Chapter 4
Bronc
The truck’s heater roared against the last gasps of thunder, shaking the cab windows.
My knuckles stayed white around the steering wheel long after the rain stopped, every bump on the ranch road sending Julia swaying against the console.
She kept her face turned toward the passenger window, black hair clinging to the glass where she’d rested her temple.
The memory of her mouth, warm and startled against mine, thrummed louder than the engine.
“Almost there,” I said to the silence between us. It was just a couple of miles from my ma’s to my house. I lived deeper in pack territory.
She nodded without turning, running her palms up and down her baggy pajama pants.
The fleece smelled like a dollar store. All wrong on someone who moved like she’d been born in silk.
Every instinct screamed she didn’t belong in this pickup truck, no matter how nice it was.
Or in this town, in the crosshairs of whatever trouble clung to her like perfume.
But when lightning had split the sky an hour ago, revealing the tremor in her hands as she’d packed her soggy ledger books…
Christ. I’d have taken in a feral wolf pup looking at me like that.
Gravel spat under the tires as we rounded the final curve. My log cabin materialized through the scrub oaks—two stories of hand-hewn pine glowing amber against the bruised sky. Julia sat forward, palms braced on the dashboard. “You live alone?”
“Depends if you count the mice in the walls.” The joke fell flat. Her exhale fogged the windshield as I killed the engine. “Back door’s reinforced steel. All windows have security film. Motion lights cover three hundred sixty degrees.”
Her door creaked open before I could come around. “How many exits?”
“Two. Both alarmed.” I watched her catalog the property—her lingering gaze on the detached garage and the treeline beyond the pasture. What kind of woman knows how to track trouble like this? “Inside’s warmer.”
She hovered on the porch while I disarmed the system, shoulders hunched under the sweatshirt’s too big size.
The entryway light caught amber flecks in her espresso eyes when she finally stepped over the threshold.
Not human. Not entirely. My wolf stirred at the scent I’d been trying to place since I picked her up at the bus terminal.
Wild ginger and burnt sugar, like something left to caramelize too long.
“Half bathroom’s down the hall,” I said, toeing off muddy boots. “Guest room’s got its own lock.”
Her choked laugh bounced off the exposed beams. “You think I’m scared of you?”
“Should be. You don’t know me, Julia. Not really.
You oughta be scared of any man you meet until you get to know him.
But I’m gonna reassure you. I’d never hurt you.
” The words came out rougher than intended.
I busied myself relocking the deadbolt. “Anyone brings trouble to my door ends up fertilizer in the rose beds.”
She drifted toward the stone fireplace, trailing fingers across the leather sofa back. Her elegant hands and nails had seen better days. “Do you make all your employees sleep over after they scare themselves half to death?”
“Just the ones who taste like desperation.” The second it left my mouth, I wanted to yank it back. Her spine stiffened, hand frozen on the mantelpiece. “Julia—”
“Where’s the guest room?”
I led her upstairs, each step groaning under our weight. The spare bedroom smelled like lemon oil and gunpowder—Maddie’s doing the last time she’d cleaned my rifles. Julia paused in the doorway, gaze snagging on the hunting knife display above the dresser.
“It’s decorative,” I lied.
She set her waterlogged purse on the quilt’s bright pink flowers. “Do you always prepare for Armageddon?”
“Only since Tuesday.” The attempt at levity died as she turned, moonlight catching the bruise-like shadows under her eyes. My fingers itched to smooth them away. Instead, I nudged the bathroom door wider. “Towels are under the sink. Toothbrushes still sealed.”
Her throat worked. “You keep spares?”
“For unexpected guests.”
“Do you get many?”
“A few. None that stay.” The confession hung between us, sharp as barbed wire. I retreated to the hall, palm sweating on the doorknob. What this tiny woman did to me. My wolf growled a word I never thought I'd hear. “Alarm code’s 1029.”
Her voice stopped me at the landing. “1029?”
October 29th. The date we’d pulled a bullet-riddled prospect from a collapsing barn. The night I’d learned some men scream for their mothers when dying. “Birthday,” I lied, and stomped downstairs. My wolf insisted I turn around, but I ignored him, and his growls of that word.
"Mate."
