Rugged Rockclimber (River's End Ranch Book 8) Read online

  “I worked ten- and eleven-hour days. Having a pet would be the opposite of responsibility.”

  Unfortunately, she heard the part of that sentence he hadn’t wanted her to hear. “Why the past tense? Don’t you work anymore?”

  Jace reached for the radio, and forced a light tone. “Hey, what kind of music do you like to listen to?” he asked, turning on his favorite station before she had a chance to respond.

  She snorted at his attempt to change the subject, but obligingly listened to eight minutes of Gustav Holst’s Jupiter in silence while Jace followed Highway 95 north towards Riston. But when the announcer came on and introduced the next selection—Hector Berlioz’s Rob Roy Overture—she groaned aloud.

  “Okay, my turn.” And she reached for the dial. Jace’s hand twitched to slap her hand away—this was his car, so he controlled the music—but stopped himself last-minute. Anything to keep her from asking anymore probing questions.

  Unfortunately, that meant he was stuck listening to ten minutes of classic rock. It wasn’t horrible, but her enthusiastic singing and air-guitaring were pretty ridiculous.

  When he couldn’t stand it anymore—he was afraid he’d start laughing and drive them both off the shoulder—he switched it back to his classical station. She only lasted through five minutes of Chopin’s Nocturnes before she turned it back to Def Leppard.

  Their war for the radio station was silent, except when she was singing. Each just turned it when they couldn’t stand the other’s tastes…but as the afternoon grew longer and they got closer to Riston, those interludes were becoming shorter and shorter. Soon he could only last one song before grabbing for the tuner, and she was snorting with impatience during his Rachmaninov. When Don McLean’s American Pie came on—which lasted forever, as far as Jace was concerned—he insisted on the full 1812 Overture from Tchaikovsky.

  After that, though, Dink didn’t turn it back to the classic rock station right away. Instead, she flipped through the tuner, until a shriek blared from the SUV’s speakers. Jace winced, expecting her to flip past the static, and was surprised when she settled back in her seat.

  That’s when he realized: it wasn’t static. It was music, or some approximation. Those were bagpipes. Taking his eyes from the road, he swung his stunned gaze on her. Surely she’d change the channel, right?

  But no, she sat there, a smug look on her face like she’d won their little contest, and he fought down the urge to snap at her. Instead he concentrated on driving once more. “Rock and roll was bad enough, but this?”

  “This is fine music, in some cultures.”

  Jace gritted his teeth. “Then those cultures don’t know much about music, do they?”

  “Don’t be intolerant. It’s my turn to choose the radio station.”

  Intolerant? Did she see him? He wasn’t intolerant… he’d spent a lifetime of dealing with intolerance. Instead of pointing that out and risking more questions, Jace swallowed his first retort, and his second. When he thought that he was calm enough, he set his jaw and ground out, “I think I hate you.”

  Her reply was breezy and irreverent, just like her. “The feeling is mutual, I’m sure.”

  Four minutes of bagpipes, and Jace felt like a swarm of bees had crawled in through his ears to create a hive inside his head. When the players stopped for a breath, he turned the radio off completely.

  The drive to Riston was a silent one, but for the best. If they couldn’t agree on a radio station, then they couldn’t be trusted to talk about anything politely. They were just too dissimilar. She was…well, she dyed her hair and pierced her ears more than necessary and wore those boots that looked like slippers and probably drank her tea out of lumpy mugs she considered “artsy”.

  And he… he was an accountant.

  They couldn’t be more different. But they were stuck working together until next Saturday, and he’d already agreed to Will that he’d do whatever he could to help Dink with the wedding prep. It was too bad they couldn’t seem to see eye-to-eye on anything…it would make for a long week.

  No matter how pretty she was, no matter how much her puckish little grins flustered him, no matter how much he wondered what her legs felt like under those garish pants—could they even be considered pants?—Jace had to admit the truth.

  The only thing they could agree on was their mutual dislike for each other.

  Dink Redfern wasn’t for him. She’d never be for someone like him.

  The River’s End Ranch series:

  Short-Order Sheriff

  Veterinarian’s Vacation

  Accidental Agent

  Whitewater Wooing

  Honest Horseman

  Ranch’s Retreat

  Charming Chef

  About Amelia C. Adams

  Amelia C. Adams is a wife, a mother, and a novelist. She spends her days dreaming up stories and her nights writing them down. Her biggest hero is her husband, and you might just see bits and pieces of him as you read her novels.

  She loves all things historical and enjoys learning about days gone by, but she's glad she was born more recently (she won't say how recently or not recently) because the Internet is awesome, and she's glad she doesn't have to wash her clothes by hand in a galvanized tub. She has hit Amazon bestseller status twice, once for A Clean Slate and once for A Clear Hope.

  You can reach Amelia at [email protected].

  Please join Amelia on her website to learn more about her, sign up for her newsletter, stay on top of news and upcoming releases, and follow her on Facebook.

  The Kansas Crossroads Series:

  A New Beginning

  A Free Heart

  The Dark and the Dawn

  A Clean Slate

  A Clear Hope

  The Whisper of Morning

  A Careless Wind

  A Narrow Road

  The Bitter and the Sweet

  The Calm of Night

  A Begrudging Bride

  The Nurses of New York series:

  Sea of Strangers

  Cause of Conflict

  Touch of Tenderness

  Heart of Hearts

  The American Mail-Order Brides series:

  Hope: Bride of New Jersey

  Tabitha: Bride of Missouri

  The Hearts of Nashville series:

  Whiskey and Women

  As part of the Brides of Beckham series by Kirsten Osbourne:

  Mail Order Molly