Want to read for FREE?

Download from Macy or Buy the Auction Night Bundle

Prefer your usual bookstore?
(Free at most; Amazon's being contrary)

Book #1 in Wild Rose Mountain K-9 Rescue

Dancing with the Ex-Military Mountain Man

I storm in with a paintball gun aiming for justice. He dances me into his arms and refuses to let go.

I drag my brother to Ramsey’s Roadhouse to fix the humiliating prank he pulled on an innocent woman. I do not expect to catch the eye—and the full, heated attention—of Tigg Ramsey, the owner. Six-foot-five. Tattooed. Ex-Marine. And now determined to keep me!

He doesn’t flinch at my limp or scars. Doesn’t pity me either, and I’m helpless against his rough brand of charm. Then he vows I’m the strongest woman he’s ever met and proves his strength by lifting me into his arms and dancing me across the floor as if my body weighs nothing. For the first time since the accident that stole my ballet career, I feel weightless again. Free.

“You were made to fly, angel,” he murmurs, spinning us through the crowd. “And I’m never letting you hit the ground again.”

One dance floor. One starlit night on his rooftop.

And suddenly I’m ready to let the mountain man claim me any way he wants.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

REVIEWS

"Tigg was knocked sideways when Marley burst through the door like an avenging angel. He is all in now he just has to get her onboard. It’s sweet and steamy but this novella has plenty of heart too! Absolutely loved it!! Can’t wait to read more in this series."
— 5-star BookBub review

"Just loved this outstanding ebook. This truly exceptional author will have your interest from the beginning with witty conversations, a former marine, and a pet called Mouse. ...I absolutely recommend this outstanding sizzling passionate blazing hot 5⭐️hit. It's so good you won't want to stop reading it. You'll really love it. I sure did."
— 5-star BookBub review

"Dancing with the Ex-Military Mountain Man by Macy West is sweet, fiery, and incredibly uplifting in all the best ways. ...this story delivers protective devotion, sizzling chemistry, and one unforgettable dance scene that completely melted my heart...it’s one of those moments that sticks with you long after the book ends.

What I loved most was how quickly and fully Tigg commits emotionally. If you love ex-military mountain men, insta-love done right, protective alpha heroes, strong women rebuilding after loss, dance-floor romance, and stories where someone falls first and never once looks back, Dancing with the Ex-Military Mountain Man is such a satisfying read. Fast-paced, heartfelt, and beautifully affirming, this romance reminds readers that sometimes the right person doesn’t just catch you when you fall — they help you fly again."
— 5-star BookBub review

★ ★ ★ ★ ★

EXCERPT

Chapter 1 - MARLEY

My younger brother’s laughter echoes through his partially open bedroom door. “And get a load of this,” Mikey says. “I changed her cookies to nookie! Can you believe it?” 

At the crude smugness in his voice, I freeze outside his room, hugging the clean laundry I’ve just folded to my chest. Neatly folded clothing he’ll mess up in a nanosecond, cramming into drawers or dropping on the floor. 

“Hell yeah, I did! Nobody even noticed when I printed them off. Can’t believe how easy it was. Daphne’s holiday cookies are now Daphne’s famous spicy nookie. Classic, huh?” His self-satisfied laughter makes me sick to my stomach.

Daphne?

My hands white-knuckle around the laundry basket. It’s got to be Daphne Baker. He’s ridiculing her, all over again. The sweet lady who runs Gimme Some Sugar Bakery with her sisters. The young woman who’s already dealt with enough rumors and cruel jokes from high school—that disgusting cherry-popping challenge those idiot boys ran years ago, my brother in the thick of it.

And the fucker just dredged it all back up again.

Cookies to nookie? Seriously?

He’s not finished bragging. Not finished laughing and slapping himself on the back like he’s brilliant. I know better.

“No one will even notice until it’s too late,” he crows into his phone. “It’ll be right there in black and white, first item up for auction. Daphne Baker’s Famous Spicy Nookie! Man, I wish I could see her face when they read it out!”

