3
W hiskey. It’s the first thing on my mind and the last thing I need.
Grady’s Mustang rattles down every bump and divot in the winding drive. I gape as I pass under a massive iron sign that proclaims Runaway Ranch. Montana has stunned me. With its indigo skies and emerald forests, I envy every creature that gets to live out here. That gets to be free.
Sleeping at a gas station in Kansas City was my first act of freedom.
So far, so good. So long Gavin.
Yeah, right.
I’ve only been gone—missing, I suppose—for fifty-two hours and already Gavin has a story in the Nashville Star .
Rehab for Country Singer Reese Austin. All Projects Suspended Indefinitely.
Rehab. Gavin’s deep dark secret. Our cover story. It always works. Because to the world, I’m just one more washed-up singer.
Not to mention, Gavin needs to cover his ass. Probably because I’m fully in breach of my contract. What’s in it—God knows. I’ve always signed whatever my manager set in front of me. He was constantly reminding me that I owed him. That I was his investment.
Well, no more. As soon as I’m settled, I plan to review my contract and figure out what the fuck I signed back when I was sixteen.
I hope it’s not too late.
I haven’t turned on my phone yet. I’m too afraid of Gavin’s wrath.When I think about what I’m skipping out on—the album I’m supposed to write, awards shows—the black tide of responsibility threatens to sweep me up. But I had to run. One more show, one more fake smile, and I’d lose it. Maybe I already have. I feel so detached from the world that created me.
A shiver snakes its way over my spine as I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Despite how he’s treated me, Gavin’s the only family I have. He cares about me. He has to. Doesn’t that mean something?
Guiltily, I reach across the seat and stick my hand into a bag of red licorice. I enjoy every bite of the overly sweet sugar while I let a plan rise in my thoughts.
I need this. It’s safe here. As long as no one in my other life can find me. Lie low , Grady had said. And that’s what I plan to do. Rest my brain, review my contract, and figure out a way to make my life mine.
Heal.
If that black hole wants to follow me around this ranch. Let it.
The Mustang gurgles. I wince and pound the dash. It hasn’t let up with the noise since my last gas station stop. Hours of that sound has fried my nerves, but all I could do was drive on.
The road goes on for another quarter mile, passing a line of cabins, until I round the corner. And there, rising like the mountains surrounding it, is a stunning lodge.
Three stories tall, its showpiece is a massive front-facing vaulted window that overlooks the ranch. A large outdoor deck surrounds it. Guests file in and out of the massive double doors, cold beers in their hands.
I made it.
I did it.
Myself.
Gratefulness and hope make my heart flutter as I stare at my surroundings. The green fields. A barn the size of a mansion. Horses roaming in an emerald pasture. It’s beautiful. It’s breathtaking. It’s—
“Shit!” I slam the breaks, narrowly avoiding colliding with a horse the size of a tank.
“Lady.” Atop the horse, a cowboy glares down at me through my open window. “Watch where you’re going.”
I exhale and feel my stomach drop. “Sorry.”
Quickly, I park in the gravel driveway, haphazardly taking up two parking spots. On numb legs, I hop out, leaving my bags in the car. I stopped by my penthouse to grab only the necessities: my guitar, my laptop, and whatever clothes were within arm’s reach.
I’m sleep-deprived and exhausted. I want a bed. A bed for one , just me. I want clean, cool sheets. A fully stocked fridge. Not like I would know what to buy though. Or eat, for that matter. For the first time in a long time, I don’t have anyone telling me what to do or where to go. It’s heaven.
But really, it’s Runaway Ranch. My temporary home.
Caught up in a wave of guests, I step inside the lodge and finally allow myself to breathe.
With its high ceilings and natural light, the lodge is alive and breathing. A line of people patiently waits to check in and boisterous laughter fills the air. Balloons, streamers, and a sign proclaiming OPENING DAY hang from the high ceilings. Music plays over the speakers—country. Phenomenal country. The kind of country that got me into singing just like my daddy.
Old-school Randy Travis. My lips move with the tune as I glance around the space.
In one corner, there’s a rustic-looking bar with three cowhide stools waiting at the counter. A neon sign on the wall glows BAR M. The sight of it makes my mouth water. I shouldn’t drink, but it’ll help take the edge off of all this newness.
On the drive here, I promised myself I’d be New Reese. No drinking. No dancing. No dark mind. Clean slate.
But God. Old Reese really wants a drink right now.
My heart hammers as I head for the bar, aware of stares on me. It’s right around this time I’m realizing if I wanted to lie low, the outfit isn’t helping. At my penthouse, I just threw on whatever was closest. Mini skirt, mini shirt—the only things Gavin lets me wear. You have a style, Reese, he’d always remind me. It doesn’t include cozy. Thigh-high boots covered in crystals cast rainbows across the wood wall.
I look like a train wreck. But that’s me, right? Reese Austin, messy as fuck.
