13
A t six, I meet Ford in front of the lodge. He’s already waiting for me, wearing his usual uniform of torn blue jeans, a tight T-shirt, baseball cap, and boots. In his hand, an iced coffee and a white paper sack.
His heated gaze meets mine as I approach, and for a second, there’s a deep tug in my stomach. Like my body has nothing better to do than be attached to him.
“Coffee, breakfast,” he says, handing me the bag.
“Which one is poisoned?” I ask.
He ignores me in favor of checking the two-way radio attached to his hip.
I peek in the bag, and my mouth waters. A pastry the size of a small island is inside, along with two hard-boiled eggs and a bottled water.
“Thank you.” I laugh lightly. “I didn’t know Runaway Ranch had delivery.”
“New foot.” He grins at me. No contempt or anger in his smile, just a simple honestness. It shouldn’t be so sexy, but it is. “If you’re workin’ on the ranch, you need fuel. Breakfast every morning.”
Gavin would be furious. About a lot of things. Like the fact that I skipped my medication this morning. It makes me sleepy, and I want to have my wits about me today.
“Besides…” He grins wider. “If I wanted you out of the way, we’re on a ranch. Hell of a lot more creative options than just poisoning a pastry.”
I arch a brow. “So you admit you’ve thought about it?”
That lazy half-smile appears on his face, causing all my insides to tumble. “Just eat.”
I savor the deliciousness of the iced coffee, then take a huge bite of pastry.
He chuckles. “Easy. Finish your breakfast, then we’ll get started. No rush.”
We sit on the front step of the lodge, watching Runaway Ranch wake up. The slow putter of a tractor in the distance. The first cowboy loping across the pasture, reins in hand. The golden sun lifting above the horizon. It feels magical. Maybe it is.
Ford lifts his coffee cup. A toast to the sunrise. “This is my favorite part.”
“Mornings?”
He nods.
“Why?”
“Because the world wakes up, and it’s a fresh start. Clean slate.”
“Clean slate,” I echo. “I like that.”
We sit in a peaceful, easy silence. In my periphery, I take in his features. Tan, chiseled hands. A crooked index finger that piques my curiosity. And those long, lean legs. The way his thighs fill out those Wranglers should be criminal.
Ford breaks the quiet. “Sleep good last night?”
I pop a piece of hard-boiled egg into my mouth and roll up the bag to keep until I find a trash can. “It was amazing, if you must know.”
“So amazing you still have those dark circles under your eyes?”
“Nothing a little makeup can’t handle.”
“Still look tired,” he says smugly. “Maybe you should stay out of the forest.”
“Maybe you should mind your own business.”
I can feel him studying my face with those intense amber eyes, and I try to control the blush creeping over my cheeks. It was close last night—Ford catching me in the forest. After dinner, I was burning alive. I needed the water to wash away my night at Nowhere, the awkwardness of the family dinner, the dark hole hovering.
But moving forward, maybe I won’t need it.
Because Ford’s right. This morning does feel like a new start.
Old Reese would be forced to take a selfie and post it on my Instagram with some cheesy caption, but I don’t have to do any of that here. No one’s monitoring my social media, my dating life, my clothes.
The thought hits me suddenly—I can do this. I can find myself in the shitshow that is my life. I have three months of freedom. Better enjoy it while it lasts.
I turn to Ford. “Can I see the ranch before it wakes up?”
He almost smiles, which tells me I’ve said something right.
Ford slaps his hands on the thighs of his jeans and stands. He holds out a hand. “Hell, let’s get to work, princess.”
Collect chicken eggs? Check.
Clean out stalls at the Warrior Heart Home? Check.
Pick up trash in the pens and on the sidewalk? Check.
And it’s only noon.
I’ve done most of the work. Through it all, Ford stands tall over me, supervising, maybe. Helping? Hovering?
He’s shown me all the nooks and crannies that make Runaway Ranch tick.
There’s something nice about working with Ford. He’s calm. Easy. So different from Gavin’s chaotic energy. Ford takes his time to explain the steps until I understand. He’s also funny. It’s unfair and I hate it.
