Roped In (Cottonwood Creek)

Chapter 1

This Damn Town

Wes

I’ve been in this godforsaken, podunk town for all of five minutes, and all I’ve wanted to do since I crossed city limits is turn around and go back home.

But I promised Dad I’d come and talk some sense into Pops, so here I am, bent over in the mud at the end of someone’s drive with the sun glaring down as I change a flat tire in the middle of fucking nowhere.

Sweat pours down the back of my neck and my freshly starched shirt sticks to my chest. Fan-fucking-tastic. This is what my nightmares are made of.

I used to come visit Pops and Grams every summer. It was something I looked forward to. Some kids had summer camp. I had Cottonwood Creek and Dawson Ranch.

I haven’t been back since the summer after my senior year of high school—well over a decade ago. Despite the time that has passed, my short drive through what they call “town” showed that not much has changed.

The old men still gather at a table in the Cowboy Corner Café—the only coffee shop in town—watching out the window while they sip the stuff, strong and black.

The run-down Pump ‘n’ Pantry looks the same, except now the entire u doesn’t light up quite right, so it looks like it says Pimp ’n’ Pantry.

There’s only a handful of stop signs and a single stoplight where worried parents demanded it after a kid almost got hit crossing the street when I was eight.

Exactly the same.

I wipe the sweat off my brow and crank the jack again. I’d just pulled onto this stretch of gravel—about a mile shy of Dawson Ranch—when my tire decided enough was enough and blew out, committing roadside suicide at the prospect of having to spend another moment in this town.

To top it off, there isn’t a single damn bar of service on my cell out here.

I can only hope that I’ll get some service at Pops’ house or else I’ll go insane before long.

If I have to go into town every time I need to send an email or make a call, then my time here will be even more unpleasant than I anticipated.

I finally have the car jacked up enough to start on the lug nuts, but I only get one off before I hear a low, menacing growl from behind me that makes the hairs on the back of my neck go up.

It’s followed by a quick succession of loud barks, and I turn just in time to see the beast come barreling at me from the top of the drive.

I had pulled into the first drive I saw since these gravel roads were narrow and you never knew when a tractor would come along—especially during harvest season—but apparently, the dog on Old Man Henderson’s property, doesn’t take kindly to unannounced visitors.

I barely have time to stand to full height before the thing is on me, hackles raised, snarling like it would like nothing better than to tear me limb from limb.

It doesn’t launch and rip me to shreds like I expect, but stands its ground, eyes never leaving me like he’s just waiting for the opportunity to attack.

I’m so focused on the beast in front of me it takes me a moment to register the white pickup truck that has followed him down the drive.

The door to the truck slams, and I tear my focus away from the sharp teeth for a moment and glance up to find a woman standing in front of me, not Old Man Henderson like I’d expected.

My gaze drags over her in a slow perusal. She’s of average height with red hair. I can't make out much of her face under the brim of her hat, but her lips are quirked into a look of pure amusement, which agitates me more than it should.

The red hair reminds me of a girl my sister Quinn used to run around with, but last I knew, she was married to the bank manager's son and living in town. Granted, it's been years since I've thought to ask about her.

“You wanna call off Cujo before the thing kills me?” I say, giving the dog a sidelong glance. It’s a mottled gray with black spotting and saliva dripping from its jowls.

The woman scoffs. “Please, if she wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already. She scared off a mountain lion single-handedly last summer and didn’t even come away with a scratch.”

I skewer her with a glare. She’s wearing a graphic T-shirt that says, I’m not bossy, I’m just a little bit of a sasshole and cut-offs that show off her cream-colored thighs.

After letting me sweat another moment, she puckers her lips and whistles a single note that has the dog pulling its gaze from me and looking devotedly to its owner.

“Settle down, Dix,” she croons to the feral beast. “You’re scaring him.”

I don’t miss the way her lips twitch like she finds this entire encounter hilarious. The dog’s tongue lolls out of its mouth, lips curved into a toothy smile as it drops to the ground, wholly unbothered.

“You should keep that thing on a leash,” I grumble, relaxing only minutely as I keep one eye on the dog, who has undergone a total personality change.

