4
R eese totters on her heels like she’s planning to fall over again. “Wait, what?”
“Your card,” I state. “Declined.” Not like I was planning to charge her for the room. But the water she splashed in my face was going to be an expensive as hell charge.
Her face falls.
Fuck. My day’s already gone to shit. First, the call from Jim, then the flat tire, and now I’m stuck playing babysitter to a girl I’ve never met. This strange girl who looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“Shit,” she whispers as her eyes go glassy.
Fuck no.
I keep walking, resisting the hard tug of my heart. A woman crying is my goddamn kryptonite. “Come on, it can’t be that bad, can it? Just call up someone and get a new one. Easy.”
The pissed-off expression on her face suggests she wants me to shut the hell up.
“Let’s go,” I say through gritted teeth. “I don’t have all day.”
“Hold on. My bags.”
I climb in behind the wheel of the UTV and fire up the engine.
Reese heads to her car and leans all the way across the driver’s side to reach the passenger seat. It’s hard not to do a double take when her skirt rides up, revealing tan, toned thighs, and a gorgeous round ass.
When Grady said he was sending some starlet to the ranch, I had my doubts. But Reese looks every bit the part of a dolled-up country singer. A sheer low-cut blouse tied high at the midriff. A tight black skirt. Boots covered in diamonds or crystals or whatever shit that makes her glow. Platinum blonde hair that’s as stick-straight and as skinny as she is.
Then there’s her face. Heart-shaped, high as hell cheekbones, long lashes, and pouty pink lips. Eyes that remind me of the pasture on the first day of spring.
Although, I’ve never seen eyes that young look so damn old.
I’d say she’s just my type if I didn’t know exactly what type she is. Spoiled. Drama. High maintenance. Everything Savannah was. Entirely too beautiful—and no doubt she knows it.
I already hate the way my cock sprung to attention the second I grabbed her wrist to keep her from face planting. Last thing I need is to take care of her.
But since I already promised my little brother I’d get her settled, the least I can do is play chauffeur. The sooner she’s at her chalet, the quicker she’s out of my life.
Louis Vuitton duffel and guitar case in hand, Reese trudges those long legs toward me. Taking her damn sweet time. Christ. She’s like a horse. Stubborn mule I’ll have to wrangle.
“Your chariot,” I say when she meets me at the UTV.
With a dirty look, she dusts off the seat with her long nails, then settles beside me.
I throw the UTV in drive. Reese squeaks and grabs the handhold bar, looking like she wants to throw herself from the UTV the second we start moving. On a roar, we head off in the direction of the chalets. I want Reese as far away from the ranch as possible. Out of sight, out of mind. Whatever she’s here for, she can handle it herself.
“Well?” she begins.
“Well, what?”
“Which brother are you?” Her lips quirk. “Dopey?”
I clench my jaw. “Ford.”
Intrigued, her eyebrow arches. “And you’re a mechanic?”
“Bartender. Outdoor activities. Ranch hand. Pick your poison.”
“Oh,” she sniffs.
That’s right, honey. I’m too low class for you. Not your type and you know it.
For some reason, it makes me feel like shit.
She’s a city girl. Even the fake country accent she puts on riles my nerves.
Reese opens the bag cradled on her lap and pulls out a licorice rope. I slow for a group of guests out on a horseback ride, using the opportunity to peek into her bag. A bottle of Coca-Cola. A bag of Funyuns. A jumbo bag of Sour Patch Kids.
Got it. She eats like shit. She’s a gorgeous girl, but she’s dead-eyed, dead tired. The best thing I can do is get her to her place and leave her there.
“So, you’re what?” I ask. “On the lam?”
She gives me a scathing look. “None of your business.”
“When you’re on the ranch, it is my business.” I don’t care, don’t want to know, but because Davis will ask, I better get it out of her while I can.
“It’s a long story.” She tucks her chin into her shoulder. “Just…pretend I’m not here.”
“Already on it.”
“And you’re already a pain in my ass,” she snaps back.
I take a sharp right onto a thin dirt road. “Good. One thing we agree on, honey.”
Her eyes flash with annoyance. “Don’t call me honey.”
Honey . Princess. Sweetheart . Lukewarm terms of endearment that let me keep women at a distance.
We drive the rest of the way in silence. The jingle of her bangles set my teeth on edge, but I keep my mouth shut. I’ve already argued to my limit today.
I slow when we reach the West Chalets. The large, storybook-looking homes sit at the edge of the forest, pressed up against the mountains and surrounded by untouched wilderness. Across the shimmering lake, the East Chalets mirror their charm. Both groups of chalets are a good fifteen-minute walk from the Lodge, far enough to feel secluded but close enough to remain connected.
