Sweet-Talking Orc Cowboy (Brides of the Lonesome Creek Orcs #4)

1. Allison

Allison

A s I took the road toward the orc cowboy tourist destination called Lonesome Creek, my old Honda coughed like it was dying, which seemed fitting since I felt half-dead myself.

Days of driving cross-country with everything I owned crammed into the back seat and trunk would do that to a person.

My neck ached, my eyes burned, and I was pretty sure I smelled like truck stop coffee and desperation.

But I’d made it. Somehow.

The town spread out in front of me like something from an old Western movie, complete with freshly stained wooden boardwalks and false-front buildings painted in bright colors. A sign with a cartoon-style tusked orc wearing a cowboy hat grinning beneath the words welcomed me.

I’d researched this place online before running, but seeing it in person still made me blink.

Actual orcs, living among humans like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Six months ago, I would’ve thought the whole idea was insane.

Now, it felt exactly like the kind of place where someone could disappear.

Not long ago, orcs emerged from below the ground—the Orc Kingdom , per their liaison. They formed treaties and now lived among us, doing jobs, walking in the park, and dating and marrying humans. Who would’ve thought?

My car wheezed to a stop in front of the general store. Through the large windows, I could see shelves stocked with everything from cowboy boots to what looked like handmade pottery. I turned off the engine and gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles went white.

I’d made it. I was safe now. At least for today.

I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and climbed out, my legs unsteady after so many hours on the road. The air here smelled different from New York. Cleaner. Like pine trees and open spaces instead of exhaust fumes and too many people crammed together.

A bell chimed as I pushed through the front door and paused to check out all the amazing items offered on the shelves lined up in rows in the front of the general store.

Except for a few modern items for sale, everything else looked and felt like I’d stepped back into the old west. If I wanted to buy a cowboy hat?

They had it. Gingham floor-length gowns?

Ditto. I grinned as I took in the packages of locally made sorhox jerky, though I wasn’t quite sure what a sorhox could be. Some sort of orc cow or pig, I guessed.

The orc woman behind the counter in the back of the room looked up with a smile.

She had to be seven feet tall, with medium green skin and thumb-sized tusks peeking past her lips.

She was anything but intimidating in her pink and green floral grannie-gown, an actual poke bonnet on her head that matched, and a daring, bright pink faux pearl necklace that looked awesome against her skin.

“Welcome to Lonesome Creek,” she called out in a warm voice as I strode down the center aisle toward her. “I’m Aunt Inla. Everyone calls me that. You look like you’ve been traveling.”

It was a tourist town. Didn’t everyone look like they’d been traveling?

Warmth showed in her eyes, and it lit the same feeling inside me, widening my own grin.

“I have,” I said. “I’m looking for work, and I saw online that some businesses here might be hiring.”

Inla’s dark eyes brightened. “Oh, wonderful. We can always use more hands around here. What sort of work are you looking for?”

“Anything, really. I have experience in retail, some food service. I’m a hard worker, and I learn fast.” The words came out in a rush, desperation bleeding through despite my efforts to sound casual.

“I’m sure we can find you something.” Inla came around the counter, moving with surprising grace. “Why don’t you fill out an application, and I’ll see what I can do? There are several businesses in town that could use help.”

She handed me a clipboard with a standard job application attached. I stared down at the blank lines, my heart thudding fast. Name, address, previous employment, references. All the things I couldn’t give honest answers to anymore.

My fingers tightened on the pen. I’d practiced this, creating a believable background that wouldn’t fall apart under casual scrutiny. Allison Tuttle from New York City, looking for a fresh start after a bad breakup. Close enough to the truth to feel natural, far enough from reality to keep me safe.

Taking a seat on a stool parked in the corner near the counter, I started filling in the blanks with my fake information, trying to keep my handwriting steady.

Around me, the store hummed with quiet activity.

A few customers dressed in new appearing Wild West gear browsed the aisles, their voices mixing with the soft music playing overhead. Normal sounds. Safe sounds.

“Oh, you simply must see these while you’re here,” Inla said, appearing beside me with a pottery mug in her hands. “My nephew Hail makes the most beautiful pieces. He brought this one by yesterday.”

The mug was gorgeous, with a deep blue glaze that reminded me of ocean depths, darker at the bottom and lighter toward the rim where it caught the store’s lights like captured starlight.

The shape was perfect in its imperfection, with one side slightly fuller than the other, the handle curved at an angle that would fit naturally in someone’s grip, as if the clay had been coaxed rather than forced into form.

Someone had put real love into creating this piece.

“It’s incredible,” I said. “Your nephew made this?”

“He did. He has a pottery barn on the edge of town where he works. We built it for him.” Pride shone in her eyes.

“He used to do all his work at his own place, but when we could barely keep his art on the shelves, we talked him into moving most of his operation into town. Sweetest orc you’ll ever meet, though terribly shy.

” Inla beamed. “He’s been making pottery since he was small, but he’s gotten so much better since we moved to the surface.