Her spine snaps straight, and the flinty edge to her stare strikes sparks in the heated air. “You’re on my property. Blocking my driveway. She didn’t touch a single hair on your head, so you can drop the attitude, city boy.”

I scoff, my expression quickly shifting to one of derision. City boy?

People around here always throw that around like it’s the worst type of insult. I ignore her, kneeling back down to continue loosening the lug nuts now that there’s not an immediate risk of being attacked.

“Do you need some help changing that tire?” I glance up to see her eyebrow flicking upward like she honest-to-God believes I don’t know what I’m doing. “There's somewhere I’m supposed to be.”

“Nope,” I say. “The city slicker has changed a tire before.”

“I wasn’t insinuating you didn’t know how to change it.” She bites her lip like she wants to say more but thinks better of it.

“I’ve got it. I’ll be out of your hair in a few.”

“I’d offer to give you a ride if you wanted to go change into something more suitable to change tires in, but since you decided to take up the entire bottom of my driveway...” She trails off as if she’s expecting an apology.

Too bad for her. She’s not getting more than a grunt from me.

I didn’t bring anything much more suitable than the designer jeans and polo I’m wearing, unaccustomed to spending my days in anything other than a suit and tie.

I should have bought myself some damn Levi’s before coming, but it seemed stupid to buy new clothes that I would only need for the few days I planned on staying here.

I'm here under the guise of helping Pops with the herd's vaccinations before winter, but Dad gave me the task of talking some sense into the stubborn bastard.

The man was in his mid-seventies. He was in great shape for his age, but he was in no condition to be ranching anymore, especially after he recently had what he likes to call a "tiny" heart attack.

It was well past time for him to sell the ranch and find a nice spot to retire.

The woman’s hands perch on her hips as she hovers, watching me try to pull off the shredded tire now that Cujo stopped its assault long enough to roll around in the grass next to the drive.

She follows my gaze to the dog, whose feet are kicking in the air as it snorts and sneezes.

“You’re a good dog, aren’t you, Dixie?” she asks, her tone warm and giddy, making the dog perk up and wag her long tail.

Looking at her now, she seems completely harmless as she basks in the sun, her brindled markings a mix of black, gray, and white.

“She can be a little protective of me.”

“I noticed,” I mutter.

“So, what’s a city boy like you doing out here, anyway?” she asks, curiosity heavy in her tone.

I roll my eyes. People in this small town can’t help but be nosy. It’s only a matter of time before everyone knows I’m here. I might as well get the ball rolling on the rumor mill. “I’m Vern Dawson’s grandson, Wes.”

Her jaw goes slack a moment before she remembers herself and makes her face impassive once more. Her lips purse as her scrutinizing gaze trails over me.

I cross my arms over my chest, uncomfortable with the attention of those bright blue eyes on me. I scowl when the crease forms between her brows, making me feel like I was already disappointing her, as if I’d come up short somehow in her eyes.

“I didn’t recognize you in the city boy getup, Wes.”

I startle at that and my eyes rove over her face, taking in that amused expression of hers as her teeth dig into her bottom lip.

I take note of her fiery red hair, the freckles dusting her nose and both cheeks and an all too knowing look in her eye.

I frown. She looks familiar in a distant sort of way, but the girl I recall was a fourteen-year-old lanky thing with braces, unruly hair, and a prominent jawline that looked too angular on her youthful face.

The woman in front of me is a bombshell with substantial curves and her hair is tied up in a neat braid.

“So, you came to visit Pops?”

“Something like that.”

Her nose wrinkles and she studies me like she’s trying to pick apart my intentions from the few words I'm offering.

I ignore her as I attempt to pull the damaged tire off. Even after a fair amount of wiggling, it doesn’t budge. I grip the rim and heave, pulling with everything I’ve got in me. And when the tire finally comes off, it throws me off balance and I land hard in the dirt.

I tense at the sound of her wild laugh. It’s not a ladylike chuckle, but a near feral cackle that I’ve heard countless times.

It’s a laugh that’s hard to forget and that brings back memories of my summers spent running around the ranch with my best friend, Tripp, trailed by our little sisters and their friend.

I swing my gaze in her direction. “Sawyer Addams,” I mutter.

Her heart-shaped mouth remains curved up in amusement. “Looks like the city boy finally deigned to remember my name.”