I park in a clearing and cut the engine.
Reese faces me, wide-eyed. “All the way out here?”
“Privacy, princess. Thought you’d like it.”
As Reese gets out of the UTV, she freezes. Closing her eyes, her head inclines to the south. “There’s water around?”
“Good ear.” I nod at a pale buttercream two-story chalet to my right. “There’s a lake about ten yards past that chalet.”
Her gaze drifts to the forest. “Can I have that one?”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
She reaches for her bags, but I beat her to it. As I grab them, my hand brushes her arm, and a sizzling scorch dances over my skin. Warm, sweet, electric. I don’t move away as fast as I should, probably because some fucked-up part of me wants to hang onto that feeling as long as I can.
“This all you got?” I ask, clearing my throat. “A duffel bag and a guitar?”
The smile she gives me is dim. “Sounds like a country song.”
I almost chuckle.
Hefting her bags, I trudge across rock and grass. At the door, I fish through the ring of keys I grabbed earlier. Inside, I flip the lights. Behind me, Reese’s boots make sharp clicks on the wide- plank pine floors, the sound echoing up into the cathedral ceiling above.
I drop her bags on the kitchen table. “Here you go, honey. Home sweet fucking home.”
She stares at me for a long minute before her eyes move around the space.
Mine follow. Downstairs is one large living space. There’s a mini kitchen next to a plush bed. Upstairs, an alcove with a sitting room and a rock wall fireplace.
I cross the floor and head into the kitchen. A lace-curtained window over the sink looks out onto the small back porch. The yard’s a tangled, snarled mess. Shit.
Annoyed that I care, I turn, ready to tell her goodbye, tell her she’s on her own. But the words catch in my throat when I see her unpacking her duffel bag. A box of hair coloring. A laptop. Some files. A small stack of bright clothing and high heels. A tube of Pringles.
My stomach turns. I flinch at the meager contents. That’s it? Everything she needs, everything important to her, crammed into one fancy fucking duffel bag.
That’s when I spy a bottle of pills.
Fuck.
I think of Ruby. I think of myself. I think this is getting way more complicated than I need.
“Look,” I say, wiping a layer of dust from the countertop. “We don’t want trouble here.”
This time, those big green eyes lock onto mine, her lips quirking as if I amuse her. “You think I’m on the run from bad guys? Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
I highly doubt that. The strain on her face, the hunch of her shoulders, tell a different story. She looks ill at ease. Exhausted. Almost fragile. Like she’s barely keeping it together.
I don’t know what her health plan is, but damn if she’s getting enough sleep.
With a sigh, Reese sinks onto the bed. I watch as she unzips her boot from thigh to ankle. Another sigh of relief pops from those pretty pink lips. The tall sides of the boots fall open, exposing slender, tan thighs. Heat licks its way over my spine.
Fuck.
I jerk away and squeeze my eyes shut to fight the image. Fight the erection that’s popped up in my jeans. But it’s too late.
It’s attraction. A dangerous one. Especially with a woman like this. One with secrets. One who makes me want to wring her pretty little neck every time I look at her. Maybe it’s because she’s a mess. Maybe it’s that sad look in her eyes. Either way, I want her out of my head.
“So…” She crosses her arms over her chest. “What do I do now?”
Christ. She wants me to entertain her?
Hell, I could think of several ways. A few nights between the sheets, a bottle of wine. But that breaks my rules. No more locals. Even if she’s not staying.
I focus on getting the key off the ring. “There’s a general store back at the lodge. Dinner’s from five to eight in the cantina.”
She tilts her head. “And how do I get back to the lodge?”
“You walk, honey. It’s called roughing it. You don’t like it, you can leave.”
“I plan to,” she snaps. “You know, for a cowboy, you surprisingly do not have a way with words, or women, for that matter.”
I grunt.
“See,” she replies, smug. “My point proven.”
With that, she digs frantically through her purse until she finds her phone. She stares at it for a long second, but doesn’t turn it on.
I frown, crossing my arms. “If I had good common sense, I’d say you’re hiding out.”
Her chin lifts, a haughty motion that has my cock, once again, springing to life. “So, what if I am? It doesn’t affect you.”
“If it affects the ranch, it affects me.”
“It won’t.”
Again, there’s no elaboration. I tell myself it’s better this way. I don’t need to know, but it eats at me.
I give a nod to her pill bottle. “You ain’t out here to off yourself, are you?” It comes out gruffer than I intend. “Because I don’t want to walk in here tomorrow morning and find you face down on that bed.”
