Ride Me, Cowboy

Harper’s POV

There were exactly three things I did not do: sweat, swear, or suffer in silence.

And right now, I am doing all three.

“Are you kidding me?” I snapped at the dashboard, slamming my hand against the steering wheel of my very expensive, very dead luxury sedan. “You can’t be serious. You were just serviced. I paid—like—actual money for this!”

The car offered no response. Not a flicker. Not a single purr. Just the cheerful chirping of crickets and the oppressive heat of what I assumed was hell’s taint region, a.k.a. the backroads of Nowhere, Texas.

No bars. No shade. No sign of civilization. Just sun-scorched gravel, a road that may or may not be real, and the echo of my own disbelief.

I climbed out of the car, heels clicking against the gravel like they had a damn attitude. My outfit—silk blouse, tailored shorts, and designer sandals—was not built for desert drama. I packed for a weekend boutique summit in Austin, not a roadside horror story where AAA didn’t exist and serial killers probably rode tractors.

I checked my phone again. Still no signal. Not even a tease of a dot.

“Great. Fan-freakin’-tastic,” I muttered, shielding my eyes and doing a slow spin, as if a cell tower might magically sprout from the mesquite brush.

And that’s when I heard it.

The rhythmic clop of hooves.

At first, I thought I was hallucinating. Heatstroke. It had to be.

But then, over a rise in the road, appeared a man on a horse. A real-life cowboy. Broad shoulders, tan skin, hat pulled low. A full-on Marlboro fantasy, complete with a lazy smirk and a saddle that looked like it had stories to tell.

Oh, hell no.

He slowed his horse to a saunter, boots resting in the stirrups like he had all the time in the world. His eyes—annoyingly blue, like the good kind of pool water—dragged up and down my body with a mix of confusion and amusement.

“You lost, darlin’?” he asked, voice dipped in southern drawl and sin.

I crossed my arms. “Let’s see. My car is dead. My phone’s useless. I’m sweating like I ran a marathon in a sauna. So no, cowboy, I’m not lost. I’m stranded.”

The man tipped his hat. “Name’s Wyatt. And I gotta say… I’ve seen a lotta things on this road, but a rhinestone Barbie in heels ain’t one of ’em.”

“Oh, good. A comedian,” I deadpanned. “Are you here to help, or just narrate my descent into heatstroke?”

He chuckled like I’d just made his damn day. “Well, I’d offer ya a ride, sugar, but I’m fresh outta F-150s. Only got one horse, one saddle, and room for one more behind me. Think you can hang on without toppin’ off, city girl?”

I blinked. “You want me to get on that thing?”

He gave the horse a pat. “This here’s more reliable than that fancy hunk o’ metal you came rollin’ in on.”

I glared. “I don’t ride animals. I ride Uber.”

He let out a low, rough laugh that tickled down my spine. “Uber don’t make it out this far. But lucky for you, I do.”

“Wow,” I muttered, “even your double entendres wear cowboy boots.”

Wyatt winked. You comin’ or you plannin’ to roast out here like a marshmallow in them designer shoes?”

I stared at him. Then, at the horse. Then, back at my car, which still sat smug and silent like a useless hunk of metal.

This was my nightmare. My personal Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Goddamn Rodeo.

But dying of heat exhaustion wasn’t on my agenda today. And the cowboy? Well, he had nice… arms.

With a dramatic sigh, I marched toward him, muttering under my breath, “If I get saddle rash, I’m suing the state of Texas.”

I stood beside the horse, glaring at it like it had personally offended me.

It was big. Bigger than it had any right to be. Muscles twitched under its shiny brown coat, and its tail swished like it had no time for my city-girl energy. I could already feel the saddle bruises forming just looking at it.

Wyatt was already on top, looking far too smug for a man in denim and dust. He leaned down, offering his hand.

“Need a boost, Princess?”

I looked at his outstretched fingers like they might bite. “I work out, cowboy. I don’t need help.”

I immediately needed help.

Getting my foot into the stirrup was one thing. Swinging my leg over without flashing him my designer lace was another entirely.

With a not-so-ladylike grunt, I climbed up behind him, gripping the saddle horn and trying not to think about the fact that my entire front was now pressed against the back of a man who smelled like leather, sun, and poor decisions.

“Comfy, darlin’?” he asked, clearly amused.

“If I wanted to straddle something this hard and uncomfortable, I’d still be dating my ex.”

He barked out a laugh. “Spicy. I like it.”

I tightened my grip around his middle as the horse started moving, my body jolting with every step.

“Oh my God,” I hissed. “This is the opposite of smooth. My ovaries are rearranging themselves.”

Wyatt’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Welcome to real horsepower, city girl.”

