Making Wild Vows (Star Mountain Horse Rescue #2)

Chapter 1

WINNIE

People always assume that my full name is Winifred. But it’s not, it’s Winsome.

As in Winsome (adjective): generally pleasing and engaging often because of a childlike charm and innocence.

Honestly, who in their right mind saddles a child with those kind of expectations from the day they’re born?

At the moment, though, I look slightly less winsome than usual. My silky smooth, ridiculously long blonde locks have been replaced by an edgier brown bob. It’s nearly impossible to go from bleach blonde to a healthy looking, glossy dark brown in under three hours, but my hairstylist is a magician.

She’s also the only person in all of Birmingham who knows that I’m about to disappear off the face of the planet. But I trust her to keep that to herself. Carly keeps more secrets than just mine and she’s never let me down in the three years I’ve been going to her salon.

I thank God every day that I managed to convince my mom to let me switch hairdressers. I said it was because Maureen, the woman who’d been doing mom’s hair since she was twenty, wasn’t trendy enough for me to post about her on social media. She also kept toning my hair a putrid shade of yellow.

But in reality, I just wanted a place that was all my own. I wanted to go somewhere that my mom had no influence—somewhere where the hairstylists didn’t let mothers sit and gab and judge throughout the entire appointment.

“There,” Carly says, turning the blow drier off and spinning me around to face the mirror again. “It looks perfect.”

“It does,” I agree. “I barely even look like myself.” I finger the brown ends that reach just past my chin and grin.

“No one’s going to recognize you like this,” Carly says. “And I’m planning to keep it that way. I packed you a bag of supplies to keep up with the color.”

“One day I’ll be back to my natural brown completely.” It’s a color I haven’t seen since I was ten.

“I tried my best to match it to your roots,” Carly says, fiddling with the layers in front of my face once more.

“Thanks, sugar.” I flick my hair one last time in the mirror and sigh. “I should probably get going now.”

“You sure you don’t want me to curl it?”

“I’m going to be in a car for the next week. What my hair looks like doesn’t matter for once.” I grab the navy ball cap out of the purse next to my chair and slap it on my head. I can tell Carly is just nervous to let me go—for me to put the final stages of the plan we’ve been working on in motion.

“You’re right,” she says. “Keep me updated.”

“I’ll use my burner to call you when I can,” I say standing up.

Carly nods, and pulls me in for a hug. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” she whispers into my neck.

“You’re going to make me cry,” I choke out. “And I’ve barely even done anything yet.”

“Hey,” Carly says, pushing back to look me in the eye. “That is not true. You’re getting out. We planned this meticulously and it will work.”

I give her a shrug and a weak smile, and try to remind myself of all the preparation I’ve done.

I told my mom I’d be going for a long run this morning and then getting my hair touched up.

This made her happy because she’s always telling me I need to exercise more (four days a week is not enough, apparently).

I drove here at 6:00 a.m. before my parents woke up and handed my car keys to Carly’s boyfriend.

He helped me load my stuff into the rental car I’ll be driving to Montana, and then he took my car and parked it in the public lot, and walked back to the salon.

Carly made sure not to book any other clients for this morning, so the salon has been empty aside from me.

At 2:00 p.m. the social media post I scheduled will go live, and everyone will know that I’ve quit.

Yesterday, I went to the police station and spoke to a female officer and informed her that I am leaving town of my own free will and that I am not a missing person—I even put it all down in a signed letter.

It’s not a crime for an adult to move to another state by herself.

At least, that’s what I keep repeating to myself.

It’s not a crime.

It’s not a crime.

I am not doing anything wrong.

The thing is, the police are the least of my concerns.

It’s my parents who I’m really wary of. They’re going to do everything in their power to drag me back to them.

I’m positive that by this time tomorrow, they’ll have hired a private investigator to track me down.

I’m sure they’ll ignore my carefully worded email to them.

I’m also pretty sure that they’re going to try and sue me for theft, though they won’t have much of a case.

It’s not a crime for me to withdraw money from a joint account with my name on it.

Even if I do plan to nearly drain it dry.

It’s all money I earned anyways—and a drop in the ocean at that.

I had to fight tooth and nail for the smidge of control I have over it.

If my dad had his way, I wouldn’t have a joint account with them in the first place.

The salon phone rings, and the sharp sound jerks me out of my thoughts. Carly sets the broom down and runs to grab it. As she talks, I stare at the locks of golden blonde hair on the floor.

It reminds me of gilded chains, tangling and twisting together.

Looking at it makes me feel sick.

Jesus Christ, Winnie, get it together. It’s not like you to be so maudlin.

Well, it’s also not like me to quit my entire life and run, but that’s exactly what’s about to happen.

I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 9:00 a.m. And past time for me to leave. My parents like to wake up around this time on Saturdays—they have that luxury because neither of them has to work. I, on the other hand, have not slept in past 8:00 a.m. once in the last five years.

“I need to head out,” I say to Carly, tugging at the ends of my hair anxiously, and drawing the ball cap even lower on my face. As soon as I’m on the road I’ll feel better. As soon as I’m free I’ll feel okay.

“I’ll miss you,” Carly says.

She pulls out a small pink makeup bag from behind the counter and passes it to me.

Inside is five grand in cash. I’ve been siphoning money from my joint account to her for the last year and a half.

I disguised it as color touch ups and extensions.