Explosives detonate in her eyes. “Then all your problems would be over, right?”
I meet her hard stare with one of my own. “Sure you’re not running away?”
“I’m sure.”
“Nobody likes a liar.”
“Good thing you don’t have to like me.”
A muscle jerks in my jaw as questions spin through my mind. Normally, I’d press her for more, but she’s not staying. Whatever this girl’s got herself into isn’t my business. The last thing I want to do is worry about her. Get attached.
She’s not my fucking problem.
But before I can say anything, Reese shakes her blonde head.
“Listen, Country Boy, I’ll save you the trouble,” she says with a sad little smile. “I’m just going to take what’s going on in your head and say it out loud. Fuck off, okay?”
Her cutting words have an ache building dead center in my chest.
Because I think they’re directed more for her than for me.
I clench my jaw, leaning over to drop the keys on the kitchen table.
Reese doesn’t reply, and sits there, her phone clutched in her hands as I turn and walk out of the chalet.
Trouble.
And none of my damn business.
Adrenaline. Chaos. That’s where I thrive. But promising Grady I’d let Reese stay at the ranch? I must be a damn idiot. I tried calling my little brother to ask him what the hell he saddled me with, but all I got was his voicemail.
At least she’s not my problem anymore.
I head to the Bullshit Box—a tiny, corrugated metal house we use as a business headquarters to debrief and decompress. And maybe do some paperwork.
Davis and Charlie barely look up from their desks, lifting their hands in greeting. Keena bounds out of her bed when I stomp inside.
I give her a hearty pet, then settle behind my desk. I open my guidebook, the reservation schedule that lets me see what groups to lead the next day. My eyes scan the words, quick and deft. Even though I no longer struggle with reading and spelling, to this day, damn if I don’t still feel some panic whenever I have to read in a public setting.
“How was today?” I ask.
A grunt from Charlie. “Good.”
“How good?”
Charlie gestures. “Time-to-have-a-beer good.”
I lean forward to fish a beer out of the cooler. The clock on the wall shows it’s 6 p.m. Three years ago the ranch was a twenty-four-seven job. But now, with more staff, we’re able to have lives instead of working ourselves to the bone. I’m proud of my little brother. He got his head on straight after the death of his fiancée. He makes a decent living. He has a good wife. All that matters in a cowboy’s world.
Charlie, a grin on his face, says, “I’m more interested in your day.”
I shoot him a dirty look. After the day I had, I’m not in the mood. “I know I was fuckin’ late, okay? I couldn’t help it.”
“You get her settled?” Davis asks, glancing up from his security monitor.
I crack the beer, lean back in my chair. “I did. West chalets.”
Davis gives me a smug look, like he already knows how attractive I find her. “How is she?”
I roll out my neck. “She’s a brat with an attitude to match.”
“You think she’ll be okay out there?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
Davis turns back to the security monitors. “Those chalets are in the middle of nowhere. Girls get scared of the dark.”
Tongue probing the inside of my cheek, I slide my gaze to the window. Maybe it was a bad idea to leave her up there alone. It’s obvious she’s incapable of handling anything herself.
“You assholes miss me?”
Our heads snap up to find Wyatt standing just outside the door.
Grinning, I shove out of my chair and welcome him with a hard hug and a slap to the back. “I see you survived Vegas in one piece, kid.” I frown when I see the sling on his arm. “Almost.”
“What happened?” Davis asks, eagle-eyed.
Wyatt gives a devil-may-care shrug. “Snagged rope yanked it out of place. It’ll be healed end of the week.”
Davis looks doubtful. “Seems like a good time to think about that offer, doesn’t it?”
Wyatt’s retirement has been up for debate ever since the West Coast Saddle Bronc Riding Association approached him last winter. They made him an offer to establish his own rodeo clinic.
Wyatt sighs, long and annoyed. “No. It doesn’t.”
Mine and Charlie’s eyes slice to Wyatt. Davis is bossy as hell and we all give him shit for it, but he does the work at keeping our younger brother on course. Wrangling Wyatt is a thankless job and almost physically impossible.
“Why not?” Davis argues. “Working with Rand Younger could be a good thing. You did it before.”
Wyatt’s face clouds at the mention of his old coach. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“You ain’t no spring chicken, Wy,” I tell him.
Wyatt took some hard falls last summer. Recovery was tough, even for the guy who let a horse’s hoof stomp open his bicep.
“You’re thirty-four,” Charlie says, kicking a boot up on his knee.
Wyatt helps himself to a beer and sits on the arm of the couch. “I’m still pretty spry, man.”