As we haul bags of feed to the barn, people wave when they spot Ford. He returns the greeting but keeps a steady pace. I keep my face down, not wanting to be recognized. I don’t want to cause trouble for Ford or his brothers, so I’ve been using the name Jane I gave at Nowhere. With my hair in braids and light makeup, so far, no one’s been the wiser.
“You have to up the water intake,” Ford orders, reaching back to hand me a bottle of water. “Not energy drinks, not iced coffee, not that purple shit all over TikTok. Water.”
“If you couldn’t guess,” I huff, hurrying after him. “I wasn’t a girl scout.”
“No shit.” He sets the bag of feed down and smiles as a sudden barrage of kids from a nearby cabin approach us. They chat for a minute or two, then one boy passes Ford a baseball. Nodding, he winds up and lets it rip.
The ball arcs high in the air and lands somewhere in the pasture.
“Go get it, you little gremlins,” he yells, then laughs.
The kids scatter, their excitement filling the air.
He’s good with kids. The sudden thought has me blinking. Heating. Has me shaking my head. I’m beyond delirious, even if my ovaries are swooning right now.
“They know who you are,” I say, approaching him.
He shrugs. “Some do. Sometimes I play catch with them in the evenings if I’m not tied up.”
“That’s sweet.” I bite my lip, considering something. “Have you ever taught a class?”
He looks baffled, then shakes his head. “Hell, I never thought about that.”
I glance back at the kids in time to hear the boy yell, “Incoming,” and then whip the ball our way.
The baseball lands back near my boots, then rolls into the gravel drive.
“I’ll get it,” I say, darting into the road.
Behind me, Ford swears.
Before I can reach the baseball, two black legs come down in front of me. The horse snorts, and I yelp, scrambling backward, right before I’m pulled away by a pair of strong arms.
“Fuck.” Ford breathes heavily, securing me against him with a hand over my stomach. I dare a glance at his face. Dark, worried. “Sorry, man,” he says, looking up at the rider. “She’s still getting her ranch legs. Go ahead.”
With a tilt of his Stetson, the rider takes off.
Ford spins me in his arms. I wait for his ire, but he doesn’t yell at me. “That horse ain’t a Pontiac, honey. No seatbelts.” He shoves his fingers through his hair, softens his voice. “You or someone else on the ranch could get hurt. You gotta be careful.”
“Okay, I will.” I hitch the bag of feed he hands me against my hip. “I’m sorry. Clearly, I’m just meant to shimmy on stage.”
The tight tension in his face clears. “Nah, you’ll learn.”
We resume our walk to the barn.
“It’s busy,” I remark. Vans of guests are pulling in. The start of a new week.
“It wasn’t always like this.”
“It wasn’t?”
“Nah. I fucked up a few years back. Put the ranch in trouble.” Ford looks tense, as though the memory is painful. “Ruby got hurt. It all went wrong.” Turmoil laces his drawl.
“Is everything okay now?” I ask.
There’s something about a wounded Ford Montgomery that tugs at my heartstrings. Makes me want to help him. The man definitely has demons.
When he doesn’t reply, I reach over and touch his arm. “Ford?”
Jolting out of whatever daze held him, he shifts the bag in his big hands. “Yeah. We’re back on track.”
“Do you own the ranch?”
“Nah. Charlie does,” Ford says with a hint of pride. “Bought it during some sort of life crisis. But he got his shit together.”
I look down at my boots as they crunch gravel. Life crisis. Is that what I’m having?
“Is that why you came?” I’ve been trying to figure out why Ford retired from baseball. “To help your brother?”
His eyes collide with mine. There’s so much pain in them that I physically feel it.
“I had a mid-life crisis too,” he says.
He doesn’t offer anything more and I don’t pry. This country boy has stories he doesn’t want to share. I can relate.
At the barn, Ford slides the door open for me, and a wave of cool air hits us as we march inside. We drop the bags of feed in the tack room, and I can’t help but smile as I straighten up. It’s funny. For all the dusty cowboys, worn-out jeans, and pickup trucks, this barn is about one level down from the Ritz.
“Stay away from the horses when you can,” Ford warns, nodding at my bangles. “Those noisemakers you wear scare ‘em.”
Feeling’s mutual.
I eye the horses warily. Just like they eye me. I can be around them, but riding them is another story entirely. “I’m sorry.”
