The Wrangler And The Runaway Mom. RaeAnne Thayne
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THE WITNESS
When a terrified Dr. Maggie Rawlings saw her ex-husband killed, she feared her little boy might be next. They started running, with every man a potential threat—even if her son was constantly in search of a daddy. And a cowboy. And he found both in Colt McKendrick…
FBI agent-disguised-as-rodeo-cowboy Colt knew the drill: protect Maggie and her son, and then, when the danger passed, move on. But with each trusting look from the adorable little boy—not to mention each sizzling moment spent with Maggie—Colt was finding a hands-off policy harder and harder to live by…
Previously published.
“My feelings for you are not in the least brotherly, Maggie.
“I would have thought that kiss in your trailer earlier proved that.”
At that reminder, the air seemed to vibrate suddenly with charged tension. Maggie cleared her throat. “I, ah, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“What about it?” Colt asked.
“Well, obviously, it was a—mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Of course,” Maggie answered. “It was a chemical reaction...stimulated by the fact that we were in such close proximity, alone there in the trailer.”
“Well, Doc, I hate to point this out, but we’re in even closer proximity right now. And we’re alone. Feeling any chemical reactions?”
“No,” Maggie answered, as primly as a schoolmarm. “It must have been a...one-time occurrence, and now it’s completely out of our systems.”
This time Colt laughed. “A chemical reaction. Right. You keep telling yourself that, Doc. Maybe sooner or later you’ll even believe it.”
The Wrangler and the Runaway Mom
RaeAnne Thayne
MILLS & BOON
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RAEANNE THAYNE
lives in a crumbling old Victorian in northern Utah with her husband and two young children. She loves being able to write where she is surrounded by rugged mountains and real cowboys.
For Kjersten Thayne,
the best daughter a mother could ask for,
and for Avery Thayne, who deserves coauthor status,
since he insisted on sitting on his mother’s lap
through nearly every page.
Contents
Margaret Prescott choked back a scream and watched her husband topple to the thick carpet of his office like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Only the blood seeping from the neat round hole in the middle of his forehead shattered the illusion.
The two figures standing over the crumpled form of the man she’d once thought she loved didn’t even turn in her direction. Michael’s heavy oak washroom door, ajar just enough to allow her a distorted view into the room, must have muffled the tiny cry that rasped from her throat.
“What the hell you do that for, Carlo?”