Chapter 3
I’m not sure how long I lay there. Could have been years or seconds—but the sky has fully transitioned to night by the time I can draw breath evenly back into my lungs, so I’m guessing minutes—lying there on my back. Nothing seems broken, but my body will be black and blue by the morning. So lucky.
After these past two reckless nights, my body is bound to divorce me.
I take a deep breath and creak up slowly.
There’s no evidence of Moondoggy. Knowing him, I’m sure he’s run back to the stable.
Punk-ass horse. Wincing, I shift slowly to the side so I can grab my phone from my back pocket, but all I find in my pocket is an old Tootsie wrapper.
I scrabble around on the ground around me but can’t find my phone anywhere.
Then it hits me. My phone dropped out of my pocket when I was saddling Moondoggy, so I picked it up and put it on a hay bale outside the stall while I finished up.
I forgot to pick up the damn phone again before I left.
Walking back to Jo’s is going to be slow, painful, and dark as hell. I groan loudly as I crawl up to standing, thankful no one is around to witness this.
If John hadn’t abandoned me and found ever-lasting happiness in the arms of another woman, I’d be safe and warm at home, with my feet in cozy socks, tucked under the thigh of my future husband while we argued over what to watch on TV.
The rage that fills me temporarily blocks out the pulsing throb in my lower back.
I suck in air and let out the biggest scream I can muster.
“FUCK YOU, JOHN!!” I bellow. I’ve blossomed (or rotted, depending on who you ask) into a night wraith, wandering the countryside, shrieking havoc. Now that my rage bubble has left my body, I feel even more empty and alone than I did before.
Fuck.
You.
John.
“No one mentioned Silvercreek had a real-life banshee. Do you make it a habit of wandering at night, screaming profanities?”
For a millisecond, I think my subconscious has assumed the voice of a baritone, but the crunch of leaves behind me has me spinning around as quickly as my screaming limbs can manage, my heart lodged firmly in my throat.
“Who’s there?” I ask, my voice a barely audible squeak. I can barely make out the shape of individual tree trunks, let alone the owner of that voice.
“Whoever this John fellow is, he’s getting off light.
You’re the one risking hypothermia and brain injury.
Maybe you should switch revenge tactics.
” A twig snaps to my right, and the darkness seems to split in two.
The massive shape comes closer. A large, shadowy figure riding the biggest, blackest horse I’ve ever seen—a straight up hell hound of horseflesh—is headed straight for me.
My odds at escaping them are zero. Scanning the ground around me in a panic, I spy a decently large branch by my feet and lunge for it. I may be a sitting duck right now, but I’m going to go down swinging and squawking.
“Easy, Banshee. Consider me all the kings horses and all the kings men.”
“You have a really bizarre way of talking for a trespasser.” I raise the branch above my shoulder like a bat and ease into a crouch.
The rider chuckles, a smooth rumble that fills the space between us.
He’s close enough now that I can make out some of his features.
He’s wearing a cowboy hat and is tall and broad, built like someone who could easily throw me into a sack and carry me over his shoulder.
He’s dressed in head-to-toe black and riding a massive horse that’s also black.
It’s no wonder I couldn’t see him under the trees.
His horse paws the ground impatiently, and I’m surprised the ground doesn’t crack open and spew lava.
“Are you done threatening us with your stick and ready to get out of here? Or do you want to howl at the moon some more?” the man asks, tipping up his hat while leaning casually onto the saddle pommel. It’s a pose straight out of a John Wayne movie: the all-knowing cowboy lean. It’s infuriating.
“I don’t know who you think you are, but there’s no way I’m letting you take me anywhere. This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”
The man reaches into his jacket pocket, and I brace myself. He clocks my unease.
“Don’t worry, just a phone.” From the light of his screen, I can finally make out a few of his features. Sharp cheekbones, strong jaw, good nose. Of course. I’m being potentially kidnapped by the Marlboro Man. He holds the phone out for me, and suddenly Jo’s voice rings out over the silence.
“Paige! Are you okay??” her voice is high and clearly worried.
“Jo??” Why would the kidnapper be working with Jo?
“Shayne called and said there was a riderless horse roaming around, and my heart hasn’t stopped pounding since. What happened?”
