A Cowboy Firefighter for Christmas

Warm up this Christmas with a sexy cowboy firefighter who knows how to ignite flames as well as put them out…

He’s hotter than a wildfire
Trey Duval is a rancher, proud as can be of his Wildcat Ranch. He’s also the top volunteer firefighter of Wildcat Bluff, Texas, the town that pulls out all the stops for its Christmas festivities.

City girl Misty Reynolds comes to Wildcat Bluff just in time to help Trey put out a suspicious fire, leading him to dub her his “Christmas angel.” Unfortunately, Misty’s past has left her with terrible memories of fire, and of Christmastime.

As the two are thrown together again and again, Trey finds himself wanting Misty more and more, and Misty feels stronger and braver when Trey is around. Though their trust grows slowly, their passion for each other is burning hot…

Praise for Kim Redford’s sexy westerns:
“Head-butting, heart-stopping, smoking hot romance!”—CAROLYN BROWNNew York Times bestselling author


Chapter 1

On Wildcat Road, a half-naked man burst out of a pasture and ran onto the two-lane highway. He stopped on the white centerline and waved a bright red shirt back and forth high over his head.

Misty Reynolds slammed on the brakes of her SUV, caught searching for a radio station that wasn’t playing Christmas music.

She gripped the steering wheel with both hands as she screeched to a stop, managing to narrowly avoid hitting the guy. She felt her heart thump hard with the burst of adrenaline and slumped against her seat in relief, grateful she’d been able to stop in time. She forced her breath to a slower, calmer pace.

As the adrenaline rush drained away, and she was able to focus, she got a better look at the stranger and licked her lower lip. This guy was all ripped jeans, cowboy boots, and big belt buckle over buff, bronze, sweaty body. His broad, muscular shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and his long legs looked as if they belonged straddling a horse. He reminded her of her all-time favorite candy, Texas Millionaires.

It’d been a long time since a man had set her senses on spin cycle. And she’d nearly run him over. She wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or frightened. She felt a little shaky. Here and now was not a good time or place. Life was shaking her up enough already. She didn’t need this problem.

She was headed toward a wide place in the road called Wildcat Bluff. The Dallas and Fort Worth Metroplex—as in big-city civilization—sprawled a couple of hours south. She had gladly left it and all the Christmas hubbub behind her. She was far away from everything now, except cattle, grass, trees. And the tan­talizing stranger. But what was going on here?

Everything about the guy looked like trouble. In the 1880s, Wildcat Bluff had been notorious as a Wild West town that catered to cowboys and outlaws. Cowboys drove cattle herds north with dust in their eyes and returned with gold in their pockets. Desperadoes crossed the Red River from Indian Territory to get liquor by the drink and love by the night. Could this be the modern equivalent of a Texas horse thief? A carjacker? She glanced around as the hair on the backs of her arms prickled in alarm. Fortunately, the stranger appeared to be alone.

Still, she wouldn’t take a chance. She hit the buttons on her door and heard the satisfying click of engaged locks and closed windows. She picked up her phone from the center console and checked for coverage. No bars. She couldn’t call for help. She unclipped the small pepper spray canister off the metal link on her oversized aqua purse. She’d never used the spray before, but how hard could it be? She hoped that, if necessary, all she’d have to do was point and shoot. Still, it looked small and inadequate.  

He ran the last few steps to her car, pulled on the door handle, and then hit the window with the flat of his hand.

She jerked back, gripping the pepper spray as she kept him in sight. His big belt buckle sported a Santa Claus face attached to a belt embossed with prancing reindeer. If she included the holiday-happy red shirt in his hand, she’d assume Christmas, not carjacking, was on his mind. But he could also mean to disarm her with his fashion statement.

This close, he appeared wild. Hazel eyes flicked back and forth, resting on nothing or on everything. Dust pep­pered his tousled dark brown hair. His broad bare chest was coated with dirt and sweat. He looked good in the rough and rugged kind of way that set a gal’s thermostat on “too hot to handle.”

“Help me!” he said in a deep voice muted by the closed windows.

“Do you have a medical emergency?” She held up her phone. “No coverage.”

“Look over there!” He pointed toward the pasture.

All she saw was a little dust in the air. No telling what was going on. She’d play it safe. Once she put distance between them and could use her cell, she’d call to get him help.

“Do you have a blanket? Water?”

She felt his voice weave a spell around her like the finest of Texas male singers, an unmistakable quality of deep and sultry with a hot chili back-burn that left you wanting more. Classic singers like Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, and George Strait came to mind.

She shook her head, breaking his spell. “Are you hungry?” Maybe he was homeless. “I have energy bars.”

He frowned, drawing his dark, straight eyebrows together, as he shook his shirt at her. “There’s a grass fire!”

Too late, she realized his red shirt was blackened and burned in spots. If she hadn’t been so busy ogling his glistening sooty body, she might have noticed sooner. He’d obviously been using his shirt to beat out a fire. He wasn’t trouble, but an out-of-control blaze definitely was dangerous.

“Only minutes to stop it.” He glanced at her backseat, and his face lit up with happiness.

“You’ve got towels!” He dropped his tattered shirt.

“Always. Just in case.” Even as the words left her mouth, panic started to seize control. Breath caught in her throat. Chills turned her cold. And she felt pressure on her chest as if from a great weight.

She was terrified of fires.