It’s a believable amount because Carly is the priciest hair dresser in all of Birmingham, and I’m a pageant queen.

I don’t mind paying to look good. So when I sent Carly $800 for just getting my roots and toner done last month, neither of my parents thought anything of it.

“Thanks,” I say, grabbing the bag and stuffing it into my purse.

“The debit card is in there too.”

I nod, and take my phone out. With a few taps, I’ve transferred nearly all of what’s in my joint account, which is only a grand, into my new account. Carly has been keeping the debit card here for me so that my mom didn’t find it.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, mostly to myself.

Carly pulls me in for another hug and I nearly break down crying in her hair.

“I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you,” I say. “Please tell me if my parents cause any problems for you. And I’m sorry in advance if they hire a P.I. to track you.” I laugh weakly at that last bit, but I’m not really kidding.

“If they cause any problems, Alex has my back, and we’ll just take a long and much needed vacation until it blows over. Italy is calling my name.”

We say our final goodbyes and then I’m out the door and climbing into my overstuffed rental car.

I probably could have left some of my clothing at my parents’ house, but I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving my treasures behind.

Not when they’re the one part of my life that I actually get enjoyment out of.

So I took it all. My endless workout sets. My collection of designer heels. My pageant dresses and costumes, including the ones I sewed myself while in high school. The vintage frocks I spend hours hunting down online and never get to wear.

And the jeans. Armfuls and armfuls of denim that I’ve been sent by brands over the years.

Most of it is unworn because my mother doesn’t think that a pageant queen should wear anything as casual as jeans.

But they’re going to come in handy when I get to Star Mountain.

As are the two thousand dollar gifted pair of cowboy boots I’m also taking.

I can’t wait to wear them to the barn. I can’t wait to finally wear something other than dresses and heels. I love dressing up but I also enjoy dressing down.

I know, it probably seems silly and shallow that I care so much about clothing. That I’m already planning outfits for the barn. But my parents have controlled every aspect of my life for my entire life, and I can’t wait for a little bit of freedom.

And to me, clothing equals freedom. Freedom to express myself however I want—to be whoever I want.

With that thought in mind, I set the rental car GPS to Star Mountain, Montana, pull out of the salon parking lot, and am on my way.

Freedom is fucking here.

Sadly, that feeling of freedom doesn’t last. For some reason, the more miles I put between me and my parents, the more I start to worry. By the end of the day, Birmingham is far behind me, but I feel like any minute they’re going to pull up beside me on the highway and drag me back.

I don’t even turn on the burner phone that I have, because I’m too worried that my parents will somehow figure out the phone number, or the P.I.

they hire will, and they’ll find me before I reach Star Mountain.

I pay for an iced coffee and doughnuts with a hundred dollar bill, too worried that they’ll figure out the password to my new bank account to use my debit card.

And when I pull into the rest stop an hour later, needing to pee because of the coffee I just chugged, I give the parking lot a good scan before getting out of the car.

As I’m hovering above the seat in the public toilet, I realize that I never let my friend Candice know I was on the road.

She’s one of the owners of Star Mountain Horse Rescue, which is where I’m headed.

I consider using my phone, but decide against it. It’s too risky. Hopefully she’ll see my social media post and assume I made it out okay. She said the room was ready for me whenever, and she knew I was leaving soon. That will have to be good enough.

I quickly wash my hands, and leave the bathroom with my hat pulled down low.

“Excuse me?” a voice says from behind me.

Icy fear floods my veins. I thought the brown hair would be enough. I thought the jeans and the sweatshirt and the hat would do the trick.

“Yes?” I say, only turning halfway around. Inside, Mrs. Manners is screaming at me to look them in the eye and give them my best smile—a smile so bright and charming it could have only come from someone named Winsome. But I resist.

“You dropped this,” the woman says. She holds a tube of lip gloss out to me, which must have fallen out of my pocket.

“Oh, thank you.” Relief washes through me. She has no idea who I am. Or if she does, she doesn’t recognize me in my disguise.

I give her a small smile and then she leaves, none the wiser.

I know I’m being paranoid. And that I potentially have an overinflated sense of self. After all, it’s not like I’m the president. Why should anyone know who I am? I’m just a pageant queen.

But my face is plastered all over the internet and every social media website, and even if that woman doesn’t know me from Adam, I bet the teenage girls standing by the fast food counter do. I make a quick exit and get back on the road.

By the time the sun starts to go down, I’m pulling into the parking lot of a crappy motel.

One that my parents would never think to call and see if I was staying at.

They’ll call every Hilton between here and Canada, sure, but not the Sunny Day Motel.

And even if they do call, I gave the receptionist a fake ID that I’ve had since college, which has the name Winifred Holmes on it instead of Winsome Grant, and I paid in cash. I’m untraceable.

Plus, I’m betting that Star Mountain won’t be on their radar right away either.

Whenever I talked about Candice they hardly took an interest in who she is or what she does.

They know she lives near Bozeman and they know she works with horses, but that’s it—they have no clue that she’s a horse trainer who works in horse rehab and rescue.

Never mind that she’s my oldest friend and that we met when we were twelve and got assigned each other as pen pals in a school program.

I’m not even sure they’ll remember her name.

As I fall asleep that evening, tucked into a musty bed with a lumpy mattress, I realize that it actually might work out in my favor that my parents are such an awful combination of self-absorbed and controlling.

They’ll desperately want to get me back but have no idea how to find me.