Chapter 7
Walker
I’m not proud of myself. Now that I know Kate and Mallory live in Indigo Hills, I go onto social media and search every hashtag I can think of, but I don’t find pictures of either of them easily.
It’s when I finally look at Izzy‘s socials that I locate Mallory’s sister. Kate’s featured occasionally, and when I click on her social, there are images of her with Mallory.
Bingo.
Though not very many, and none of them are tagged.
That’s disappointing. I’ve spent two years making sure the version of me that lives on the internet is carefully managed: what gets posted, what gets tagged, and what disappears.
Mallory apparently had the same idea. The difference is, she didn’t need a whole team to pull it off.
I love that in every picture, Mallory is wearing some form of black, her thick eyeliner calling to me along with that sweetheart face and her pouty lips.
Does it matter, really? I can’t even jerk off to ease the ache in my loins because I’m sharing a damn room with six other people. Thank fuck for the shower. At least there’s a curtain. I was smart enough to make sure no one was around before I showered this morning.
I pictured her curves, her breasts, my hands tracing the soft curves of her body as she washes mine. I could see her kneeling at my feet, her full lips swallowing my swollen cock, thick with need, as I fist her dark hair.
And now I’m mucking out stalls in the horse barn, getting hard all over again.
Damnit to hell.
I spray my face with cold water, which does the trick.
After I move to the next stall, Lucinda approaches, her voice soothing. “Cam.” She’s never called me Walker—it’s always been Cameron.
“Hey, Luce.” I set the sprayer down and shoot my mom’s bestie a huge grin, which she doesn’t return. Fuck. “What’s up?”
She motions to the small barn office, which is empty at the moment. I follow her inside, shutting the wooden door behind us.
I heave a sigh, leaning my elbows on the back of a chair. “The press found me?”
“It’s not that bad. Yet. But a teen boy came to me and asked if you’re related to Walker James.”
“Well, hell.”
Lucinda chuckles, her warm eyes crinkling at the corners. “I asked him why on earth a relative of Walker James would work here. He had no answer and left to get more ice cream.”
My brain goes into problem-solving mode, trying to figure out my next move. I could just leave Wild Vista. I’m a lot more relaxed than I was coming right off tour. I can go to Nash’s and hang out in his guest house a little early. But when I picture leaving Dark & Prickly, my stomach bottoms out.
“Okay. That’s nothing to worry about, right?”
“Not on its own. But one of the lifeguards noticed the similarities while we were washing off the canoes.”
“It makes sense, I guess.” I scrubmy hand over my beard. “Thanks for telling me.”
“There’s an extra room over the saloon that’s not in use. We can move you there. I can also put you on fence duty only and keep you away from people.”
I duck my head, pressing my lips together for a moment.
“I appreciate it, Luce, but that wasn’t why I did this.
I wanted to return to my roots, and this is really helping with that.
” I look down at my hands, the calluses forming at the base of my fingers from the fencing wire, a blister healing on my right palm.
Back on tour, my hands had calluses on the tips of my fingers.
Out here, they feel earned. My grandpa would recognize these hands.
“Whatever happens, it’ll be okay, as long as you’re fine with things. ”
She walks over to me and pulls me in for a hug. “You are always welcome here, Cameron. Anyone who causes trouble will have to leave the ranch. Why don’t you head over to the glamping tents for a couple of hours? The area is being rented out tomorrow by a bridal party. It’s empty for now.”
She pats my cheek before leaving me in the office to think about my changing motivation for staying at Wild Vista Ranch.
And now it has everything to do with a prickly pear of a woman.
With incredible talent. And the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
I grab my guitar and pop it in the UTV before driving over to the glamping section.
Lucinda and her husband, have done a great job building out the different sections of the ranch over the years.
The glamping tents are along the Wild Ridge River, kind of set away from the cabins.
It’s popular to rent out because they have heat and AC plus their own restrooms and showers.
My mom and Lucinda book those tents once a year for a girls’ getaway in the fall. And I can see why.
I walk over to a tent close to the river and sit on the porch, strumming the opening notes to my new song. I can’t quite get the bridge right, but I’m close. I haven’t had much time to play my guitar since there’s really nowhere to do it without other people watching.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out and glance at the screen.
Nash: Bro. Bree says she’s on vacation with you? WTF?
Cam: Not even funny. Against your contract.
Nash: That’s not a clause. Read the fine print.
Cam: I hear Cage Winters over at Magnum Records needs a new artist. He’s easier to deal with than your cocky ass.
Nash: Fair.
Cam: Bree and Izzy just happened to show up here. All is well.
Nash: Declan says to keep your hands to yourself.
Cam: Tell Declan I’m too afraid of her.
Nash: He says there’s room at the table for you when you get back to town.
I pocket my phone, still grinning, and grab my guitar.
I’m about ten minutes in when a pair of black Chucks appear in front of me as I’m looking at the ground. I look up and can’t help the wide grin that spreads across my face.
“Prickly pear. You like to go glamping?” I wink.
She rolls her eyes and sits beside me on the wood slats, her shoulder bumping into mine. “The cabin is as close to glamping as I will ever get.”
