Chasing Freedom (Willow Creek Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Abigail

Ican’t believe I’m actually here.

Montana.

1,902 miles from the hell I grew up in.

New York City will never see me again. It doesn’t matter what happens from here on out. I’m never going back there.

I won’t.

I’ve dreamed of a life out west since I was a girl.

Something about it, despite the fact that I’ve never been here a day in my life, has always called to me.

The mountains. The wide open spaces. The fresh air.

The animals. The cowboys. And it’s finally in my grasp.

It doesn’t matter how I got here. Only that I’m finally here.

I’ll be damned if I’m not going to make the most of it.

I thought the moment I was confined within the walls of that plane, the sense of panic that’s been my constant companion since I was traded like cattle would intensify tenfold.

But the second those wheels left the runway and the pressure built between my ears, the pressure that had been pushing down on my chest evaporated into thin air. I finally felt like I could breathe.

And now, as I walk through Billings-Logan International Airport, I can see it in front of me. Just out of reach but close enough that I can sense its warmth coat my skin.

Freedom.

I just have to fight for it.

Fight, Anya. Chase it down and fight for it.

No. Abigail.

I’m Abigail, now. Anya is gone. Forever forgotten in the sand along Brighton Beach. Anya Akimov let life happen to her. But Abigail Adams… Well, she’s going to build a life she’s always dreamt of.

And it all starts now.

As I wait for my duffle bag, filled with items that aren’t mine, items that I only have thanks to Joe and her men, I set my backpack on the ground in front of me.

Opening it, I quickly unzip the small pocket inside, confirming, for what must be the twentieth time since they dropped me off at JFK, that the credit card to my new bank account Sebastian set up for me, along with my new phone and ID, are still safely tucked inside.

Running my fingers along the inanimate objects, I look up and say one last silent prayer to whoever is out there that Dante and Enzo were there the other night.

I didn’t plan on the two of them saving me when I ran from that house, but I ran anyway.

And I would have kept running too. I would have run until the last breath left my body.

Because anything would have been better than being trapped for one more moment in that house, in that life, with them.

Now, because the universe is finally on my side, and because I met Joe and her men, I have a second chance.

The baggage carousel starts moving, signaling our flight’s bags are on their way, so I quickly zip my backpack and throw it back over my shoulders.

As luck would have it, my duffle is one of the first ones to come out.

I tried to carry it on the plane with me, but because I was one of the last ones to board, the overhead bins were all full, and the flight attendants asked me to stow it under the plane.

The tiny bag almost makes me laugh as it comes out alongside other giant pieces of luggage. My whole life now lies within these two bags. But no matter. I have enough money to help buy me more clothes and tide me over until I can find a job.

With the duffle secured, I head toward the airport exit.

I’m not entirely sure who I’m supposed to be looking for.

All I know is I texted someone named Jasper, Joe’s younger brother, when I was taking off from JFK, and that someone named Beau is coming to pick me up.

I don’t panic, though, because I’d bet anything on the fact that whoever Beau is, he now knows exactly what I look like.

Not to mention, I’m kind of hard to miss. I may be small, but my red hair has always acted as a sort of beacon.

Most of the time, to my detriment.

But I’ll never get rid of it. I can’t. It’s the one thing she and I shared. We were polar opposites in every regard, but when I look in the mirror and see the strands of red and strawberry blonde, I see Kat.

The moment the automatic doors open, ushering me outside, the crisp, fall Montana air washes over me. And despite the cool temperatures, it feels like a blanket wrapping around me, warming me from the inside out.

Then I hear the sound of heavy footsteps approach me from the left. Boots. “Abigail?”

My name reaches me before I see who says it, each syllable pricking my nerves to life.

I stiffen, the old instinct to run, to brace for impact, simmering just beneath the surface.

I’ve spent months flinching at the sound of Anya.

But the deep voice isn’t calling for her—it’s calling for Abigail.

And only a handful of people know that she even exists.

At only five-foot-three, all I see first is the width of his chest—solid and unyielding. My gaze travels upwards, slow and reluctant, until his face meets mine and the air in my lungs falters.

“Depends who’s asking?” I manage to ask before letting myself get lost in the sight of him.

The man reaches into his pocket, and I flinch, not knowing what he’s about to pull out. His smile softens, and he holds up the opposite hand. “I’m just going to grab my phone to show you something. That okay?”

I quickly scan my surroundings. There are enough people, TSA employees, and police officers around that I feel relatively safe. So I nod.

The man pulls out his phone, and after tapping it a few times, he shows me a picture of him and what looks like a slightly younger Josephine than the one I met the other day.

My eyes find the man’s face again, and he’s still smiling at me.

But it’s not the type of unnerving smile I’ve become so accustomed to from men around me.

No. His smile is warm. Gentle. Soft. So damn soft.

“I just wanted to prove to you that I knew Joe. After… after everything that happened, I didn’t want you to doubt who I was.

” A flash of sadness crosses his face before he pockets his phone and holds out his hand. “I’m Beau. Beau Saint John.”

Thank god.

His hand finds mine—rough, warm, steady.

There’s a strength to his hold, but not too much.

Like he knows exactly how much pressure to use, as to not scare me away.

We shake once, maybe twice. Honestly I can’t be sure.

But what I do know is that neither of us lets go right away.

His gaze catches mine, sharp and unflinching, the kind of look that could peel you open without uttering a single word.

I know I should look away—look anywhere else—but I can’t.

Something about him holds me exactly where I am.

He towers at least a foot over me, built like someone who clearly spends his days outside.

There’s a strength about him that’s hard to miss, but nothing threatening.

If anything, there’s a quiet calm in him, the kind I instantly decide I need more of in my life.

Calm. He looks a few years younger than me—mid-to-late twenties, maybe—but there’s an ease and a confidence in the way he carries himself that makes him feel older somehow.

His eyes are a clear blue, like the sky just before a cold front rolls in.

And when he smiles at me, his dimples are almost enough to make my jaw fall open.

A sharp whistle slices through the air, and the moment is over as fast as it began as cops shout for people to move along. Dropping my hand, Beau’s smile doesn’t waver, but something unreadable passes behind his eyes.

“Should we get going?” he says, voice low and easy.

All I can seem to do is nod.

“Here, let me grab your bag.”

Without a thought, he takes it from my hand and I watch as he crosses the pavement, sunlight catching on the curve of his forearms, muscles shifting under the thin white cotton of his shirt.

His jeans, worn and snug, move with him.

And his Texas Longhorns cap—backward of course—holds his golden hair back as a few strands at the nape of his neck catch in the breeze.

There’s something about the way he moves, graceful and unhurried, that almost sets me on edge. Because there is nothing, absolutely nothing about my life, specifically the people in it, that can be described as those two things as of late.

And as he tosses my bag into the back of his charcoal-colored Jeep, I realize that nothing could have quite prepared me for this welcome to Montana. Realizing I still haven’t moved a muscle, Beau calls out, “Coming, Darlin’?”