The more he keeps cackling, the more I remember the rumors that circled around Daphne, and the more I doubt the accuracy of the past—hers at least. Mine? I’d rather not think about it.

I take two steps into his room and drop the laundry basket. The thunk makes him pause, but I’m already on the move. I march straight to his closet, my right leg dragging slightly as it tends to if I forget to concentrate on my gait. Right now? The only thing I’m concentrating on is anger.

I grab his paintball rifle, the one with the bullet pellet thingies and whatever shoots the paintball splatter things out. Still attached. Satisfaction thrums through me when I grip it tight. I’d gone with him once or twice a couple years ago; that was enough for me given how hard it is for me to get around, but I know how to operate a weapon. A lot of girls in Texas do.

In seconds, I’ve got the rifle aimed at him, and I’m giving orders like nobody’s business.

“Get. Off. The. Phone.” Each word punctuated by a nudge of the barrel against his shoulder.

Mikey’s eyes go wide, cell still plastered to his ear. “Gotta go,” he mutters, and disconnects.

“What the hell, Marley?” he asks, trying to sound indignant but coming off more like a caught-with-his-hand-in-the-cookie-jar five-year-old. “That thing loaded?”

“What do you think?” I cock an eyebrow at him. “Did you really change Daphne’s listing for tonight’s auction?”

The flyers for the charity auction benefiting the K-9 Mountain Rescue have been all over town the past couple of weeks, so at least I’m not in the dark about what he’s jawing about.

His face does that thing it always has since we were kids—shades of guilt, quickly covered by bravado. “It’s just a joke.”

“A joke?” My voice comes out sharp enough to carve marble. “You’re bringing up that horrible virginity-bet crap from years ago, making sexual innuendos about a woman who’s done nothing to deserve it, and you think it’s funny?”

“Come on, Marl, it’s—”

“You realize that’s sexual harassment, right? Actually, pretty sure it’s defamation. Legally actionable.” I’m quoting crime procedurals here, really have no clue what I’m saying, but I think it sounds good. “But even if it weren’t, it’s cruel. Plain and simple.”

“Nobody will even notice—”

“Get. Up.” I gesture toward the door with the rifle. “We’re going to Wild Rose. Right now. You’re going to stop that program from being distributed, and if it’s too late, you’re going to apologize. Publicly.”

He crosses his arms. “Make me.”

Challenge accepted, asshole. 

I aim the rifle just over his shoulder. “Don’t make me shoot. I will splatter paint all over your precious gaming setup. Probably break the monitor while I’m at it.” I know how bad these things can bruise if you aren’t wearing the right protective equipment.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Watch me.” Maybe knowing I’d never be blessed with babies of my own made me feel more motherly toward my twin brother than sisterly. Whatever it was, if I had the physical strength to enforce it, I’d take away his phone and computer and ground his sorry ass. As it was, I’d settle for seeing him apologize. “You’ve got five seconds to get in the truck. Or you can explain to Mom and Dad what happened to your setup here.”

Fortunately, that’s enough to at least get him moving.

“You are such a bitch sometimes.”

“And you’re ten minutes younger than me but act ten years behind. Guess we both have our crosses to bear. Get your keys. We’re going.”

He does as instructed, grumbling the whole time about not having dinner yet and how long the drive is going to be and blah blah blah. 

For a split second, I almost feel bad. Then I think of innocent Daphne Baker, donating her time in baked goods, only to be humiliated. Again.

“It’s too far,” Mikey complains as we head outside to his truck.

“Less than an hour to Wild Rose,” I respond.

“Just barely.”

“Don’t be such a whiner. Time to grow up. You did something wrong. Now take responsibility for it.”

Once inside the truck, he balks, not wanting to start the engine. I grip the paintball rifle tighter. Truth be told, I’m not a fan of riding with him either. He’d been driving that fateful night, even though the other driver was at fault and not Mikey. Déjà vu hits hard anytime I climb into the passenger seat with him at the wheel. No help for it, not if he’s gonna be forced to do the right thing.

