Chapter 2
Bronc
The wind carried grit from the cattle pens two blocks over, sharpening the diesel fumes into something that stung the back of my throat.
I leaned against the chipped concrete pillar, thumb hooked in my belt loop as the Greyhound wheezed to a stop.
Travelers spilled out—tired salesmen clutching briefcases, college kids hauling overstuffed duffels, a grandmother herding three sticky-faced children.
None of them matched the woman from the grainy driver’s license photo Wrecker had dug up.
Then she stepped down.
The black dye job was worse in person—roots bleeding gold along her neckline, a fringe of bangs brushing her eyelashes actually were damn cute.
That thrift store cardigan hung loose around narrow shoulders, swallowing her whole until the wind pressed the fabric against her torso.
My gaze caught on the way her jeans pooled around new-looking Hey Dudes, the hem frayed where she’d cut off the original length.
Every inch screamed a struggling woman chasing work in a podunk Texas town.
Except for the hands.
She gripped the bus’s handrail like it might dissolve beneath her fingers, knuckles pale under a fading July tan.
Hands that had never hauled bales or scrubbed floors, the nails bitten ragged but still shaped with the ghost of a French manicure.
I pushed off my truck just as she stumbled into a teenager barreling toward the vending machines.
Her apology came out too crisp, vowels rounded with an accent she couldn’t quite flatten into something Midwestern.
“Julia Harris.”
Her spine snapped straight at the name, chin lifting as she turned.
She made a joke about coffee. Damn cute.
Up close, the dye looked even worse—store-brand box color, applied in haste.
But beneath it lurked something richer, like sunbaked wheat stalks caught mid-sway.
Her eyes widened, lashes sweeping up to reveal irises that couldn’t decide between brown and midnight except for the amber flecks.
A shiver raced through her before she locked it down, full lips curving into a smile that didn’t touch those watchful eyes.
And a pert nose dusted with the most appealing tiny fucking freckles.
I shook my head. I needed to get my shit together.
“Mr. Baucaum.” She adjusted the strap of her rather large Louis Vuitton tote, the movement pulling her sweater tight across collarbones sharp enough to draw blood. I noticed the wince she gave against the pressure. “I’d shake hands, but mine are currently auditioning for an earthquake simulator.”
The joke landed with a self-deprecating twist, her voice lower than I’d expected—smoke and honey where I’d prepared for something brighter. Behind us, a toddler wailed as his mother dragged him toward the restrooms. Julia flinched at the sound, shoulders creeping toward her ears.
“Bronc’s fine.” I reached for her bag, noting the fresh scrape along its leather exterior. “Welcome to the friendly side of nowhere.”
Her laugh came out with half a cough. “If by friendly you mean determined to sandblast my retinas…”
A gust whipped her bangs sideways, revealing a thin scar along her hairline—old, poorly stitched. My fingers twitched toward it before I caught myself. “Wait until the tumbleweeds roll through. They’ll steal your left shoe just to watch you hop.”
“Charming.” She fell into step beside me, her strides two to my one.
The bag banged against her hip as we walked.
She hadn’t let me take it from her. Her ankle twisted slightly in a parking lot crack, and she almost lost her footing.
My hand found her elbow before she face-planted into a parking meter.
She hesitated, staring at the passenger door handle like it might bite. When I moved to open it for her, she jerked back, boot heel catching on the curb.
“I’ve got it,” she blurted, hauling herself up with a white-knuckled grip on the ‘oh-shit’ handle.
The seat creaked as she settled in, knees knocking together until she forced them still.
Her gaze swept the dashboard—clean, no club insignias, GPS disabled—before landing on the dented thermos in the cupholder.
“Coffee’s fresh,” I said, sliding behind the wheel.
She eyed the thermos like it contained hemlock. “Only if you have cream and sugar.”
“Noted.”
The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever she muttered next. As I pulled onto Main Street, her reflection flickered in the side mirror—chin ducked, fingers worrying a loose thread on her sweater cuff. Waiting. Assessing. Cataloging exits.
“How was Chicago when you left?”
“Damp.” Her thumbnail picked at the thread’s knot. “Though after eight hours sitting next to a man who believed Axe Body Spray counted as bathing, I’d take a monsoon.”
The barb held an unexpected bite. I glanced over to find her studying the feed store we passed, gaze tracking a cluster of ranch hands loading hay bales. Her tongue darted out to wet chapped lips.
“You ride?”
