WILDHORSE RANCH BROTHERS

  Wild Ride

  Wild Heart

  Wild Dream

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  RELAY PUBLISHING EDITION, AUGUST 2023

  Copyright © 2023 Relay Publishing Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United Kingdom by Relay Publishing. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Leslie North is a pen name created by Relay Publishing for co-authored Romance projects. Relay Publishing works with incredible teams of writers and editors to collaboratively create the very best stories for our readers.

  Cover design by Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations.

  www.relaypub.com

  BLURB

  Recovering at the ranch has never been so… vigorous.

  With a knee injury capable of ending his football career, all Charlie Wild should be focusing on is recovery. But that's the last thing on his mind when Dylan Rose walks into the small-town hospital he’s healing at. She's stunningly beautiful…Too bad the gorgeous doctor seems immune to his charms.

  Dylan Rose isn’t looking for romance when she meets her newest patient. Sure, Charlie is charming, handsome and built like the star quarterback he is. But she knows better than to fall for a player.

  Yet over time, she begins to see that he’s more than just a cute jock. Charlie has heart. He’s also persistent as all get out, and no matter how hard she tries, she can’t ignore the sizzling attraction growing between them. But just when she’s starting to fall for the big lug, Charlie betrays her, putting himself and their relationship in danger.

  Can she forgive him? Or will Charlie have to add heartache to the list of injuries keeping him on the sidelines?

  MAILING LIST

  Thank you for reading “Wild Heart”

  (Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book 2)

  Read FIVE full-length romances by USA Today best-selling author Leslie North for FREE! Over 600+ pages of best-selling romance with hundreds of FIVE STAR REVIEWS!

  Sign-up to her mailing list and get your FREE books: www.leslienorthbooks.com/sign-up-for-free-books

  CONTENTS

  1. Dylan

  2. Charlie

  3. Dylan

  4. Charlie

  5. Dylan

  6. Charlie

  7. Dylan

  8. Charlie

  9. Dylan

  10. Charlie

  11. Dylan

  Epilogue

  End of Wild Heart

  Free book offer

  Thank you!

  Make an Author’s Day

  About Leslie

  Sneak peek: Wild Dream

  Sneak peek: Snowed In with the Rancher

  Also by Leslie

  1

  DYLAN

  Dylan Rose was a sports medicine specialist and probably not supposed to have a favorite football team.

  But damn it if she didn’t love the Texas Teamsters.

  She wandered through the packed stadium, munching kettle corn and taking in the football fans lining up for their own concessions. She always arrived at the stadium early so she’d have plenty of time to people watch. It was already the second week of September—the start of the regular season—but ninety-degree heat in Austin meant most ticketholders were buying seat cushions and postponing the moment they stepped out into the baking-hot sun. The covered walkway provided shelter from the elements, but it was packed with enough activity to rival a carnival. Children ran screaming underfoot. Dull-eyed custodians mopped up fresh spills and marked the slick patches with yellow WET FLOOR signs. Men and women were decked out in the jerseys of their favorite players. It was an atmosphere of ecstatic celebration, and the air crackled with barely checked pride and rivalry.

  And then there were the smells. Freshly spun cotton candy, hot dogs grilled until they split open, something that gushed hot out of a machine and passed for cheese—all of this and more perfumed the air. The mouthwatering, caramel-salt smell of kettle corn had spelled the end of Dylan’s own self-control.

  Unfortunately, where humans gathered, they brought with them other smells—spilled soda, body odor, and overflowing bathrooms. Dylan pictured these aromas forming two teams, sweet versus rotten, good versus evil. Fighting it out like the players on the field, each side determined to take home the trophy. The mental image was silly, and she stifled a laugh.

  When it all became too much for her, Dylan mounted the steps to the upper deck of the stadium. She would get some exercise walking laps at a higher altitude and escape the crowd for a bit, before heading back down to her own seat in time for kickoff in an hour.

  She had not figured on getting knocked on her ass by a freight train.

  It had to be some form of locomotive that hit her and sent her ten-dollar popcorn flying out of her hands. Nothing else could account for the power, the sheer force, responsible for the collision. It knocked the air out of her lungs, the sunglasses off her face, the indignation off her tongue. Dylan rebounded off the obstacle, arms pinwheeling. She braced herself for a fall, but the impact never came.

  The train had two arms, wrapped around her middle. And he had a face.

  And God, what a face did he have.

  The man gazed down his nose at her, surprised but not in the slightest bit upset by their encounter. He had a strong jaw and a mouth cocked slightly off-center in a rueful smile. His eyes were a wintry blue, and his blond hair hung down past his incongruously square chin.

  “Excuse me, I didn’t—” she began.

  “Sorry about your—”

  They both offered their stumbling apologies at once. The man held up a finger, and Dylan clicked her mouth shut. Wait a minute—had he really just signaled her like she was a dog? But he stooped down in front of her like Cinderella’s prince to pick up her sunglasses, and she decided to let it slide, not least because this angle afforded her a stunning view of his shoulders. He was built like a prize bull, broad and powerful, with corded muscle rippling under his skin. It was all too easy to imagine how it might feel to touch him, to trace the contours of those big, sculpted arms.

