Holly Jolly Cowboy (The Wyoming Cowboy #7)(11)

Except by noon they’d found a break in the fence and Carson had to repair it while Adam rounded up the strays that had wandered away. Then one of the horses threw a shoe, which meant it couldn’t be ridden, and the bale unroller they used to spread the hay for the cattle to eat wouldn’t start.

Things just kinda went downhill from there. It was normal stuff, of course. Half the time, being a rancher meant you were chasing down problems—missing cattle, sick cattle, broken fences, dried watering holes, you name it. Broken equipment happened. You fixed it and moved on.

But Adam noticed that Carson seemed to be moving slow that day, and his nose was bright red. He sniffed a lot, too, every time Adam was near him.

“You getting sick?” Adam asked as he changed the timing belt on the bale unroller. “Do I need to worry about you bailing out on me?”

Carson just scowled and swiped at his nose.

Right. His coworker wasn’t the type to complain, but Adam suspected he was under the weather. He didn’t have his normal easiness as he mounted his horse. He moved as if everything ached, and when he sneezed, Adam made up his mind. Carson was definitely catching something.

And that was a problem. One of them sick would be bad, but if Adam caught whatever Carson had, they’d be doubly miserable. The cattle still had to be fed and tended to, even if they were in bed with the flu, so neither could afford to get sick. He needed to go into town and buy some meds to ward that kind of thing off, maybe stock up on vitamin C. By the time they put their horses in the stalls for the day and brushed them down, though, he was tired and hungry.

Maybe he’d just stop by the main house and see if he could scrounge any meds off of them. He’d get some for Carson, too, and maybe some soup.

Carson headed off to his cabin without a word, and Adam finished up in the barn, then reached down to pet Hannibal. “You tired, boy? You hungry?”

The dog danced with excitement around his feet, still full of boundless energy despite spending all afternoon racing after stray cattle. Hannibal had enough energy for four dogs. He’d calm down after he got some chow into him, Adam figured. He slapped his leg, and the dog came to heel at his side. Together, they headed to the main house. The lights were on, so that was good. There was an unfamiliar car parked out front, which meant that the housekeeper that Sage and Jason had hired was still around.

He headed into the back of the house and pulled off his baseball cap, tossing it on a peg. The moment they got inside, Hannibal raced away as if he were on fire, which was kinda odd. He usually only chased small game like that, which had Adam a little worried. Was there a rat in the house? They were out in the country after all. Frowning, he headed deeper into the house, looking for his dog. “Hannibal? Come back, boy.”

He found his dog in the main living area, his nose buried in some teddy-bear-looking dog’s ass. There was a strange dog here? Adam stared at it in surprise. It was beige, and wearing a festive red collar with a little bell on it. As he watched, Hannibal’s tail wagged, and the little dog—couldn’t be no more than a couple of pounds—squirmed away from his overeager idiot dog. It took one look at him with those button eyes, yapped brightly, and then bit at Hannibal’s leg.

Hannibal just bounced, turned around, and then lowered his head, his butt wagging with excitement. He wanted to play.

“No, Hannibal. Come on.” Adam slapped his leg again. “That thing’s too little to mess with. You . . .”

He trailed off, because the faint sound of singing was coming from another room nearby. Female singing. Bad female singing.

Adam called out. “Ma’am? You want to come get your dog?”

No answer. All right, then. He headed toward the kitchen—the source of the off-key singing—and stood in the doorway. Sage’s normally tidy—and empty—kitchen was an absolute mess. Mixing bowls of all kinds were spread over the counters, along with containers of flour, sugar, and whatever else was used for baking. There was a pan of something sizzling on the stove, and a woman stood in front of it. At least, he thought it was a woman. Whoever it was wore a green and red hooded sweatshirt with the hood pulled over the head, but the hips that swayed as she sang were definitely female.

And she was singing Christmas carols. Badly.

He watched her for a moment, rather entranced by the way she shook her hips. Whoever this woman was, she had a nice ass. It was round and firm and outlined well in her faded jeans. She shimmied as she stirred something in a saucepan, unable to keep a beat as she sang “Jingle Bell Rock.”

“Ma’am?” Adam said loudly.

She continued to ignore him, stirring and pausing to shake her butt. And, okay, he couldn’t help but look. It was definitely a very fine butt, and she was very into the music. He’d never seen anything so charming, though he felt a bit like a creeper for watching her jiggle her ass from behind.

“Ma’am?” he said, louder, and knocked on the counter in front of him.

She jumped, making a noise of distress, and the pans on the stove clattered. As he watched, she fished earbuds out of her ears and turned around to look at him.

And . . . hell.

It was that demon from the damn restaurant.

His lip curled in horror. “What are you doing here?”

She frowned at him, then turned back to the stove and stirred her pots again. “I could ask you the same question. Are you trying to scare the ever-loving shit out of me or am I just lucky?”