Malcolm Winslow knew he stood out in this crowd. How could he not? With his longish, uncombed hair, thick beard, and the tattoos displayed by the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt, not to mention the fact he was armed and wore a Kevlar vest, he drew every eye the second he entered the fancy barn that was lit up like the Fourth of July.

Those closest to the open doors were the first to fall silent. Hands touched shoulders and then pointed toward him as he resolutely made his way toward the trellis constructed between horse stalls on either side of the wide space and strung with white lights and roses, where a couple in their wedding finery stood before a preacher.

A groomsman tapped the groom on the shoulder, and he tore his gaze away from his stunning bride to glance down the aisle Malcolm strode down.

The groom’s eyes widened, and he turned to his bride, dug something from his pocket, then said, “Candy, here are my keys—run!”

The groom slapped keys on her palm then straightened his shoulders and stepped in Malcolm’s path.

Malcolm gave a single shake of his head, smacked away the groom’s raised fists, then bent to ram his shoulder into the other man’s chest.

The groom flew backward as Malcolm picked up his pace and ran toward the smaller back door of the barn through which the bride had just escaped.

Outside in the dusky gloom, he caught a glimpse of bright white as the bride, Candy Bodine, almost Carmichael, climbed a corral fence. He was surprised at the number of people standing on either side of the door outside this end of the barn but didn’t have time to figure out why they were there because Candy had just jumped down from the fence to the other side, snagging her long train on a nail. She ran forward, but her train held fast, springing her backward and onto her butt on the dirt.

She rolled, tangling herself in petticoats and torn train, and got to her knees. She stared back at him as he jogged toward the fence, planted a hand on the cedar fencepost, and sailed sideways over the top. Yeah, his feet skidded a bit in horse poop when his boots hit the ground, but the bride wasn’t so pristine now either, kind of like her rap sheet.

This time, she’d failed to appear before the judge for a drunk driving/failure to yield at a stop sign/fleeing the scene set of charges. And if Malcolm had anything to say about it, she was not heading to the private airport where Daddy had a plane waiting to fly her to some resort vacation in the Caribbean. As soon as Malcolm clipped the cuffs on her wrists, she’d be spending what should’ve been the first night of her honeymoon inside the detention center in Bozeman. No amount of crocodile tears was going to dissuade him from his purpose.

He stomped toward her while two horses ran nervously up and down the fence line at the far side of the corral.

The bride pushed to her feet and reached back to magically disconnect her train from the rest of her lacy-frilly dress. Eyeing his target, Malcolm noted that, for a pretty woman, she had a rather piglike scowl.

Her glance went to the horses behind her, and Malcolm sighed. Why did skips always choose stupid over surrender? “Candy, you’re not going anywhere. Do yourself a favor and put your hands behind your back.”

“You couldn’t have let me have tonight?” she shouted. “It’s my goddamn wedding!”

“Not my call, sweetheart. I can’t let you skip the country. You should’ve worked out your court date with the judge between your cake tastings and dress fittings.”

She glanced at the horses again and took two steps backward. Then she shot a glare to the side where her fiancé stood outside the fence. “Are you just going to stand there?” she cried out, her tone shrill.

Malcolm shook his head. No one was going to help her now. Her guests and the catering staff were crowding around the fence to watch the spectacle playing out before them. Tired of waiting for her to come to her senses, he strode toward her. But she tossed her keys at him, lifted her fingers to her mouth, and let out a shrill whistle.

One of the horses grunted and ran toward her, halting within a foot of the woman. From the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw the groom unlatching the gate just as the bride gripped a handful of the horse’s mane and vaulted onto the back of the horse. With a fierce kick to the animal’s side, the bride steered her steed toward the now-open gate.

No way in hell was she escaping. He hadn’t surveilled her bridesmaids for a week to figure out where he could capture her just to lose her now. When the second horse swept past him, Malcolm gripped its mane, ignored its ear-piercing cry, and jumped onto its back, leaning over its neck as he nudged it with his heels to get it moving after the other horse.

The fiancé tried to close the gate, but another nudge of his boot had the horse slamming against it, sending the man flying back again.

As Malcolm followed the bride into the pasture, he heard a female shout behind him. “Can we get a cameraman on a horse? I need a damn horse now!”

He didn’t have time to figure out why someone would want a cameraman on a horse. What weird fucking wedding photographer would want to capture something like that? His focus was on the bright white skirt fluttering behind his target.

In the distance, he heard engines roar, likely a mule or an ATV from the sound of it. If the fiancé thought he was going to rescue her now, he obviously wasn’t thinking with his head.

Needing to distract Candy’s horse long enough for his horse to catch up, Malcolm put his fingers in his mouth and let go his own shrill whistle.

The horse ahead of him skipped on its feet and turned its head toward the sound.

Candy was leaning over its neck too far to turn with the horse and flew off its bare back, landing in a bush.

Malcolm pulled back on his horse’s mane and jumped off before it had come to a complete halt and ran toward the woman. When he reached her, he bent with his hands on his knees as he dragged in deep breaths. He glared at Candy, who was fighting her skirt again, trying to tug it away from a bush’s barbs.

“If you haven’t already guessed it,” he ground out, “I’m a Fugitive Recovery Agent, and I’m taking you to jail.”

“You fucking, low-life bounty hunter!” She gave up fiddling with her skirt and stomped her feet. “You ruined everything.”

“Have your daddy take it up with the judge. I’m sure they know each other well by now.”

“Asshole!”

He strode closer toward her, pulling his multitool from his web belt.

Her eyes widened when he flicked open the blade. “What—”

He ignored her and began hacking the dress from the bush’s barbs. The ATVs arrived just as he turned her to place the cuffs on her wrists. “Maybe if you ask one of your guests nicely, they’ll give us an ATV so we can ride back to my truck instead of you having to walk all the way back.”

An unfamiliar voice called out, “I’ll give you a ride if you sign a contract to let us use the footage.”

Malcolm blinked in surprise and looked around at a woman striding toward him. She wore her brown hair in a braid and had a makeup-free, freckled face. She held out her hand. “I’m Rachel Cabot. I was filming here with the Montana Bounty Hunters as they were getting ready to sweep into that wedding you just crashed.”

Malcolm glanced at the men and women piling out of the ATVs and groaned. He recognized many of them because he’d watched several episodes of their cable TV show. It wasn’t half bad. “I am not sharing this bounty, folks. I got her first.”

The man standing behind Rachel held up his hands. Malcolm didn’t recognize him. He might have been with the film crew or was a new hunter.

“I’m Jackson Black from MBH. We aren’t planning on horning in on your capture. Your takedown was very entertaining, by the way. That’s why Rachel’s not pissed we didn’t get to Candy first.” He tipped his hat to Candy. “Nice to meet you, by the way. Great wedding.”

Candy snarled and tried to jerk free of Malcolm’s hold on the chain between her cuffs.

“No use fighting,” Malcolm said, resting a hand on her shoulder. He was glad she didn’t know how little of her skirt in the back remained.

A very burly man stepped up behind Jackson. Malcolm recognized him instantly. This was Cage Morgan, the man in charge of the Dead Horse branch of the Montana Bounty Hunters.

Cage’s mouth curved in a crooked grin. “Malcolm Winslow, we’ll give you a ride back. And if you don’t mind, I’ll accompany you to Bozeman. I have a proposition…”

So long as that proposition didn’t entail sharing the very generous bounty Malcolm had just earned, he was willing to listen. He wasn’t surprised Cage knew his name. They’d crossed paths before during takedowns. Satisfaction filled him because he thought he had an inkling of what Cage was going to say, and frankly, Malcolm was ready for a change.