Something about the natural light up here bringing out his creativity. ”

I turned the mug in my hands, admiring the way the glaze caught the light. There was something about it that made my chest feel less tight, as if it said that beauty could exist in the world even when everything else felt broken.

“He sells his work?” I asked.

“Oh yes, I have many of his pieces here in the store. He’s too modest to charge what they’re really worth, but tourists love them.” Inla’s expression softened. “He could use more confidence in his craft. And maybe some help with the business side of things if the right applicant came along.”

Something in her tone made me look up. I found a calculating glint in her dark eyes that suggested this conversation wasn’t as casual as it seemed.

“Is his one of the businesses that might be hiring?” I asked.

“He might be.” Inla ran her tusks across her upper lip. “He needs someone who appreciates good craftsmanship and isn’t afraid of hard work. Someone who might understand that the best art comes from the heart.”

I finished filling out the application and handed it back to her. “I’d love to meet him if you think he might have something.”

“I think that could be arranged.” Inla tucked the clipboard under her arm. “He’s holding a pottery demonstration this afternoon at his barn. Why don’t you stop by? Then you could see what he might be offering without feeling pressured.”

She gave me directions, along with a business card for the town’s only hotel, located on the upper floors of the saloon. The rates were reasonable, and more importantly, it said they took cash. Cash was hard to track.

I could walk; it was only a few doors down.

“Thank you.” A touch of hope stirred in my chest for the first time in weeks. Maybe this could work. Maybe I really could disappear into this strange little town and build something new.

As I turned, Aunt Inla caught my arm. “You should park your vehicle in the alley behind the store.” She nodded toward the back of the building. “We like to keep Main Street free of modern conveniences.”

That made sense.

I drove around back, my tires crunching on the loose gravel.

Before stepping out, I scanned the quiet alley, a habit born of necessity rather than paranoia.

The emptiness felt both like a blessing and a threat.

After locking the car, I tugged my bag higher on my shoulder and rounded the end of the main street.

The boardwalk forced me into the stream of tourists with their fresh-from-the-store Western gear and phones snapping images.

I kept my pace steady as I wove through them.

The crowd offered anonymity, and it was true that there was safety in numbers, but being among so many bodies made my neck prickle.

Anyone could be watching. Anyone could be a few steps behind, hidden by the sea of strangers.

I couldn’t scan faces effectively, couldn’t track movement in my peripheral vision with so many people shuffling around me.

The Red Fang Saloon loomed ahead, its weathered sign creaking in the breeze. I quickened my steps and was grateful when I’d passed through the swinging doors and stepped inside the cool interior that was much less crowded than the main street.

Check-in took no time at all and the orc with a nametag saying Greel didn’t ask any personal questions.

He pointed to the stairs in the back left part of the big open room full of small tables with only a few people sitting, dining, or drinking.

I made my way along the side of the room and up the stairs, taking the hall at the end. Only after I’d stepped inside and locked the door did some of my tension ease. Alone. No one watching.

Hidden? We’d soon see.

The hotel room was nicer than I’d expected.

Clean and well-furnished with a huge bed, a small table, and a desk with a comfortable chair parked in front of a window overlooking the town.

Plus an attached bathroom with an authentic-appearing claw-footed tub I ached to fill with hot water and sink into.

I’d never leave it. I paid for three nights up front and carried my single suitcase inside.

Everything else I owned was still in the car, but I wouldn’t need those things here unless I chose to stay.

I’d learned to travel light. Possessions weighed you down when you needed to run.

I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled out my phone, staring at the black screen. No missed calls, which was good. They may not have discovered my new number yet. But they would, eventually. They always did.

When the phone rang in my hands, I nearly dropped it. Unknown number. My heart stopped.

Had they found me already?

The phone kept ringing, the sound too loud in the small room. I should answer it. It could be innocent, maybe someone from the hotel or even Aunt Inla. My hands shook as I stared at the screen, and every instinct I’d developed over the past two years screamed danger.

The ringing stopped. A moment later, a voicemail notification appeared.

I didn’t check it. Instead, I turned the phone off and shoved it into my purse. If someone was looking for me, they’d have to work harder than a simple phone call.

But the damage was done. The fragile sense of safety I’d been building crumbled, replaced by the familiar bulge of fear in my belly.

I wasn’t safe. I might never be safe again.

I forced myself to take deep breaths. Think logically. It could’ve been anyone, even a wrong number. Just because I was paranoid didn’t mean they’d tracked me down. Yet.

The pottery demonstration was in an hour. I could go, meet this Hail person, maybe even sound him out about a job. Or I could get back in my car and keep running.

I looked around the hotel room with its pretty gingham curtains and polished, wide-plank floor. This place was nicer than any room I’d had in weeks. It was a place to sleep, a chance to catch my breath. Maybe even a chance to belong somewhere for the first time in forever.

I wasn’t ready to give that up.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

It was time to see what this pottery barn was all about.