  That was when it hit her, like the first kickoff of the season. They had never met before, but Dylan knew this man. His face was familiar, and so was his body. She’d ogled those arms before, but never from this angle or this close. No, she’d admired him on TV, and from the stands, and in the supermarket checkout line, splashed all over the tabloids. This man was football stock, but he wasn’t just any ordinary player.

  Charlie Wild, starting quarterback of the Texas Teamsters, straightened and brushed the popcorn kernels off her glasses before passing them back to her.

  “Yours, I believe.”

  “Thank you.”

  The way his eyes lingered on her…he must have some imagination hidden away in that impenetrable head of his, Dylan mused. She’d dressed for the game in a slouchy tee and mom jeans, but Charlie’s wandering eyes made clear he liked what he saw. His gaze settled at her waist, where her belt was cinched tight, hinting at the trim figure beneath her loose clothes. Dylan cleared her throat, and he snapped to attention.

  “Well…” Charlie frowned. Dylan had topped off her ensemble with a baseball cap, and it amused her to watch the behemoth lean in again, conspicuously this time, to try for a good glimpse of her face beneath the hat. Now that she knew who he was, she also knew his specs. Charlie Wild: six-foot-six, 280 pounds, thirty years old. He hadn’t just trained himself to peak physical perfection, he had invented it. In all her time pursuing a degree in sports medicine, Dylan had never been faced with a specimen quite like him. He looked like a Norse god descended from Asgard.

  And she looked like a mortal mess. For once, Dylan actually regretted dressing down for one of these games, but it didn’t appear her efforts—or lack thereof—had dissuaded Charlie from getting an eyeful. Dylan lifted the brim of her hat a little to gaze back at him defiantly. If he was used to women shrinking before him or melting into panty-twisted puddles of goo and thought she would do the same, he had another think coming.

  “You look like you’re incognito.” His voice boomed in his chest like a summer storm, like a packed stadium rumbling with applause. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  What a line! Amusement tugged at the corners of Dylan’s mouth despite herself. “Something tells me I might be,” she confessed.

  Charlie’s own mouth quirked at her response. Of course—he seemed the type to enjoy games, on or off the field. It factored into his public persona, but maybe there was more to it than just marketing.

  “Something tells me you can handle it,” he said.

  “Oh, I handle men like you every day in my line of work,” she agreed. She didn’t give him an inch, didn’t betray who or what she was.

  “I doubt you’ve ever handled a man like me,” he said.

  “That remains to be seen,” she replied. And likely will remain so, Dylan thought, even though she couldn’t resist pushing their innuendo to its natural conclusion.

  The last thing she’d intended when she got up this morning was to wind up flirting with the Teamsters’ star player. Apparently, he wa
s as unprejudiced when it came to picking up women as Entertainment Weekly reported him to be. Dylan would never have guessed he could make time in his busy schedule for a woman who wasn’t a cheerleader or a Playboy model.

  “Speaking of things that remain to be seen…” Charlie indicated the box he had been headed toward. “Why don’t you come watch the game from the VIP suite? The only better view in this stadium is the one I’m already looking at.”

  “Hm.” Dylan pretended to deliberate, resting her hand on one cocked hip as she watched the box’s occupants file in. Suits, most of them—probably corporate bigwigs from sponsors and billionaire friends of the owner. A few had arm candy, similarly dressed up. “Something tells me you aren’t allowed to extend that invitation.”

  “C’mon, now.” Her resistance only seemed to make him more insistent. “Those guys are all watching us, and their girlfriends too. How will that look for me if you just walk away?”

  Dylan tried not to laugh, but a low snort broke loose. Charlie grinned in response, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Besides, I thought you said you could handle a little trouble.”

  And there it is. The Charlie Wild trifecta.

  It was interesting getting to check off every facet of Charlie Wild’s public persona firsthand. Confident bordering on cocky. Charming bordering on promiscuous. Irresponsible bordering on reckless. He barely knew her, and he was already willing to break the rules for her. Too bad he wouldn’t be present to face any of the fallout should she be caught.

  Dylan’s eyes followed a tall, bottle-blonde vixen breezing by them, her tight skirt accentuating every hypnotic swish of her buttocks. “I don’t think I’m dressed for it,” she replied. “But thanks for the offer.”

  Charlie, who had also been watching the blonde appreciatively, caught Dylan’s arm in a last-minute play as she turned to go. His massive palm encircled her entire bicep, and the physical reminder of his size and strength made her shiver a little. That hand had thrown more winning passes than any other this season; that hand commanded attention. It didn’t hang idly in the face of defeat.