He arches a brow. “Could take them off.”
“Can’t. They’re welded to my flesh.”
He snorts. “No more sorries either.”
“So many rules on the ranch,” I tease.
“No rules,” he says easily. “I just don’t like you apologizing for yourself when you’ve done nothing wrong.”
Oh.
I don’t know what to make of it, only that my heart pounds double time.
I sweep the floor, every so often sneaking glances at Ford.
He is everything rugged and untamed—the Rocky Mountains, rawhide, whiskey—wrapped up in one lean package of man.
Ford moves through the barn with a long stride. The horses lean into his touch, his dexterous hands moving with a surprising gentleness as he pets them. He greets each one with a carrot and a soft murmur. Muscles ripple in his back, the veins in his forearms flexing as he coils the rope and loops it over a peg on the wall.
I’ve never had a fetish for cowboys. Gavin fixed me up with musicians or pretty-boy actors. But watching Ford work in those tight blue jeans does something infernal to my heart. Causes a soft pulse between my legs.
I’m beginning to think a muscled, hardworking blue-collar man is more attractive than any LA rockstar I’ve laid eyes on.
The sweep of the broom over the hay-strewn ground has a calming effect, and before long, Ford fades from mind as I lose myself in the work.
At the ping of my phone, my heart leaps. Earlier, I emailed my lawyer to get a copy of my contract. I retrieve my phone from my back pocket and open my email.
Reese,
Apologies for the delay.
Unfortunately, I’m unable to send you a copy of your requested contract.
I’ve emailed and copied Gavin on this correspondence. If you need anything further, feel free to reach out to him.
Respectfully,
H.M. Cline
A hard lump forms in my throat. It’s all so unfair. Gavin’s behind this. Somehow.
A text pops up, obscuring my email.
I freeze when I see the preview: You fucking whore.
Perfect. It’s like the cherry on the shit sundae that is my life.
Movement at my side makes me jump, and I scramble to hide the phone. But I’m too late and Ford sees.
“Who the fuck is that?” he says gruffly.
“No one.”
“I’m serious, Reese.” Before I know it, my phone is in his large hand. He stares at the screen, his knuckles so white I’m afraid he’ll crack the screen.
I tug on his arm. “If you break it, I can’t afford a new phone, Country Boy.”
There’s a long moment of silence, then, with fire in his eyes, he hands it back to me. “Open it.”
I shove a finger in his face. “It’s none of your business.”
When he continues to stare at me, I cave first. Sighing, I open my text thread.
You fucking ruined everything, Reese. You stupid little bitch. I’m walking away like you want. I’m off the tour. It’s all your fucking fault.
Ford stiffens, moving a little closer to me.
I sigh. “It’s okay.”
His face is stone. “It’s not okay. No one should talk to you like that.”
“I get these three times a day. Luckily, I have terrible cell service at the chalet, so they only make an appearance when I’m here.” I roll my eyes. “He’s a real wordsmith, this one.”
“Wait.” Now he looks like he wants to punch something. “You’ve been getting these the entire time you’ve been here?”
As if to goad Ford further, another text pops up.
I’m done with you, bitch. Biiitch.
His eyebrows gather. “Okay, who the hell is this clown?”
“Kyler.”
“Kyler? What kind of name is that?”
I roll my eyes. “Says the guy who’s named after a car.”
“And you dated this asshole?” Contempt fills his voice.
“I told you that we dated for optics.”
“Let me guess. He takes you out downtown to do some lines before passing out.”
I arch a challenging brow, curious now. “And you could do better?”
He steps closer, firing all my senses. “Yeah, I could. I’d take you out driving, down to my favorite lake. Catch us a catfish dinner, then I’d bring you back to my place and—”
A smile tug at my lips. “And?”
“And—” I watch as he struggles to keep his breathing even, his jaw tight. Then he clears his throat and says in a gravelly voice, “Treat you better than that, that’s for damn sure.”
My knees go weak at Ford’s sweet words, and hot tears spring to my eyes.
“Now he’s making you cry.” His shoulders tense. “That means I kill him.”