I rummage through my bag and slip on a pair of oversized sunglasses.
After five minutes of waiting in line, it’s my turn.
I belly up to the bar.
“Hi, one second, please.” A pretty girl with long strawberry blonde hair dives for a beer glass. She looks flustered as she pulls the draft and spills half of it on her shaky hands.
A door slams open. I turn, expecting more guests, but it’s another cowboy. His loud boot stomps echo throughout the lodge. He looks pissed. The front of his T-shirt is covered in grease.
From somewhere to the left, there’s a loud shout. “You’re late.”
I glance over and see a huge guy with muscles like bowling balls pointing a finger at the cowboy.
“No fucking shit,” the cowboy snaps, glaring. After a string of curses, he takes his place behind the bar, rushing to help the blonde girl.
I bite my lip.
I may be exhausted, and he may be filthy, but I’m not blind.
Dusty and muddy, he looks like he just galloped out of the lyrics of a country song. His plain gray T-shirt stretches tight across his broad expanse of chest. Tan, sinewy forearms wrapped with veins show he’s worked in the fields, if not the gym. He’s the word country boy come to life, and I can’t stop staring. A real cowboy. Not like those pretty posers I’ve worked with.
My eyes trail lower. Huge, calloused hands. Long, nimble fingers. A tapered waist hugged by blue jeans.
“Here, Fairy Tale.” His lazy drawl interrupts my wandering gaze, and I watch as he takes the tray of glasses from the girl. The softness of his tone does something strange to my heart.
My eyes shoot back up to his face. A mistake. That sharp, square jaw. Full, lush lips. A mouth that would feel good on a dark starry night.
Mind off the cowboy. Focus on the drink.
That’s when I realize he’s frowning at me.
“Help you?”
Finally, some service.
Pushing my sunglasses on top of my head, I give him my most charming smile. “Hi.”
He wears a backward baseball cap that covers a shaggy head of golden hair. It reminds me of a lion’s mane. His narrowed eyes are deep brown streaked with gold, almost honeyed. Like the whiskey I want.
He crosses his arms, jerks up his chin. “What?” The question is brisk, annoyed.
“Whiskey. Top shelf.”
He says nothing, just gives me a lazy once-over and an eyebrow raise.
While he pulls the whiskey, I set my arms on the bar top, adjusting the bangles on both of my wrists. The familiar jingling sound settles over me like a lullaby.
I glance up and the cowboy stands there, frozen, whiskey bottle gripped in his fist. His eyes land on my bangles. Something like recognition filters into his gaze. “Not from here, are you?” he asks, sounding surly.
I rack my brain to think if I’ve seen him before. No. He’s just a dusty, crabby cowboy who should be pouring me a drink. “How’d you guess?”
His nostrils flare. “Because when people are stuck on the side of the road in a small town, you typically stop to help.” He pours whiskey into a crystal glass.
I scoff. “Strange men, hitchhikers? I don’t think so.”
His frown deepens to a scowl. “Let me guess, that’s your car out there takin’ up three parkin’ spots.”
Whatever’s put this bad-tempered cowboy in an even worse mood, I want no part of. My sigh is weary as I drum my nails on the lacquered countertop. “Look, give me the drink and I’ll go.”
His gaze returns to me like a magnet. “Let me break it down for you, honey. You won’t get far givin’ the orders ‘round here.”
I bristle at the term honey . I’ve been called it every day of my life. It’s just a throwaway word for a throwaway girl.
“Don’t call me honey.” I swallow, push aside the pang of hurt. “Seriously. Give me my goddamn drink.”
He lays a long, cocky look on me, instantly annoying me. “The whiskey’s for paying customers. Guests.” His lip quirks up. “You have a room here? You lost? Because I have a map with directions to the best way out of town.”
For a moment, I tense, unable to shake off that unwanted feeling. Then I slam my purse on the bar and rip out my wallet. “Here,” I snap, throwing my credit card at him. It bounces off his broad chest, and I watch those long, calloused fingers snatch it up.
“Fuck me.” He stares at my credit card as if it’s a bomb. A muscle jerks in that chiseled jaw as his amber eyes lift to mine. “You’re Reese?” he demands.
“I am.” I toss my hair. “And I suppose you are the unfortunate grouchy cowboy welcome wagon.”
He scowls.
My jaw tightens. I hold out my hand. “The drink.”
The glass bobs in his hand like he’s considering something. Then he drawls, “Sorry, honey. Don’t think you need this today.”
I watch in horror as he downs my drink in one long shot. Smirks.
A squeak comes from the blonde girl behind him. Her blue-eyed gaze pinballs from me to the cowboy.
Fists clenched, I stomp my heel. “You—you asshole.”
“Tell it to the judge. Here.” With a cocky grin that lights a fire in my chest, he slides a glass of water toward me. “Cool off.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to fight off the Old Reese. I picture the cowboy pinned beneath a tractor, or better yet, his throat in my hands. The image is only semi-satisfying, and I can only fight my impulses for so long. So, I give in.
