Growing Wilder (The Cameron Cowboys #5)

Chapter 1 – Wilder

“You think that one’s pretty?” Dalton asks me, nodding towards a group of girls who’ve just entered the bar, laughing, and swaying drunkenly to the country music that’s playing from the old jukebox in the corner of Baxter’s Bar.

The girls are wearing tight, black dresses, with the one in the middle dressed in all white. A bachelorette party, I assume.

I glance over at the group, having no idea which of the women Dalton could be referring to. They all look pretty to me.

I shrug, and he grunts in response, looking back down at his beer and taking another gulp.

I haven’t spent much time thinking about women lately.

Not that I’ve gone full-on celibate or anything, but sex isn’t something I’ve gone out of my way to pursue these past two years.

Sure, plenty of girls have dropped hints about wanting to come back to my place on the Ashwood Ranch property, but that ranch is my sanctuary.

It’s where I work, where I unwind. It’s not some casual hookup spot for strangers.

And then there’s Willow to consider.

Outside of my twin brother Cody and the rodeo, my best friend Dalton is the only person who can convince me to leave the property, step away from the animals, and trade the steady hum of machinery for the chaos of a Friday night drink.

But even then, I’m just not interested in the whole routine.

The small talk. The flirty back-and-forth.

The pointless will-they/won’t-they that drags on until the inevitable happens.

Cody, though? He’s got that art down to a science. He skips right past the chit-chat and gets straight to the point, which usually ends with someone in his bed. He’s the wilder Cameron twin, which is pretty damn ironic, considering my name is Wilder.

Me? I’d rather be doing just about anything else. Reading a book, writing, playing guitar, or helping my dad with the livestock and land. Hell, even fixing a busted fence sounds better than pretending I care about some bar flirtation.

Honestly, I’d just rather be left the hell alone.

Talking is something that I’ve never been good at. Words, yes. But talking, no.

Sure, I’ve had some lonely nights where I’ve considered how nice it'd be to have a warm body in bed next to me. Twenty-two years old and living in Lonestar Junction on a ranch miles away from civilization can cause those thoughts to creep in. My closest companions are the horses and cattle that we raise. And it isn’t that I don’t want to find a woman to date; it just feels like a lot of effort for not much reward.

That and my life is complicated right now. I don’t need any more hassles.

My eyes drift back to the side of the bar where the group of girls have gathered and are now talking excitedly as an old Tim McGraw song starts to play. One of the servers heads their way to take orders while the blonde one starts belting out the lyrics at the top of her lungs, painfully off tune.

“You want another round?” I ask Dalton, whose eyes are still discreetly watching the group. He grunts as I stand up, swiping his empty glass and head to the bar without another word.

That's the thing I’ve always appreciated about my friendship with him— we can hang out and not feel like we need to make small talk to fill the silence.

Just sitting in a bar across from each other makes us feel like we’re being social and like we aren’t the introverts we really are who would much rather be at home away from the noisy crowds.

You see, I believe that most people talk too damn much yet have nothing to say.

“Hey Krissy, can I get two more Buds?” I ask, holding up two fingers to the red-headed bartender we went to school with four years ago who’s currently working the small space. She smiles and grabs two frosted glasses from under the wooden slab and props them in front of her.

I lean one elbow on the grain, my eyes scanning the familiar space and finding the bachelorette group once again.

This time though, I notice there’s a brunette among the sea of blondes that makes up the loud party.

She looks like the black sheep sticking out of the group.

Her dress is slightly different, a little longer, hitting mid-length but still tight in all the right places, showing off a curvy figure and athletic build.

While her friends are all wearing their blonde hair down, the brunette’s is piled high on her head in a messy bun, as if she ran out of the house, hair still wet, and just threw it up without a care about how she looked tonight.

It’s a hot-as-shit July day so I think she has the right idea. The other girls must be sweating in here. The owner of the bar, Baxter, never likes turning the air conditioning on. Thinks it draws in the wrong type of crowd. Whatever the hell that means.

“New pussy,” Krissy speaks, gesturing with her eyes to the group of ten girls.

I don’t reply to her. Krissy has always felt the need to fill every silence, even when words are unnecessary.

She sighs. “If you’re lonely, Wilder, my shift ends at two tonight…”

I scoff, taking the two glasses off the bar and turn to head back to Dalton, but before leaving, I lock eyes with her. “Let Ted know that I could use his assistance for the rodeo tomorrow night. An extra pair of hands to warm up the horses would be helpful.”

She rolls her eyes, pushing off the bar as she heads down to the other end to help a different guest, completely ignoring my comment.