“In rodeo, that’s fuckin’ ancient,” Charlie points out. “You can’t do it forever.”
But he could. And he would.
We all know why he’s staying in it, even if he won’t say it—to look out for Fallon. If she’s on the circuit, so is he.
Charlie clears his throat. “Ruby and I are going to put an offer in on the old ice cream parlor.” A strange grin creases his rugged face, and I bite back a laugh. If anyone can get him to smile, it’s Ruby. “Time to give Ruby her flower shop.”
“Fuck yeah, man,” Wyatt says, relieved the attention’s off him.
“When you thinking?” Davis asks.
“As soon as we can. Ruby needs it,” Charlie says, his voice weary.
I feel for my brother. Ruby’s aching to be a mama, but it’s not in her cards. Not with her heart condition.
“Get in line, brother,” Davis says, a proud grin on his face. “We open Dakota’s bakery at the end of the season.” Last year, Dakota bought her father’s old general store. Late summer is when she plans to open her very own bakery called The Huckleberry.
Davis sighs, shuffles through the papers on his desk. “We need to start working up a list of changes for next year.”
“We just opened,” I complain.
“Yeah, well, shit’s changing fast,” Charlie agrees. “Gotta get ready.”
My head hurts from the news. The ranch is really changing, and what am I doing? Absolutely fucking nothing.
“Jim Donovan called me today,” I announce, and my brothers go quiet.
Davis’s face storms. “What’d he want?”
“Pricks got some nerve,” Charlie mutters.
“To offer me a job.” I tug a hand through my hair. “Wants me to be a commentator for the Renegades.”
“You’d leave?” Charlie asks.
Davis dips his chin.
“If I took it, yeah.” I take a sip of my beer, ignoring the way it settles heavily in my stomach. “Y’all drive me bat-shit crazy, anyway.”
Maybe it’s time to move the fuck on. I never thought I’d want any other life except Runaway Ranch. It saved me after Savannah. But what if I’m stuck? What if all I am is a washed-up pitcher with a bad rep and a video to haunt me?
I could lie and say I don’t want what my brothers have, but I do. I did. Once upon a time. A Georgia mansion in the country, and a damn good woman by my side. But that’s a fairytale. My ragged heart doesn’t dare touch anything resembling love.
“You boys bitching?”
Blinking out of my daze, I grin at the sight of Dakota and Ruby in the doorway. The Bullshit Box is now a full-on family affair.
Charlie chuckles and reaches for Ruby. “Bullshitting, baby. Bullshitting.”
“I have treats for you.” Dakota unpacks a mountain of pastries from the basket looped around her arm. “Homemade pop-tarts. Lemon pie with Fruity Pebbles. I’m thinking of serving these on opening day.”
A chair rips back and Wyatt’s already at the table.
“Did you find out what Reese’s story is, Ford?” Ruby asks, settling on Charlie’s lap.
Annoyed, I cross my arms. There are too many people bringing up Reese and making her my problem. “It’s none of my business.”
“The girl’s on my ranch,” Charlie reminds me, adjusting Ruby in his arms.
“We need to know who’s on the property.” Davis accentuates his point with a punch to his keyboard. “I don’t want trouble this year.”
I’d roll my eyes, but Davis is right. The last two years have been a shitshow. We’ve dealt with the Wolfingtons, actual fucking wolves, fires, slimy developers, and kidnappings. If we can get through the summer in one piece, it’ll be a miracle.
“Grady said something about her needing a break,” I mutter.
“Rehab?” Davis’s frown deepens.
I groan.
“She’s not just a girl, you know,” Wyatt says, opening his big fat mouth. How he heard the news through the grapevine, I have no goddamn idea. “She’s Reese Austin. A superstar country singer.” He shoves the last bite of pop-tart in his mouth. “She was in that movie ten years ago about a teenage horse trainer. The hot one who broke her neck.”
“Goddamn, Wyatt,” Charlie says, half-chuckling, half-wincing.
“She’s a big fuckin’ deal.” Wyatt stands and leans in to use my laptop. “I’ll show you.”
“Christ,” I complain, but stand to give him room. Wyatt hasn’t known about personal space since he started walking. “And how do you know all this?” I couldn’t give two shits about pop culture. I’ve never been one for trends or social media—I like to live in the moment—but right now, I realize I don’t know fuck all about Reese Austin.
Wyatt wiggles his brows. “Cause y’all are old and boring,” he says, and the three of us scoff. With a flourish, he spins the laptop to the group.
