eyes.

"Get back in the truck."

He looked down at my finger, then slowly brought his eyes back to mine. For a second, I thought he might actually argue.

Instead, one corner of his mouth lifted.

"Yes, ma'am."

The way he said it made me narrow my eyes.

There was something entirely too amused about that expression. Like he'd just discovered a new way to get under my skin and was already looking forward to trying it.

I turned toward the driver's side before he could see the grin threatening to break across my face.

Behind me, I heard him chuckle.

As I climbed into the driver's seat, I noticed Ryan pull his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up with a string of missed calls and messages. He scrolled through them briefly, his expression shifting just enough to catch my attention.

"Everything all right?" I asked.

He slipped the phone away.

"Yeah. Just a few guys wondering where the hell I've disappeared to."

"Guys?"

"My brothers."

I glanced at him.

"Actual brothers or the motorcycle gang kind?"

His grin returned.

"Club. We call each other brothers."

"Right. Because calling each other by your actual names would be far too sensible."

He laughed, shaking his head.

"You always this nosy?"

"Only when strange men and their broken motorcycles turn up on my property."

"Fair enough."

Buck, apparently deciding his passenger needed some supervision, stuck his enormous head between the front seats as Ryan settled back into the truck. His tail thumped against the back seat, and he gave Ryan a curious sniff before settling back down.

Ryan looked over at him.

"At least somebody around here likes me."

I climbed into the driver's seat and shut the door.

"Don't get too comfortable. He's got terrible judgment sometimes."

Buck let out a huff from the back seat.

I glanced at Ryan, who was now wearing that same irritating grin.

I had a feeling this man was going to be trouble.