“It’s just a harmless prank,” he tries again, key hovering near the ignition.

“Tell that to Daphne when you see her tonight. And hope it’s in time to prevent her from being publicly humiliated. Like you intended.” Yeah, that reminder fires up my irritation all over again. No room for sympathy. “Start driving.”

“You’re overreacting. I’ll call the Roadhouse, tell them there was a misprint—”

I don’t have time for any more of his bullshit complaints.

Boom!

Splat. I fire, hitting the roof of his truck right above his head. Paint splatters, then gravity takes over. Yellow liquid glops satisfyingly on top of his hair, starts dripping down one side of his face.

“Marley! What the fuck?” He ducks, hands over his head.

“Next one hits your face.” It’s an empty threat, but he doesn’t know it. Not after what I’ve just done. “Start. The. Truck.”

Mikey does, glaring at me, yellow paint streaking through his hair like some demented highlight job.

“Now drive, unless you want more to clean up.” I lift the muzzle just enough to make my point.

With a dramatic sigh worthy of a teenage drama queen—not a twenty-four-year-old man—Mikey pulls out of our driveway.

“I was going to fix it anyway,” he mutters, but we both know that’s a lie.

Less than three minutes later, we’re speeding up the mountain highway, Mikey with drizzles of yellow paint decorating his hair, cheek, and one shoulder, me with the paintball gun resting across my lap. My leg and hip ache from the awkward position but I ignore it like I’ve taught myself to do.

Just because my body made me give up my dreams doesn’t mean I have to give up, ever.

Time to set things right.

Chapter 2 - TIGG

Not three hours ago, I was lounging on my couch, half dozing, Mouse perched on my chest, sharp claws digging in as she swished her fluffy tail in my face ahead of opening.

Now? Now I’m watching the hottest woman I’ve ever had the fortune to behold blast her way into my roadhouse, and my head.

She comes roaring through the door like a one-woman army, marching some paint-splattered kid at riflepoint straight toward the stage. 

I’ve been leaning against the bar, nursing my beer and keeping an eye on tonight’s charity auction. Since Mustang Phillips abandoned his emcee duties to spirit away Daphne Baker—after that whole program fiasco—we’ve been improvising. Never expected Jacob Tillotson to step in with such enthusiasm, though six beers have turned the normally stoic mountain recluse into a surprisingly entertaining auctioneer.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea as the female prods her prisoner forward. Dried yellow paint has dripped down the side of the kid’s face and into his collar. Damn, that had to have smarted. Could’ve been dangerous too. I should have a word with her about gun safety.

Later.

First, I just want to bask in her fierceness.

She’s slender, willowy, with long limbs and the kind of natural grace that comes from good genes or etiquette training, despite the severe limp that accompanies every step. Yeah, next to the paintball rifle, it’s the limp I notice most.

Most people would probably think of it as a flaw, a disability. Me? All I see is her strength shining through. That and a place of survival not everyone is fortunate enough to reach.

My sister, Rachelle, had a similar injury. A bad limp. But unlike this gun-toting angel storming through my bar, Chelle never found her way back. Never found the kind of courage this woman’s showing right now.

The blonde can’t be more than twenty-four, twenty-five tops. Straight hair, caught in a puffy band at the nape of her neck and hanging long, drapes over one shoulder. She’s wearing a lightweight dress that shows off legs that go on for days, and—oddly enough—a pair of heavy-duty combat boots. The contradiction makes my mouth quirk up at one corner.

An angel in combat boots. What are the odds?

But it’s the fierce set of her jaw, the righteous fury she projects that has me half-hard in my jeans. Who the hell is she?

She reaches the stage, and I hear her hiss, “Get up there. Quit stalling and tell ’em all what you did, you sorry son of a bitch.”

Whoa. My soon-to-be lady’s got a mouth on her. Hope she’s not taken. It’d be bad form if I have to start our life together by taking some dude out.