I grab the glass of water and splash it in his face.
There’s a collective gasp from the guests in the lodge, then…silence.
I stare at him, and he stares at me. His gaze sharpens, as if he’s deciding whether to choose violence, then he drags a hand down his water-soaked face.
Satisfied with my recklessness, I turn on my heel and storm out of the lodge.
I stand in the late afternoon sun, chest heaving. Worry rising.
Grady was wrong. I don’t need this ranch. I don’t need anyone. Let alone a cowboy with anger management issues. I’ll get back in my car, find a map, and head somewhere else. Figure out what to do next.
There’s only one problem.
My car.
There’s smoke rising from the hood. Karma, I suppose for taking up multiple parking spots.
Panic swarms me, that tight familiar feeling of suffocation.
“Oh shit.” I fan my hands over the hood, heat seeping into my fingertips. “Shit, shit, shit.” My high-heeled boots wobble across the gravel as I hover around the car, pushing at the smoke like I can make it all go away.
Like that black spot isn’t hanging over my shoulder laughing at me.
It can’t get any worse.
“That ain’t gonna help you, honey.” The sharp southern drawl sinks into my stomach and pools there like warm butter.
I grit my teeth and close my eyes. “Leave me alone.”
The crunch of gravel tells me he’s circling me. Like a vulture. “I’d love to. But I promised my little brother I’d give you a place to stay and since big brotherly duty frowns on reneging on promises…looks like you’re stuck with me.”
Ugh. Of course, this broody cowboy is Grady’s brother.
I cock an eye to find the man staring at me with a furrowed brow. My breath hitches. In the sunlight, those serious amber eyes are accompanied by faint crinkles at the corners. It’s unfairly sexy.
“Not you,” I say, horrified. “You’re the last person I want to be stuck with.”
He heaves an annoyed sigh, looming over me as he places a disarmingly big hand on the engine hood. “Believe me, I feel the same way about you.”
I draw back at the way he says it—at the look on his face. It’s an expression I know all too well. Loathing combined with a tinge of amusement.
Fantastic.
The cowboy slaps greasy hands on the thighs of his jeans. “Whether or not you wanna get away, you won’t get far with this car. You got a leaky radiator.”
I blink. “Since when?”
A vein pulses in his temple. “Since I looked at it.”
The hope I had mere moments ago disintegrates.
“It started making a noise back in Illinois.” My tongue prods at the inside of my cheek. “I just kept going.”
“Yeah, you would do that, wouldn’t you?”
Heat darkens my cheeks. “How long will it take to fix?”
“Don’t know,” he clips.
I roll my eyes. “Aren’t you a cowboy? You’re supposed to be charming. Helpful.”
He snorts so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t pop a vein.
“So what do I do?” I ask, tilting my head back to keep eye contact. His tallness is startling. They must grow them like weeds on Runaway Ranch.
“You stay here.” A shrug of his broad shoulder. “Unfortunately.”
“Absolutely not.” With a huff, I stalk away from him. But the boots I’m wearing have no grip and I slip and slide over the gravel drive.
My knees are buckling when a big, calloused hand wraps around my wrist. “Please tell me you ain’t planning to wear these boots around the ranch.” His voice is stern, but the way he grips my wrist is almost tender.
I glance up to find his eyes dragging their way up my bare thigh. I have to fight the low swoop in my stomach. “So what if I am?”
He grunts. “Bangles need work, too. You’re loud as hell.”
“Good thing I’ll be out of here before you can work yourself into a froth,” I say with my sweetest smile. I’ve already decided there is no way in hell I’m staying. I’ll tell Grady thank you, but hard pass, and tomorrow morning, I’ll hit the road.
Even if I have no idea where I’m going.
He stares at me, his gaze a dark storm brewing on the horizon. His hand stays wrapped around my wrist, the sensitive skin there tingling with a memory I try to push away. Burning. Falling into dark.
He must read something in my face because he drops my wrist.
Without another word, he strides toward a monstrous camo-colored UTV, muttering uncomplimentary phrases about women raising his blood pressure. He stops, turns and stares at me for a long beat, then waves a hand. “Well, get over here.”
It’s stern. Disapproving. Country and cavalier. It shouldn’t make my pulse race.
“Where are we going?” I ask, cupping my bangles in my hand and jogging after him. God forbid I jingle on the way.
“I’m taking you to your lodging.” He looks like he hates the idea.
I halt. “Not in that.” For a long second, I miss limos. Private drivers.
He grunts and keeps going, his long lope casting lazy shadows across the gravel drive. “Suit yourself. But trust me, it’s a long hike to where you’re staying.”
I remain rooted in place, arms crossed, unwilling to budge until he tells me where exactly he’s taking me.
“By the way,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Your card’s been declined.”