That’s the other thing that’s held me back from taking interest in any women lately. No one seems to be faithful these days.

As I return to the booth where I left Dalton, I find a head peeking over the seat that I just left unoccupied.

“Hello,” I say as I set down the beer. It looks like it’s one of the girls from the group, a blonde with big brown eyes, who’s peering up at me. She's wearing a tight, black spaghetti strap dress and she looks young.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were sitting here.

” She slides out of the booth and tosses a dazzling smile Dalton’s way.

“Will you find me before you leave?” she asks him, batting her eyelashes excessively.

Dalton nods, unable to form words before she turns with a giggle and hurries back to her group.

I slide into the seat she’d been keeping warm, raising my eyebrows at Dalton.

“Scarlett Givens. She’s nineteen-years-old,” he responds.

Someone else might give him a tough time for flirting with a teenager, but in Lonestar Junction, there isn’t much to choose from, and she’s an adult, just three years younger than us. Plus, she seems into him.

I clear my throat, speaking the most words we’ve spoken to each other all night. “You should go for it, bud. Don’t stay here for me. I’m about to head out anyways.”

His gaze lifts to meet mine and then he nods, looking nervous as hell but still unsure.

I swipe the beer that I just set down for him and bring it to my lips, sucking up the cold foam so that I’m now double-fisting and he has nothing to drink.

He gets what I’m trying to say with my actions alone, grins, and then scoots out of the booth, tossing a couple ones on the table as a tip before walking back towards Scarlett.

Good for him.

I sigh and sink back into the booth, watching Dalton work his charm.

Good for him. He’s getting laid tonight, and honestly, he deserves it.

He’s just as lonely as I am. He spends his days working on his parents’ ranch a few miles from here and helping me out at the rodeo whenever I need an extra hand.

It’s not like Lonestar Junction is some ghost town.

Over the past ten years, the place has grown a lot.

More businesses are moving in, and San Angelo’s city limits are creeping closer as developers buy up ranches and turn them into housing.

San Angelo’s population has passed 100,000, and we’re closing in on 75,000 here. Progress, I guess.

I glance at the half-finished beer Dalton left behind, then at the one I ordered for myself.

One drink’s my limit before the twenty-minute drive back to Ashwood Ranch, so I push the second bottle away, tossing a few more ones on the table for the server.

Standing, I stretch out my back, my shoulders stiff from sitting too long.

The bar’s shifted into chaos now. The bachelorette party is out on the floor, singing and dancing along to a Shania Twain classic with the regulars.

I fight the urge to roll my eyes when I spot the bride-to-be perched on some local guy’s lap.

Her short, white dress barely covers her thighs, and there’s a garter hugging her leg as she leans in close, whispering something into the older man’s ear.

Maybe it’s innocent. Probably not. People aren’t faithful.

I head for the door, gravel crunching under my boots as I cross the lot and climb into my old green Ford. Sliding behind the wheel, I cut on the lights and fire up the engine but just as I’m about to put the truck in reverse, something catches my eye.

A girl wearing a short black dress—just like the ones the bachelorette party was rocking—darts out from the shadows on the side of the bar and disappears around the back of the building.

Behind Baxter’s Bar lies a trailer park, and in my experience, that place is nothing but trouble. It’s a hotbed for alcohol-fueled fights, domestic violence, and enough chaos to keep the 911 operators busy all night.

What the hell is she doing going back there?

The introvert inside me tells me to let it go. Who cares? You don’t know her. She’ll be fine. But the protector in me has me cutting the engine and opening the door, sneaking around the side of the building to make sure she isn’t drunk, lost, or about to be assaulted.

My eyes squint in the darkness as I try to see where she could have gone. It’s pitch black on the side of the building. The safety lights required by the city are busted and knowing Sheriff Davenport, he won't enforce getting them fixed anytime soon.

Where the hell could she have gone?

I keep going, making it all the way to the back where the bar’s smelly trash is stored in large receptacles against a small chain-link fence keeping outsiders from entering the trailer park.

It’s a shitty attempt at keeping the two worlds separated.

Anyone could snatch someone and scale it within a few seconds.

Finally, I spot a bare leg sticking out from behind the massive trash compactor. I walk towards the receptacle, rounding the side of the metal frame to find her crouched down low near the ground. My eyes squint in the darkness, trying to see what she’s looking at but come up empty.

Finally, I speak. “What are you doing?” I ask.

She springs to her feet, clutching her chest before reaching for the crossbody purse slung over her shoulder.

“Stay back!” she shrieks, yanking something out of the zipper as a loud click echoes between us and in the next heartbeat, a blast of pepper spray coats my face and eyes.