But I would. Because I feel it in my bones—and my boner—this ethereal beauty’s meant to be mine.

I wonder if there’s any way a big ol’ former Marine, one who lives with demons in his soul, could manage to tempt an angel?

I step forward. Need to be closer to her. Need to smell her.

Jacob’s already more drunk than not, given the shit show of the past hour. He’s standing on stage, mic dangling by his leg, confusion written all over his face.

The paint-splattered kid—boy, really, probably early twenties (God, to be that young again)—climbs the steps like he’s facing an execution.

“Give him the microphone,” I holler to Jacob.

“I—I work at the print shop.” The kid’s voice cracks. “I changed the programs. Changed Daphne’s cookies to...to something else. As a joke.”

“A piss-poor one,” my angel snaps at him, motioning with that paint gun for him to get on with it.

“It was bad form,” the guy says. “I’m sorry.”

Sorry he got caught, I figure. Not so sure he’s sorry he did it. Looks like she isn’t convinced either, but before she can tell him off any more, the crowd erupts. Whistles and angry shouts and a chorus of booooooos rattle the rafters. A couple of assholes cheer, but they shut up quick when I stand and shoot them a look that could freeze lava. Just as quickly I swing back to the woman.

Despite the near-deafening noise, I can’t keep my eyes off her. Avenging angel was right, one sent to deliver justice.

She’s finally lowered the gun, satisfaction on her face. “You better find Daphne next,” she tells him, “and apologize to her directly. I’ll be waiting in the truck.”

Then she’s turning to leave—

Oh, hell no.

I’m moving before I think, cutting my way through the crowd toward her. Her limp is more pronounced now, exhaustion maybe, but she pushes forward with a determined stride that makes me want to drop to my knees in worship. Or lift her into my arms and carry her somewhere quiet where I can unwind that golden hair and—

Focus, Marine.

I reach her before she makes it very far, my outstretched hand hovering near her elbow but not touching. Not yet.

“You can’t leave,” I say, and it comes out like it would if she was a recruit I was training.

She turns, startled gray eyes meeting mine. For a split second, she looks ready to raise that paintball rifle again.

“Um, say what now?” she asks, dark blonde eyebrow raised.

“You just got here.”

“My brother apologized. That’s all I came for.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping you’d stay. Have a drink, my treat. Let me thank you proper for what you just did.”

A spark lights in her eyes—interest? amusement?—as she studies me, her eyes roving up and down. I’m a big guy, everywhere you look, and it takes her a while to take in everything. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Robert Ramsey. Most folks call me Tigg. Now tell me yours.”

“Bossy much?” Her lips quirk, and I want to taste them more than my next breath.

“Out of practice.”

Chapter 3 - MARLEY

I’m halfway to the door when a wall of muscle blocks my path.

I look up. And up. And up.

The man is huge. Six foot five at least, with a slab of boulder for a chest, impressive shoulders, and muscular arms that look like they could bench-press me a couple dozen times without him ever breaking a sweat. His silver-threaded black hair is scraped back off his face. His face? It’s big too. Tan and carved from granite. Scowling beneath beard scruff, piercing green eyes devouring.

I gulp. Lose the stare-off and focus back on his arms. Oh shit. Am I drooling?

So. Many. Muscles. And tats, partially visible below the short, stretched-to-the-max black sleeve of his T-shirt lovingly molded to biceps worthy of their own ode. Or hell, epic poem.

“You can’t leave,” he says like it’s a foregone conclusion. I think he’s about to touch me, but he jerks his arm back.

“Um, say what now?” I manage, despite how flustered and tongue-tied his abrupt approach makes me. But then I actually look into his eyes, really look, and any resolve to resist goes all soft and gooey.

“You just got here.”

“My brother apologized. That’s all I came for.”

“That’s a shame.” He steps closer, the heat from his body warming the space between us. “I was hoping you’d stay. Have a drink, my treat. Let me thank you proper for what you just did.”

