And this was just like a tornado—without the lashing rain. He sat inside his toasty warm Ram truck, watching the snow and ice that pummeled his windshield. An eighty-mile-an-hour wind sliced across the rest stop, and the truck rocked under the assault. “Hell, when is this gonna let up?” His mutter was all but swallowed by the shriek of the wind. After forty hours of being stranded on the interstate just outside Oklahoma City, he was pretty damn sick of his own company. Who’d a thought a freak snowstorm in March could incapacitate the entire region? A hundred miles slowed to a halt. Thing was, the rest stop was bursting with other marooned cowboys on the rodeo circuit, along with their wives, groupies, horse wranglers, and even an Uncle Jeb or two. Which was why Trace liked the confines of his truck and travel trailer just fine. A dark blob suddenly appeared against the blinding white of the blizzard. Dumbass people were still walking around in this?