“A deer jumped out and spooked Moondoggy. I took a spill but I’m fine. Who’s Shayne?”
“I’m Shayne,” the rider answers. Obviously.
“Shayne, meet Paige. Paige this is Shayne, our new wrangler.”
“Nice to meet you, Paige, Banshee of Silvercreek.” I can tell by his tone of voice that he’s smiling in that all-knowing-cowboy way, and my hackles immediately rise.
He’s probably some small minded, misogynistic, dirt boob, and I just don’t have it in me to play nice right now. My body hurts too badly.
“Not so nice to meet you, Shayne. Here’s a tip—when you come upon a woman at night while wearing all black, riding a hell horse, maybe introduce yourself first?”
Shayne chuckles again and then leans down to me, palm open. “Point taken. Care to go for a ride?”
“I’ll have a bath ready for you Paige, get back here in one piece. Thanks for finding her, Shayne. I promise your second day on the job will involve zero damsels.”
“I’m not a dams—” Jo hangs up on the other end before I can finish. I feel foolish, and my butt is throbbing. A bath sounds incredible, but sharing a saddle with Shayne does not. He’s still patiently waiting for me to take his hand.
“I’m going to need more than a hand to get up on this thing.
Any chance you have an elevator handy?” Shayne smiles, a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness, then grips my wrist and pulls me up onto the saddle in front of him like it’s no big deal.
I’m 5’10—it’s a big deal. He feels impossibly warm and solid behind me, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with how tired, cold, and sore I am.
Shayne clicks his tongue, and we’re off. Away from the shadow of the trees, the moon lights up the pasture enough for us to slowly make our way towards the small twinkling lights of the ranch house.
I’m doing my best to hold myself stiffly away from Shayne, but my back cramps after a few minutes. I try shifting and rotating my hips to ease the discomfort, but a strong grip on my waist stops me.
“If you wouldn’t mind stopping that, I’d really appreciate it.” His warm breath tickles my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
“I fell off a horse, man. Try to have some compassion,” I reply, tersely.
“I could tell you the same thing. Your movements are…distracting.”
My face flames, and I let out an involuntary snort. I mumble my apologies and lean even further forward, my stomach digging painfully into the pommel. This is pure hell.
“If you lean any farther forward, you’re going to find yourself eating dirt again.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the real estate on this saddle is miniscule.”
“Trust me, I’ve noticed.” My face flames again. I can’t tell if his tone is more annoyed or joking this time. “Lean back on me. Your back has to be screaming after that fall. Just promise to lay off the gyrating.”
“I was attempting to cat-cow. I was not gyrating.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but you’re on a horse.”
“It’s a yoga stretch. Do they not teach yoga in cowboy school?”
He chuckles, and the sound of it reverberates deep into my bones.
After a few more minutes, I cave and let myself lean back into him slightly.
His warmth is intoxicating; he’s an actual human heating pad.
I need to distract myself from the feel of his torso against my back, so I say the first thing that pops into my head.
“This horse is massive. I bet he could pull a house.”
Shayne laughs again. “This is Duke. He’s a Friesian. My family used to breed them a long time ago.”
There’s an air of sadness in the way he said his family “used” to breed these giant horses that immediately piques my interest. But before I can ask him to dive deeper into his horse trauma, he pipes up again.
He’s either doing a bang-up job of distracting me from the pulsing ache in my bones or he’s just tall, dark and chatty.
“So Banshee, which do you prefer? Night swims or night rides? Both seem to have their share of plusses and minuses.” Ding ding ding.
It hits me like a herd of Friesians. The grumpy camper and the cowboy are the same man.
Now it makes sense why he sounded familiar, and oh my god he must think I am certifiable on soooo many levels. The horror. The shame. I feel it all.
He’s seen me naked. And I just cat-cowed into his crotch!
“That was you last night?” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I seem to have made it a habit of coming upon you howling at the moon.”
“Oh my god, I am so embarrassed,” I hiss, hiding my head in my hands.
He can’t see my face but still. If only a black hole would open up next to us so I could jump in and save myself from this painfully awkward interaction.
On the long, long list of embarrassing things I’ve done in my life (I used to take ribbon dancing very seriously), this takes the number one spot by a long shot.