We rode in silence for a few minutes—well, silence except for my muttered complaints and the occasional gasp when the horse dipped unexpectedly.

Wyatt kept throwing over-the-shoulder glances, and I kept pretending I didn’t notice how broad his back was or how his flannel clung just right when the wind caught it.

“What’s your name?” he asked eventually, voice low and lazy.

“Harper,” I replied, then added, “Not ’darlin’, not ‘princess’, and definitely not ‘Barbie.’”

“Noted,” he said with a smirk I could feel. “Well, Harper… What brings you to our little slice of tumbleweed paradise?”

“A boutique summit in Austin. I took a ‘scenic detour.’” I made finger quotes he couldn’t see. “Which is code for ’dumbass GPS rerouted me through this cursed cow trail.’”

“You’re not wrong,” Wyatt said. “This road’s not on any tourist map. But I gotta admit—it’s a hell of a lot more fun with you on it.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Do all cowboys flirt like they’re starring in a country music video?”

He turned slightly, just enough for me to catch the flash of mischief in his eyes. “Only with girls who look like sin and sass in designer shorts.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, but the horse jolted again, and I clung to him with a squeak I would later deny making.

“Relax,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. darlin’

Something about the way he said it—low and steady, like a promise—made my chest flutter. Stupid cowboy. Stupid charm. Stupid horse.

As the sun dipped lower and the heat softened just a little, I realized something worse than being stranded had happened.

I was starting to enjoy the ride.

And that? That was dangerous territory.

By the time we reached Wyatt’s place, I had renamed the horse “Satan’s Saddle Machine” and sworn off horseback riding for life. My thighs were burning, my hair was sticking to places I didn’t know could sweat, and my hands still hadn’t unclenched from Wyatt’s waist.

But I would not complain. Not out loud, anyway.

Because the cowboy already looked far too pleased with himself as he swung off the horse like he was auditioning for a western thirst trap calendar.

“You can let go now,” he said, voice tinged with amusement as he looked up at me.

I didn’t move. “I think my legs forgot how gravity works.”

Wyatt chuckled, stepped in closer, and—before I could protest—his big hands wrapped around my waist and lifted me clean off the saddle like I weighed nothing.

For one brief second, I was face to face with him, my body sliding down his until my feet touched solid ground. My heart stuttered at the contact. My breath caught. And my mind, traitorous and curious, wondered how those hands would feel if they weren’t helping me dismount but—

Nope. Nope. Abort.

“Thanks,” I said tightly, pulling away and brushing imaginary dust off my thighs. “I could’ve done that myself.”

“Sure you could’ve,” Wyatt said with a grin, leading the horse toward the barn. “But then I’d’ve missed that cute lil’ noise you made.”

I glared at his back. “If I had a nickel for every time I heard that…”

“You’d have enough to buy a car that don’t break down in the middle of nowhere,” he teased, throwing a wink over his shoulder.

I snorted despite myself. “Okay, that was almost clever.”

Wyatt’s ranch house came into view—a cozy, weather-worn structure that screamed rugged charm and a man who builds things with his hands. The porch sagged in the middle, the paint was chipped, but everything about it felt… warm.

He tied up the horse, then nodded toward the steps. Come on in. Got water, AC, and maybe somethin’ for them thighs that look like they been through a rodeo.”

I groaned as I walked. “If I walk funny tomorrow, I’m blaming you and that demon horse.”

“You can blame me anytime, sweetheart,” he drawled, opening the screen door and motioning me inside. “But I prefer to earn it.”

The air conditioning hit me like a religious experience. I let out a moan—not on purpose, but I couldn’t help it—and immediately regretted it when Wyatt’s eyebrows lifted with a devilish gleam.

“That noise,” he said, voice low, “you might want to save that for later.”

“Later?” I asked, walking past him and taking in the surprisingly clean living room—leather couch, faded rugs, bookshelf lined with old western novels, and a very judgmental cat on the windowsill.

“You’re stranded,” he reminded me, closing the door behind us. “Unless you’ve got magic boots that’ll take you to town.”

I sighed and dropped onto the couch. “Nope. Just me, my heels, and a prayer.”

Wyatt headed to the kitchen and came back with two glasses of cold water. He handed me one and then leaned against the wall like some kind of bad-boy poster child. “Well then, guess you’re stuck with me for a bit.”

I sipped my water and arched a brow. “Do you flirt like this with all the lost women who break down near your property?”

“Nah,” he said, eyes meeting mine. “Just the ones who act like they ain’t impressed—and end up impressed anyway.”

I rolled my eyes. “Cowboy, please.”

But my stomach fluttered just a little, and damn it, I hated that he noticed.

Wyatt grinned.

And I knew—knew—this was going to be one hell of a ride.