I squint my eyes and cock my head. “I don’t believe that for a second. Why is that? Because you’re here and you like it.” I shoulder-bump her back. And she laughs. A real laugh this time.
“Someday I’m going to bring my sons here. They’re too young right now.” She watches my face for a reaction. And I give her one. My eyes go wide, my eyebrows shoot up, and I lean back in surprise and a little confusion.
Before I can say anything, she says, “I’m single. My boys are eighteen months old. And their father is that in name only.”
My face drops. “That’s terrible.” I think about how supportive my step dad has been, and knowing the boys’ dad is out there somewhere and not even interested? What an ass.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” She shrugs, tapping her sneakers together. “They’ll know who he is, but I don’t want them spending time with someone who doesn’t want to be in their life. That can’t be good for them.”
“True.” Something shifts and settles in my chest, quick and quiet, like a key finding the right lock. “You sound like a great mom.”
“I try.” She looks across the water, her cheeks tinging red.
I can sense just how much she loves her boys. “Do you have pictures?”
She looks at me, one eyebrow up, and opens her phone to an image of them playing in mud. “Mason and Kasen.”
“Wow. They look just like you and your sister. Except with dark hair.”
“Yep. My dad had dark hair. A little darker than yours.”
“Had?”
“Mm-hmm. He passed away.”
She loves those boys in a way that’s all over her face even while she’s playing it cool, and something about that catches me somewhere I wasn’t expecting.
I want to be worthy of that. The thought lands before I can dodge it.
Which is a hell of a thing to feel about a woman who doesn’t even know my real last name.
She just handed me the real shape of her life—her kids, their father’s absence, all of it—and I gave her half of mine in return. Not a lie exactly. Just not the whole truth either, and I know the difference even when I’m pretending I don’t.
“Sorry to hear that.” I pick the guitar back up because I need something to do with my hands.
“It’s been a while.”
I look at her, my voice quieter than I intend. “Me too.”
“Oh, yeah?” She looks at me, not with pity, because she knows exactly where I’ve been. Just the same quiet expression I gave her.
“Yep, he died before I was born. I have a great stepdad, though, who has done everything he can to honor my father while also being my dad.”
“That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. I didn’t realize it at the time growing up, but it is.”
I don’t know why it is that right now my chest is heavy. I’ve said this in interviews more times than I can count because the press won’t let it go. But saying it to Mallory feels different.
I don’t usually say more than that, and most people don’t push.
Mallory doesn’t push either, but the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like she already understands the part I left out—that you can grieve someone you never had, and that sometimes the loss that marks you most is the one you have no memory to attach it to.
I strum a few notes and think about how my dad would be proud of the man who stepped in without ever trying to replace him.
“That’s the same song you were playing the other night.”
I look at her. She has a good ear. Too good, maybe. The song has her fingerprints all over it: the prickly exterior, the blue eyes that give more away than she knows, the way she sketches things that won’t leave her alone.
“It’s new.”
She doesn’t even question it. She simply accepts that I’m sitting here writing a song on a guitar as a ranch hand. When I think about it, it makes perfect sense. She’s an artist too.
I play what I have, although I don’t sing. I know she’s going to find out who I am. And she just shared a really big piece of herself with me. But I almost hear her off, because I realize getting to know Mallory Jenkins is proving interesting and important.
I set down the guitar and look her straight in the eyes. “I want to kiss you again, Mallory.”
“I don’t even know your last name, Cam.”
“It’s Walker.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Her words from five minutes ago land differently now. Her boys’ father is that in name only. I should just come clean, but I hesitate. What if she doesn’t want everything my name brings to the table?
Oblivious to my internal struggle, she looks at me with those mesmerizing blue eyes. “Mine is Jenkins. I want you to kiss me, Cameron Walker.”
My heart beats erratically. I’ve done interviews, red carpets, and a hundred moments where I face the public for the job. Not once have I ever felt like this.
So I lean forward, pulling her close, brushing my lips against hers tentatively.
The kiss is sweet and slow. That is until Mallory slides her hands around my neck, pressing her lips harder against mine with a little more urgency.
I take her legs and flip them across mine so that she is lying across me and I can get closer.
Kissing Mallory is exciting. I anchor one hand around her waist and the other behind her neck as I deepen the kiss.
When I open my mouth, she does the same.
The taste of her setting my body on fire.
My heart thumps as her tongue probes mine, my mouth ravishing hers.
Our breaths grow heavy as we kiss and kiss, the wind rustling around us, the river babbling.
Mallory’s Apple Watch dings, and she pulls away, glancing at the message. “That’s my sister, letting me know they’re heading to the main saloon for some board games.”
I brush a loose strand of dark hair away from her face. “When can I see you again?”
“Do you work after dinner?”
“Nope.”
We both stand, and she brushes off non-existent dirt from the back of her denim shorts, her black Fleetwood Mac tee stretched over her ample chest. I can’t help but scan her body from head to toe, those curves just about do me in.
“Want to meet over at the pavilion? We can walk to the lake from there.”
“See you then, Cowboy.”
“See you then, Prickly Pear.”
I watch her go until the treeline takes her, my guitar still warm in my hands, seeds of guilt blooming in my gut.