Everyone crowds around the desk. I hang back, arms crossed, refusing to watch. But it doesn’t last long. As soon as the song starts, I’m captivated by Reese Austin clad in nothing but a sheer slip dress. The crowd roars their approval as she rolls her hips and belts into the mic. The husky edge of her voice has a surge of blood racing to my dick.
Fuck.
“Look her up,” Davis orders when the video is over.
The news headlines aren’t any better.
Reese Austin, 26, Scores 1M-Per-Show Deal
Missing Country Singer in Rehab (Again) or in Hiding?
Where is Reese Austin? Troubled Star MIA
“So she is in hiding,” Ruby murmurs.
I scrape a hand through my hair, keep it there. “Shit.”
Davis looks exasperated. Even Charlie looks annoyed. All signs point to this being something bigger than her just taking a vacation. Just what we need. A big-name celebrity on our ranch, distracting the guests. Hiding out.
I lift my arms. “Look, I warned her—”
“You warned her?” Dakota cuts in. “Like, what, you’re going to break her legs?” she teases, brow arched.
Ruby’s wide blue eyes find me. “She’s out there all alone. What if she’s in trouble?”
“The only trouble that girl has is herself.” I cross my arms, hoping to ward off Ruby’s charm. Her big heart is the sweetest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen, but saying no to it is an exercise in will.
“You should have asked her to dinner,” Ruby admonishes.
I snort. “And get another drink splashed in my face? No thanks.”
My brothers snicker, and Ruby giggles as she says, “She got you good, Ford.”
Dakota smirks. “Can’t be the first time you’ve had a drink tossed in your face.”
Fifth time, but I don’t offer that fun fact.
The scream of an engine backfiring has Dakota and Ruby jumping.
“Fallon’s home,” Dakota breathes.
I keep my eyes on my little brother, whose entire body has gone rigid.
“She still staying at your place, or is she sleeping in her car?” I ask Dakota. Ever since her kidnapping, Fallon has avoided her cottage in town.
Fuck. It’s the wrong thing to say. Dakota’s eyes fill with tears.
Davis whips his head to me and glares before cupping his wife’s shoulder. “Make sure she comes to the house.”
Wyatt shoves out of his chair, his face suddenly soft and bordering on desperate. “I’ll go with you.”
Together, he and Dakota disappear out the door.
“Ask Reese to dinner,” Ruby sing-songs. She gives Charlie a little wave and exits.
“It’s sundress season,” Charlie mutters, his gaze glued to Ruby’s departing ass. Groaning, he scrapes a hand down his beard. “And my wife’s out to fucking kill me.”
“Reese,” Davis’s deep voice booms, bringing us back to the problem at hand. “If she’s in trouble, she’s your problem. However long she’s here, I want you on her.”
I pry my brain away from the image of me literally on top of Reese. Fucking her slow. Dragging my cock through the slit of her pretty pink pussy.
Jesus.
I glare at my twin. “What the fuck are you talking about, man?”
“She’s your responsibility.” He’s silent for a moment. “We’ll get Otis to take over the trail rides and the rest of the excursions.”
“Bullshit,” I blast. Everyone suddenly wanting to bust my balls is pissing me off.
“You can’t do it all, Ford.”
“It’s the start of the season,” Charlie says, agreeing with Davis. He’s becoming as responsible as my twin.
“How come I get saddled with this bullshit?” I grumble, hating my life. Already this girl’s a pain in my ass. Messing up my daily routine. Making me sweat.
“We’re married,” Charlie says with a cocky shrug.
I roll my eyes. “Your choice.”
Davis stands, roughing Keena’s fur. “I got a kid.”
“Fuck you,” I say to him. “What about Wyatt?”
“Wyatt’s got enough problems,” Charlie says softly. He glances out the window, his blue eyes following the slow lope of Wyatt to the pasture. To Fallon.
“Shit,” I mutter.
Davis and Charlie grin in unison. “Good luck.”
I flip them off.
When my brothers clear out, I spin the laptop back my way and hit play on the next video.
Reese stands on the end of a catwalk, dolled up beyond recognition in a tiny sequined dress, fake eyelashes, too much makeup, and heels as high as skyscrapers.
Fans scream the lyrics as she sings something about having heart-eyes for a cowboy on a white horse. The song’s stupid, but her voice… Jesus. A blast of a falsetto with a faint country twang.
I squint at the screen as if I can see right through the facade of her sky-high boots and bleach-blonde hair. How much of her is an act? How much of her is the real deal?
She wiggles around the stage, shaking that perky ass of hers. Fucking gorgeous. I can’t lie.
The camera zooms in.
My stomach bottoms out.
Fuck.
She’s crying.
And no one even fucking notices.