Reckless Hearts

The first time Eleanor Whitmore met Sheriff James Calloway, he arrested her.

Granted, she had punched a man in the face at the town saloon, but the bastard had deserved it. Calloway, however, hadn’t cared about the insult that had flown from the man’s whiskey-soaked mouth, nor the way Eleanor’s blood had boiled at the mention of her family.

He had simply dragged her out of the saloon and into the street like a sack of grain, ignoring her cursing, her thrashing, and her threats to make his life a living hell.

“You can’t just go around hitting people,” he had said, locking her in a cell.

“I can if they insult my family,” she had snapped, gripping the iron bars.

That was two years ago.

Since then, she and Calloway had been at constant odds. If there was trouble in town, she was somehow involved—whether it was chasing off land thieves, bargaining with traders, or defending her family’s ranch from men who thought a single woman couldn’t run it. And every time, Calloway was there, arms crossed, telling her to stay out of it.

Tonight, though, he wasn’t just in her way—he was standing between her and the only family she had left.

The storm raged around them, rain slamming into the dirt road, washing away the lantern light that flickered weakly against the darkness. Thunder cracked like a gunshot in the sky, and lightning illuminated Calloway’s face—jaw clenched, eyes set, body tense like a coiled spring.

“You’re not going after him alone,” he said, voice barely audible over the howling wind.

“My brother is out there,” Eleanor hissed, shoving past him toward her horse. “I don’t have time for a damn argument.”

“You don’t even know where they took him!” Calloway shot back, grabbing her wrist before she could climb into the saddle. “Charging into a storm, half-blind and desperate, is how people get killed.”

“I’d rather die trying than sit on my hands while he’s in trouble.”

Calloway exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You are the most reckless—”

“And you are the most insufferable—”

They glared at each other, lightning flashing between them like a warning.

Eleanor could feel her pulse in her throat, a mix of fury, fear, and something else—something dangerously close to the way his hand still lingered on her wrist, warm despite the rain.

For two years, they had fought like this. For two years, she had convinced herself that her irritation with Sheriff James Calloway was nothing more than justified hatred.

Then why did his touch make her breath hitch? Why did his eyes—dark as the stormy sky—send a shiver down her spine?

“I don’t need you to save me, Calloway,” she said, wrenching her wrist free.

His jaw tightened. “Damn it, Eleanor.”

Before she could react, he reached for her again—only this time, he didn’t stop at her wrist.

His hands gripped her waist, pulled her forward, and then his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t gentle. It was heated, demanding, a clash of fire and fury, much like every interaction they had ever had.

And Eleanor? She kissed him back.

She hated him. She wanted to throttle him half the time.

But God help her, she wanted him just as much.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as the rain drenched them both. The world around them—the storm, the danger, the town—faded into nothing. It was just him, just her, just the fire burning between them.

Calloway pulled back first, his breath ragged, his forehead resting against hers.

“Still don’t like you,” Eleanor whispered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Calloway let out a breathless laugh. “Good.” His hand brushed against her cheek. “Wouldn’t know what to do with you otherwise.”

She swallowed hard, forcing her mind to snap back to reality. This didn’t change anything. Her brother was still missing, and the Delgado gang still had him.

“I’m going after him,” she said, voice firmer now.

Calloway nodded. “I know.”

“But I suppose,” she added reluctantly, “if you insist on being impossible, you can come with me.”

His lips twitched in amusement, but he simply swung onto his horse.

“Let’s ride, Whitmore.”

Lightning flashed as they galloped into the storm, side by side.

Maybe she still hated him. Maybe he still drove her absolutely insane.

But maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind it so much anymore.