Taming Christmas

Tate removed his hat and politely tipped his head. “We’re so sorry, miss. Huck isn’t completely housebroken. His last girlfriend told him she’d rather bring home a feral cat than let him into her apartment again.”

“He’s been kicked in the head one too many times, miss. Don’t judge him too harshly,” Cort said with a pleading, boyish smile. “He doesn’t have the sense to know better, and he doesn’t possess the ambulatory skills of a drunken baboon.”

Huck’s hand curled into a fist as he considered how much attention it would draw if he tackled Cort and Tate and pummeled them into silence. Cort was several inches taller and many pounds heavier than he was, but as angry as he felt, Huck knew he could take him down.

Before he could start swinging, the blonde woman grinned. “He seems harmless enough, even if he’s about as smooth on his feet as a one-legged ostrich on ice.”

Tate and Cort both snickered.

“Where are you from?” Tate asked, taking a step closer to the female who had cast a spell over Huck.

Never, not once in all his life, had Huck been as instantly attracted to anyone as he was to her. In that moment, he wasn’t sure he liked it. The foreign, intense feelings left him nervous and unsettled.

“New Mexico. My folks have a ranch near Santa Fe. I talked my boss into sending me here this week to do some research. My friend Jenny and her cousin tagged along for fun. I’m Mara Evans.”

“Well, Mara Evans, it’s our pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Tate said, nudging Huck as he stood in a sticky puddle of spilled drinks. “I’m Tate Morgan. The big guy is Cort McGraw. The dolt with zero coordination and a red face is Huck Powell.”

Recognition registered in her expression as she smiled again. “Congratulations to all three of you for doing so well today. It was fun to watch you compete.”

Huck usually had no trouble charming women. He’d even been known to be witty and clever with his repartee, but as he stared at the female with rosy cheeks and pink lips, he figured his level of intelligence probably wasn’t up to par with a clod of dirt.

Tate and Cort elbowed him when he remained silent. If they kept that up, he could add cracked ribs to the other injuries he’d gained that afternoon. Slogging through his mind for something—anything—to say that wouldn’t prove his sudden lack of astuteness, he came up empty.

Woozy from his injuries or maybe the spell she’d cast over him, he grinned at Mara. “Want to dance?”

Much to his chagrin, the woman laughed—outright laughed—at him.

“I don’t think so, cowboy,” she said, giving him a dismissive look. “You can’t seem to stay on your own two feet, and I’m not willing to sacrifice mine.”