  “Hey, now.” Charlie drew her close, till his chest brushed her shoulder. Dylan could feel his body heat clean through her shirt. A flick of her hand, and her knuckles would brush the abs that had sold an ocean of men’s fragrances. As a doctor, Dylan couldn’t deny her—strictly scientific—interest in feeling them for herself. The existence of the eight-pack was still disputed in some medical circles.

  “You look terrific,” he assured her. “A die-hard sports fan. You deserve a good seat. You’ll appreciate it more than those ex-Teamster cheerleaders.”

  Cheerleaders? Dylan hated to admit her interest was piqued, so she didn’t…At least, not out loud. She relented and allowed herself to be dragged into the box after Charlie. She pushed the bill of her cap up a bit further so she didn’t look like some antisocial Unabomber.

  It probably wasn’t every hot-blooded, heterosexual woman that could be lured with the promise of seeing cheerleaders up close. It wasn’t a career path Dylan had chosen for herself, but she had been a cheerleader in high school, and she missed aspects of the culture: the graceful, and sometimes brutal, physicality; the command of the crowd; the adoration of the fans. Probably all the same things Charlie Wild lived for.

  “Charlie! Where the hell have you been?” A man in a sharp suit hurried over to them as soon as they entered the box. His face was flushed, his hairline receding, his vintage Ray-Bans as expensive as his watch. He was public relations personified in a private box setting. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

  Dylan couldn’t be sure, thanks to his sunglasses, but she thought the man’s gaze glanced right off her as he descended on Charlie. Her presence didn’t even register.

  “Get your ass over to the autograph table. Someone get me a pen, please,”

  Charlie turned to her. “You want an autograph?”

  “Want is a strong word,” Dylan muttered, but she followed in the big quarterback’s wake. He pulled a chair out for her beside him, then he fished her a Gatorade from a cooler hidden beneath the table. Dylan accepted it politely, ignoring the way her heart jumped when his fingertips brushed hers.

  “I never drink these,” Charlie confided. “Too much sugar. But they’re a sponsor, so whenever you set it down, make sure the label’s turned out or Smitty will shit himself.”

  “Thanks…I think.” His gesture probably meant nothing, but Dylan couldn’t help but feel warm inside. It wasn’t every day the star quarterback of the Texas Teamsters invited you into a private box, pulled a chair out for you, and made sure you were hydrated. She unscrewed the cap, tipped her head back, and took a long pull, sighing with satisfaction once the edge of her thirst was quenched. He was right about the sugar, but the cool gush of artificial orange racing down her throat tasted like paradise.

  She turned the label out as instructed, and was surprised to find Charlie still watching her. Their eyes met, and for a moment Dylan thought she saw exactly what scenario he was entertaining—his victory and her gratitude beating down her resistance, culminating in an X-rated postgame romp. Her lips parted, but before she could think to denounce or encourage his line of thinking, he turned away to consult with his PR guy. Dylan assumed that was Smitty.

  She gazed around at all the extravagance and beautiful people. She couldn’t help feeling confirmed in her recent life decisions. This was the exact kind of artificial, too-public lifestyle she’d hoped to leave behind her by moving her practice out of town.

  Most of Dylan’s city friends couldn’t understand her attraction to Lockhart Bend, and Dylan didn’t blame them. The Bend, as she already affectionately named it, was small and slow and sleepy—its residents never rushed in their work, but then again, they never stopped working. Dylan admired Lockhart Bend’s own comfortable brand of industry. It came without the bells and whistles and cocktail glasses and dubiously tasteful parties, and she thought some of her best healing work lay ahead of her there.

  “Charlie!” One of the former cheerleaders dropped down into his lap and laced her arms around his neck. Charlie broke out grinning, but Smitty did the opposite. Dylan winced at the sudden, painful awareness that the man who’d dragged her in here had now forgotten her completely.

  “Veronica. Up to your old tricks,” Charlie rumbled. His lap was so wide that he continued to sign autographs even as the cheerleader kicked her legs around.

  Veronica giggled and stroked his chest. “I may have retired last season, but there’s nothing old about me.” She pulled a face. “You know, I was hoping to lead you in more than just a cheer tonight,” she murmured. She leaned in to whisper in his ear, punctuating her secret offer with a nip of her teeth, and Charlie groaned. He passed the signed autograph to Dylan and immediately refocused himself on signing another. Dylan almost spit out her Gatorade at the dismissive, almost mechanical maneuver. What the hell was she supposed to do with his autograph? Was it even meant for her, or had he simply been setting it aside?

  Are you fucking kidding me? When another autograph came her way, she added it to the pile and promptly stood. She left her Gatorade—label facing inward—and ducked out to the balcony. Fewer people were loitering out here, and decidedly no cheerleaders. Dylan pulled her cap off and rubbed her forehead.

  “Excuse me…Dr. Rose? Dr. Dylan Rose?”

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Dylan asked curiously. A small group of men gathered near the railing with drinks had paused their conversation when she stepped out. Now, they all but swarmed her in their excitement.

  “Dr. Rose! What are you doing here?” one of the younger men exclaimed.