Dawn found me scrubbing engine grease from under my nails when floorboards creaked overhead.
Julia descended with her hair twisted into a severe bun.
She wore a loose black tank top under a baggy short-sleeve floral cardigan and a simple pair of black pants.
Every piece looked like it came from a discount store.
The outfit screamed accountant, but the way she held herself—chin lifted, shoulders squared—belonged to a woman who’d fit in any boardroom, if you discounted her blonde roots showing under the black.
Fuck, she was stunning. Tiny, too damn thin, but beautiful, and her scent was seeping into my bones.
“Coffee’s fresh.” I nodded toward the percolator.
She bypassed the mug I’d set out, opting for a chipped tumbler from the drainboard. “What time does the shop open?”
“When I get there.” My gaze caught on her wrists as she poured—pale skin mottled with faint crescents. Old scars shaped like fingerprints. “You eat breakfast?”
“I’ll grab something in town.”
She didn’t want to take anything from me. I scraped a fried egg onto toast, sliding the plate across the island. “Eat. There’s not a restaurant within walking distance from the shop. You’ll need steady hands balancing my books.”
She stared at the food like it might bite. “I don’t take charity.”
“Eat, Julia.” I leaned against the fridge, tracking the pulse fluttering in her throat.
The fork clattered from her hand. “I’m fine.”
“Your choice.” I grabbed my keys, leather cut sliding heavy over cotton. “Truck leaves in five.”
As soon as I turned my back, I heard the crunch of the toast as she took a bite.
She ate standing up, shoulders angled away from me as if guarding the plate.
Each bite precise, mechanical—the table manners of someone who’d survived state dinners, fancy brunches.
When I turned to see her lick yolk from her thumb, my wolf growled low in my chest, satisfied we’d provided food for her.
The engine hadn’t finished warming up when she slid into the passenger seat, laptop bag clutched like a shield. Her perfume today was crisp. Forgettable. But beneath the drugstore floral notes, that wild ginger scent lingered.
I cranked the defroster. “Seatbelt.”
Her fingers fumbled the clasp. “Do you always follow traffic laws?”
“Only the fun ones.” Gravel pinged the undercarriage as we reversed. In the rearview, a tumbleweed swirled across the pasture where the pack’s sentries would be patrolling. Julia’s reflection watched them too, lips moving silently—counting? Calculating?
Halfway to town, she spoke to the window. “The kiss was a mistake.”
My grip tightened on the gearshift. “Noted.”
“It won’t happen again.” She strained out the words.
“Planning to muzzle yourself?”
She turned, cheeks flushing beneath cheap foundation. “I’m trying to be professional.”
“So file a complaint.” The stop sign loomed too suddenly. Brakes squealed as we lurched forward. Her hand shot out, bracing against the dashboard.
Silence pooled thicker than the mud splattering the windshield. At the shop’s back entrance, I killed the engine but left the keys dangling.
The slam echoed through the parking lot.
I got her set up in the office space directly across from my office.
Through the grimy office window, I watched her attack the ledger books like they’d personally offended her, spine rigid, pen slashing margins.
Whatever ghosts she was running from, they’d better pray I found them first.
The scent of burnt coffee and gun oil followed Wrecker into my office. He leaned against the doorframe holding two mugs, steam curling around fingers tattooed with kill counts. “Your stray’s got teeth. Bought her breakfast yet?”
I didn’t look up from the parts manifest.
“I fed her. Don’t you worry about it.” I growled.
Through the grease-smeared window, Julia hunched over the office desk inside the main shop.
That thrift-store blouse gaped at the collar when she reached for the calculator, revealing twin scars along her clavicle—those bones had been broken and more than once.
My wolf stirred the way she winced when she moved certain ways.
“Find info on her. Dig deep,” I said.
Wrecker’s eyebrow twitched. “Even if she’s clean?”
“She’s runnin’ from someone. I wanna know who it is and why. She’s not the dirty one.
The neon cowboy boot above Pearl’s Bar its pilled wool looked out of place on her delicate frame.
Inside, sawdust and cayenne bit the air. A pedal steel guitar’s mournful wail tangled with laughter from pool players. Behind the scarred mahogany counter, a silver-haired woman wielded a cocktail shaker like a conductor’s baton.