“Horses?” A beat too late, her shoulders lifted. “Only if they’re attached to carousels.”
Bullshit. That hitch in her breath when the geldings nickered? Pure muscle memory. I drummed my fingers on the wheel, letting silence pool between us. The tactic worked better than interrogation—innocents rushed to fill voids, liars clammed up tight.
She lasted three traffic lights.
“Any decent barbecue joints around here?”
“A few.” I thought of my mother’s bar and grill; she’d likely frequent when she settled in. “Now for gourmet food? You consider Fritos in chili ‘gourmet’?”
Her nose crinkled, the first unguarded expression she’d shown. “That depends on the chili. Where I’m from, we put beans in ours.”
“Careful.” I slowed for a jaywalking calico. “Talk like that’ll get you drawn and quartered in most circles where you’re heading.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but the shadow of one.
“So, how was the ride down here?”
“Two buses.” She picked at her cuticles. “Seat cushions smelled like regret and corn nuts.”
“And Texas called because…?”
Her fingers stilled. “Fiancé’s funeral.” The words came too quick, rehearsed. “Car accident. Six months back.”
Liar. Grief has a sound—wet earth over raw pine. This was porcelain shards in my molars.
“Condolences.” I downshifted past a tractor, tastebuds flooding with the saccharine rot of deception. Beneath it… something feral. Musk buried under layers of human stink. Not quite wolf. Not quite not.
“Was the wedding…” I inhaled subtly through parted lips, “… close?”
Her laugh shattered like safety glass. “Too close. He preferred brunettes. Hence…” A brittle gesture toward her dye job.
The steering wheel creaked under my grip. Every instinct snarled—she smelled of wrongness wrapped in softness. Trapped rabbits and attic dust. But when the wind whipped through her hair, I caught the ghost of pack bonds. Frayed threads of belonging.
A pickup hauling horses passed on the right. Her eyes held a distant longing as she followed it until it was out of sight.
“Are you sure you don’t ride?” I gave her an incredulous look.
Her smirk was telling. “Pretty positive.” The dashboard clock ticked off seven seconds before she unspooled the truth. “Charlie hated horses.” Her thumb rubbed circles over the tote’s strap. “Allergic.”
Another lie coated in fact. My canines ached.
The truck tires crunched over gravel as we turned onto Magnolia Street. “Pearl’s does decent chicken-fried steak,” I said, nodding toward the neon-lit bar. “But avoid the coleslaw unless you enjoy yours tangy and sweet.”
Julia’s chuckle sounded hoarse and deep. I don’t think she laughed much in her world. “Noted.” Her fingers danced along the edge of the seatbelt, tracing the stitching with military precision.
I cataloged the motion—too controlled for casual fidgeting, too rhythmic for nerves.
Ballet training? Combat drills? The torn cuticle on her index finger suggested habitual picking.
“Library’s two blocks east,” I continued.
“Park committee keeps flower boxes looking like Martha Stewart’s personal hell. ”
“Chrysanthemums?” she guessed, leaning toward the passenger window.
“Marigolds. Blood orange ones that reek of fertilizer and misplaced ambition.”
Her shoulders relaxed a quarter-inch. Good.
The apartment over the garage behind Ma’s house loomed ahead, just inside pack territory.
We drove through the gates and I gave a wave to one of the new prospects.
I’ll have to give instructions to leave well enough alone.
Ma’s house sat about a block past the front entrance.
Its new cedar shakes glowed amber in the late afternoon glare.
I killed the engine, watching her eyes track the security features—steel-reinforced door, double-pane windows, motion lights disguised as garage sconces.
“Fire escape’s out back,” I said, rounding the truck. “Leads to roof access. Not that you’ll need it.”
She paused mid-step, head tilting toward the neighboring oak. “Is that—?”
“Wisteria. Should bloom purple come spring.” I jingled the keys louder than necessary, letting their metallic song announce our approach. “Ma had the floors redone in hickory. Claims it’s scratch-resistant.”
The lie tasted like nickel on my tongue. I’d overseen every renovation myself—chosen the wood for its warmth under bare feet, installed the Shaker-style pegs so she’d have somewhere to hang that damn scarf.
Julia trudged up the outside stairs, lugging that bag that was almost as big as she was.
Then she crossed the threshold with the reverence of someone entering a cathedral.
Her knuckles went white around the strap of that damn bag as she took in the open living space.
Early evening sunlight fractured through the leaded glass transom, painting her black-dyed hair with unexpected cobalt highlights.