In this clip from Rocky Mountain Ride, Francesca and British Lord Jame Sebastian Chivington meet for the first time…

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While gunfire exploded at her back, Francesca wondered who the blond man was, and why he and his friends were fighting her other pursuers.

Then her horse leapt and stumbled, tossing her from the saddle. Francesca hit the ground and rolled, coming up bruised but otherwise unhurt. The horse was screaming, though, and she raced to its side, only to recoil at the sight of bone in its broken leg. With a sob, she whirled to find her gun. Better to put it out of its misery and go forth on foot, rather than risk the animal’s cries drawing more attention.

She lifted her gun from the forest floor and took aim. The shot sounded and the horse’s cries stopped, and she heard the sound of another horse, behind her.

Whirling, she came face to face with the flaxen haired man, dismounting from his stallion. He must have followed her after his calvary arrived to fend off the bandannas.

Beyond him, in the woods, she could hear sounds of a gunfight.

“Don’t shoot,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

Backing into the bracken, she shook her head. He would not take her alive. Her heart pounded as she raised the gun, pointing it at him.

“No,” the man shouted, lunging for her. She recognized him then; the lanky blond from the bar. He’d followed her all this way.

Her eyes closed as she took the shot. To her horror, the empty barrel clicked its terrible announcement: no more bullets. The man tackled her and drove her to the ground.

She found with everything she had, thrashing even as the man grabbed for her wrists. He wrestled to her back, his long length weighing her down.

“Hell and damnation,” he growled. “I told you I meant no harm.”

“Get off of me,” she screeched, and tried to claw his face.

When he didn’t let go of her she bit his wrist.

He bellowed, flipping her over and resting a knee on her back.

“My lady, you will desist,” he ordered in his crisp accent. “This is a rescue. I am attempting chivalry—”

“Liar! Let me go!” she shrieked, thrashing and kicking as she tried to get away.

“Not while you’re bloody trying to kill me!” He caught her arms and shifted more of his weight onto her back, effectively pinning her.

She rattled out a string of Spanish curses, and then felt a gust of air on her legs. The man was drawing up her skirts.

“Stop fighting and listen.” He punctuated each word with a resounding slap, and even through her drawers, she felt the sting.

It only made her struggle harder.

“Help,” she screamed.

“I am helping you,” he roared, unleashing a volley of smacks on her poor bottom.

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