She wriggled in a game effort to free herself from his grip. He grinned at the wasted attempt. He’d wrestled cows ten times her weight or more. This little slip of a thing didn’t stand a chance of getting away until he was good and ready to let her go. He didn’t plan on that happening anytime soon. Not until he had the answers he wanted, anyway.

“Must be just fine, if you can struggle like that,” he concluded out loud. “Any particular reason you decided to steal my truck?”

“I was tired of walking,” she shot back.

“Did you ever consider a bike?”

“Not fast enough,” she muttered, her gaze defiantly clashing with his.

“You had someplace to get to in a hurry?”

She shrugged.

Harlan had to fight to hide a grin. He’d always been a big admirer of audacity, though he preferred it to be a little better directed. “What’s your name?”

She frowned and for the first time began to look faintly uneasy. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Harlan Adams. I own White Pines. That’s a ranch just outside of town.” If she was local, that would be plenty of explanation to intimidate her. If she wasn’t, he could elaborate until he had her quivering with fear in her dusty sneakers for pulling a stunt like the one that had ended with his pickup wrapped around a tree.

“Big deal,” she retorted, then let loose a string of expletives.

She either wasn’t local or it was going to take a lot more to impress her with the stupidity of what she’d done. “You have a foul mouth, you know that?” he observed.

“So?”

“I’ll just bet you don’t talk that way around your mama.”

The mention of her mother stirred an expression of pure alarm on her delicate features. Harlan sensed that he’d hit the nail on the head. This ragamuffin kid with the sleek black hair cut as short as a boy’s, with the high cheekbones and tanned complexion, might not be afraid of him, but she was scared to death of her mother. He considered it a hopeful sign. He was very big on respect for parental authority, not that he’d noticed his grown-up sons paying the concept much mind lately.

“You’re not going to tell her, are you?” she asked, clearly trying to keep the worry out of her voice and failing miserably. For the first time since she’d climbed out of his truck, she sounded her age.

“Now why would I want to keep quiet about the fact that you stole my truck and slammed it into a tree?”

A resurgence of belligerence glinted in her eyes. “Because she’ll sue you for pain and suffering. I’m almost positive I’ve got a whiplash injury,” she said, rubbing at her neck convincingly. “Probably back problems that’ll last the rest of my life, too.”