This gorgeous mountain of a man wants to buy me a drink? My inner vixen, whom I didn’t even know existed until this moment, purrs with delight.

I mean, can she help it? The breadth of his shoulders. The way his black T-shirt stretches across his mile-wide chest. The corded muscles lining his neck. The hot intensity of his eyes.

Everything about him screams hot and sexy and—shockingly—interested in me. “I don’t even know your name,” I say, amazed I can sound so normal when my insides are a series of jeté en tournants.

“Robert Ramsey. Most folks call me Tigg. Now tell me yours.”

“Bossy much?” I can’t help but retort.

Holy hell. Is this flirting? Omigosh! I actually think this might be flirting.

It’s understandable that I wouldn’t know, given how dedicated a dancer I was during my younger years, and how consumed with learning to walk again during my prime dating ones.

“Out of practice,” he confesses and it’s practically a snarl.

I almost laugh at how frustrated he looks. “You really want me to stay?”

“I really do.”

“And you expect me to believe you’re out of practice? You?” This man oozes more masculine sexuality than I’ve ever come in contact with. And something about the way he issues orders totally reminds me of my dad’s military bearing. I debate asking whether he served but he beats me to it, issuing more statements. More orders.

“Haven’t cared much lately, about anything but work. Certainly not about dating nonsense.” Dating nonsense? Now that sounds like the truth. “But I care right now. Don’t want you leaving yet.”

Truth or not, he mentally disarms me. Intrigues me. 

Intrigue? Is that what you call sweltering insides and lusty longing now? 

Lust! Holy cow, that is what I’m feeling. And it loosens my lips. “Marley Everson.”

“Well, Marley Everson, how about you stay for the evening? The live auction’s just getting underway, after that program snafu. Plus there’s a silent auction in the back room. We can see if there’s anything there you want.” His eyes never leave mine. “Unless you’re afraid of big men who can’t stop staring at beautiful women who storm into their bar with paintball guns.”

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside me, a place that hasn’t felt much joy lately. “That’s quite a line.”

“Not a line if it’s true.” He says it so casually, so matter-of-fact, part of me wants to believe him. He thinks I’m beautiful? With my limp and all? “Your brother’s not welcome here anymore,” he continues, glancing back at Mikey who’s been escorted off the stage by two men I don’t know. “But you? I’d very much like you to stay.”

“I’m so sorry about that.” I shift my weight, pain shooting through my bad leg. I try not to wince.

His gaze drops to my booted foot, then returns to my face. There’s no way he’d know I have both a small riser inside my boot as well as an external lift added to the sole, helping to compensate for the discrepancy in leg length. So why is he so fascinated with my footwear?

I stare at him, trying to gauge how sincere his interest but can’t find any pity in those green eyes. Just understanding, maybe? He reaches out, one finger lightly touching my bare arm several inches above where I’m holding on to the paintball rifle. The contact sends a thrill zipping through my veins, making me forget all about shoe lifts and the gnawing ache in my hip.

“No need.” His lips curve slightly upward. I wonder for a second if his face is gonna crack; I get the impression he doesn’t smile a lot. “You did more than enough, marching the culprit straight in, getting him to fess up. You saved us the hassle of tracking him down.”

I glance to the side where the two men are, none too gently, hustling Mikey through the crowd. “Are, umm, they going to beat him up?” 

“What do you think? Or better yet, want?” He looks over my head and makes eye contact with someone, jerks his chin up, and I scamper around him to see the men flanking Mikey pause. Wow. This guy has some serious pull around here.

“You’re asking me?”

“I am, Marley Everson. You may not be responsible for his actions, but he is your brother. You tell me. Has he learned his lesson?”

“I-I don’t know,” I answer in a whisper that he has to lean down to hear. Now I’m fighting the urge to pet those biceps. Would they feel as hard as they look? “I’d like to say yes, but then again, I’d like to think he wouldn’t have done it in the first place. But he did. And he bragged about it. That’s how I knew, overheard the boasting...”

