The Cattleman (Sons of Texas Book 2) by Anna Jeffrey Read Free Book Online Page A

bra. His adrenaline spiked as his gaze moved on down to tan shorts and flat sandals with about a dozen straps. Her toenails were painted bright red with some kind of white design.
    Still smiling, she stuck out her right hand. Lord, her smile made the sun look dull. “How-do-you-do? I’m Zochimilka Amiyala McLaren.”
    Hunh? Pic’s chin tucked back involuntarily. Assuming she had told him her name, he cautiously accepted her handshake. “Uh, Pic Lockhart.”
    “Oooh, you’re Pic.” She pumped his hand up and down. “I’m so glad to meet you. I feel as if I know you. My parents and I are friends with your mother.”
    Clang! An alarm went off in Pic’s head. He didn’t trust anything involving a woman if it had ties to his mother. He released the visitor’s hand as if it were hotter than the pavement. “My mother sent you here?”
    “She told me you’d be glad to assist me. I’m a photographer. I came up here from Austin. I’m taking some pictures of old Texas ranches.”
    Another mental groan. He didn’t have time to assist a photographer. Keeping the Double-Barrel Ranch running on an even keel consumed most of his waking hours and some of his sleeping ones. “I’m headed for town, ma’am. Tell you what. Just stay on this road and you’ll run into the ranch house. It’s about half a mile.” He hitched his thumb back toward the house. “My dad’s there. He’ll get one of our shop hands to fix your tire.”
    She looked down at her flat tire, then back up at him. Obviously, she couldn’t drive the bug as it was. And the last thing he wanted was to change a tire, even if it did belong to a good-looking gal with Playboy centerfold ta-tas and thick coal-black hair that hung in ringlets and curls all the way to her ass. But he couldn’t expect her to walk to the ranch house in this heat. He made yet another mental groan. “Tell you what. I’ll drive you to the ranch house and introduce you to my dad. He’ll help you get fixed up.”
    “Thank you so much,” she said. “Your father would be Bill Lockhart, Junior?”
    Who is this woman? “Uh, yes, ma’am. Hold on. Let me move my truck.”
    Pic had parked his truck with the passenger side canting downhill, the right wheels on the shoulder. He was driving a RAM 2500, a big rig with big tires. Sitting at an angle as it was, the running board was at least three feet off ground. No way would she be able to climb in.
    Trekking back to the truck, he lifted off his straw Resistol and wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve. When he climbed behind the wheel, “Lone Star Blues” blasted at him from the radio. He turned the air conditioner on high, clicked off the radio and backed up. After he had leveled the truck on the pavement, he secured the tiny navy blue sack holding Mandy’s birthday present in the jockey box, slid out again, rounded the frontend and opened the passenger door for the visitor.
    As she neared the doorway, sunlight glinted off her necklace, a leather thong with some kind of bauble that lay against her cleavage. A sheen of sweat showed on the cushions of flesh around it. Oooh, man.. .
    “It’s really noisy, isn’t it?” she said.
    Noisy? “What, my truck?” He looked at the truck, noticed for the first time the big HEMI engine chugging rhythmically. He swerved his eyes back to her. “Guess I’m so used to it I don’t hear it.”
    She hesitated a few beats, then lifted one foot. It came inches short of reaching the running board. She looked up at him again. “I’ve never ridden in a pickup this big. Am I supposed to jump?”
    He frowned, then bent at the waist and interlocked his fingers, making a stirrup of his hands. “Here. Step here and climb in.”
    “Oh, gosh, I don’t want to step on your hands with my shoes on.” She squatted and began to undo multiple buckles. He straightened and glanced at his watch. Now he was forty-five minutes late.
    She stood, kicked off the shoe and stepped on the pavement, “Ow!” She yanked her