My words dwindle to nothing as I realize that realistically, no. No, I don’t think Mikey has learned his lesson. But is it my job to give permission for someone to beat him to a pulp? I can’t exactly condone that either.

Mr. Mountain-of-a-Man picks up on my indecision. He picks up me too. Literally. Grasps me under my arms and lifts me, swings me up and away from the crowded audience area, takes several long strides, and places me on a barstool at one end of the long counter. 

I gasp, partly from the shock of being manhandled so effortlessly, partly from the raw display of strength, and partly—if I’m being honest with myself—from the sheer, overwhelming thrill of it.

“Here’s an idea,” he begins in his deep rumble, and I just want to close my eyes and lean back against his chest, listen to him talk for hours. “Let me go have a chat with Mikey. A talk, words, not fists, I promise. A warning, if you will. You’ll stay.” Why is it that sounds like a command and I just want to whimper and obey? “I’ll take you home later, send him on his way once I’m done—having words.”

Hmmm. And why is it I’m not 100% certain, given the way he says it, that “words” actually doesn’t mean knuckles or bruises?

More, why aren’t I panicking? One good swing, and this guy could knock Mikey all the way into Oklahoma.

“Stay?” I ponder out loud, letting my gaze depart from his to sail over the interior of the restaurant/bar/dance hall. I pass it plenty of times, heading to the interstate, but I’ve never been inside. It’s gargantuan—kinda like he is?—with big wooden beams crisscrossing overhead, warm golden lights strung around them and giving the place a cozy feeling despite how it feels like it could double as a football field.  Two- and four-person tables dot the perimeter and loads of chairs have been lined up in rows for tonight’s auction (I should know, after just forging my way straight down the middle aisle). Probably half the crowd has a drink in their hand, a good fourth of them are eating, with waitstaff bustling to and fro. But all I can think about is the arm-porn of the muscled giant who wants me to stay. 

After he has words with my lunkhead of a brother. “But he’s my ride. We live in Crystal Springs.”

“Not a problem.” Geez, he sounds so certain, so confident.

“I know your name, Robert Tigg Ramsey, but who are you?”

Why has he taken such an interest in me?

“Master Sergeant Robert Ramsey, USMC, retired. Former close combat instructor at the Marine Corps Martial Arts Center of Excellence, current Rose County resident and owner of Ramsey’s Roadhouse.” Two thoughts hit me at once: he owns this place and he did serve! No wonder he issues every statement like he expects immediate compliance. “You want references?”

I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. “No, thank you, but thank you for offering. Okay.”

“Okay?”

I give him a sharp nod before I change my mind because I’m giving him permission for more than just chastising Mikey for being an imbecile. With that tacit agreement, I’m volunteering to spend more time with him. To actually let him drive me home. That’s a huge step for me. “Go threaten, no fists.”

“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”

And big, burly Master Sergeant Tigg Ramsey struts off, motioning to the two men with Mikey and they all head toward the front door. And all I can do is watch how the denim of the jeans he’s wearing cups his ass and let out a little whimper at the thought of petting that too.

You’ve lost your mind, Marley. Completely lost it.

But as I sit there, perched on the barstool like some rare bird that’s been placed on display, I can’t bring myself to care. Not when my skin still tingles where he touched me. Not when my body still remembers the sensation of being lifted as if I weighed nothing at all.

It’s been a long time since I felt anything but broken. A long time since anyone looked at me and saw something other than a crippled ex-ballerina. But the way he looked at me...

Like I was whole. Desirable, even.

And God help me, I want more of that feeling. I want it so much I can taste it.

Keep reading for FREE

Download from Macy or Buy the Auction Night Bundle

Prefer your usual bookstore?

Amazon US  •  Amazon AU  •  Amazon CA  •  Amazon UK  •  Apple Books  •  Barnes and Noble  •  Google Play  •  Kobo  •  Smashwords