“It’s not Kyler,” I say, stowing my phone in my back pocket. “He’s an idiot.” I let out a slow, measured breath. “I emailed my lawyer about my contract, and she won’t send it.”
“That ain’t right. She works for you.”
“I thought so.” I feel like I’ve been sleepwalking through my entire career, and only now, on Runaway Ranch with its fresh air and this cowboy talking common sense, am I waking up. “I don’t understand any of this.”
“So listen.” Ford drags a hand down his dusty face. “I did something you might not like.”
I narrow my eyes. “What kind of something?”
“I hired someone to help you.”
Wordlessly, I stare at him. A horse chuffs in its stall.
“He’s a PI,” Ford explains. “I thought he could look into your contract. Make it make sense.”
“A PI?” My head swims. “If I can’t get it, what makes you think he can?”
Ford’s eyes light with amusement. “It’s my brother’s contact. He was a Marine. He knows people in high—or low—places. Dark web shit.”
My heart thunders in my chest, and I force my gaze away from him. Ford helping me is sweet, but someone looking into my past, my secrets…the thought of what could come out has me feeling lightheaded.
All the bad parts of my life uncovered.
Panic crashes through me.
Twisting a bangle on my wrist, I move away from him. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” I turn, eyeing him warily. “You treated me like shit when I first got here. But then you rescued me from a bar fight, bought me a wardrobe of clothes, let me eat dinner with your family, and now you’ve hired a PI?”
He says nothing, his face stony.
I cover my face. “Ugh, why couldn’t you just keep your brooding personality and make me hate you for the entire summer? Why did you have to go and be nice?”
“Jesus, Reese.” There’s exasperation in his voice. Slowly, he closes the distance between us and reaches down to take my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “Someone needs to be nice to you.”
I stare at his touch as if in a daze. “I just—” I lick my lips. Questions and suspicions weave through Ford’s handsome features. He wants my story. But he’s not getting it. “My past isn’t great.”
“The PI goes through you, okay? Not me. I don’t need to know what you don’t want me to know. All I’m doin’ is—”
“Paying for it.” The words come out bitterly.
He swears under his breath. “Look, honey, take the goddamn help. Something tells me you don’t have a lot of people you can trust.”
A tear slips down my cheek. He’s right. I don’t.
Ford’s face, his voice, softens. “No one will rat you out, Reese. You’re safe here, okay?”
My breath trips in my throat. “Safe with you?”
He doesn’t move a muscle.
“Yeah,” he finally rasps. “You are.”
My eyes widen as his hand finds my chin, tilts my gaze to his. The same gentle gesture as last night. Heat rushes to my stomach. He steps closer, a wall of hard chest moving into my space.
I try to pull back, but he holds me where I stand. Relentless, the man.
His hand cups my cheek, then tucks a loose curl behind my ear. It feels like a flamethrower ignites my body as he leans forward. My lips part—
“ We got a code Freedom Fucker ,” crackles from the two-way radio on Ford’s hip, jolting us apart.
Swearing, he grabs the radio and silences it.
“What’s a code Freedom Fucker?” I ask, still feeling Ford’s breath against my lips.
“It’s Wyatt-speak for the cows got out.” Into the receiver, he snarls, “Your turn, asshole.”
Then he snaps off the dial. When his gaze returns to my face, he says, “You, uh, said you don’t have service at the chalet.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I like the quiet.”
He holds out the two-way radio. “You should take this.”
I blink. “It’s yours.”
“I don’t want you out there without a phone.” Gaze tracking my face, he clears his throat. “Besides, I have another. Use it when you need me.”
The corner of my mouth turns up. “That’s assuming I’ll need you.” I lean in, fingers grazing his as I inspect the radio. “How does it work?”
“Here.” He fiddles with the buttons and shows me the ropes. A random burst of static from the speaker has me wincing. “It turns off and on randomly,” he says, banging it against his thigh. “Glitchy wiring.”
I laugh lightly. “Sounds like me.”
“Channel twelve is the ranch,” he gruffs out. “And nine is mine.”
“Got it.”
He hitches his thumb as he walks backward to the barn door. “I need to help my brothers. Cow shit.”
“Duly noted. Cow shit.”
Ford shoots me a charming smile. “Same time tomorrow?”
“Same time tomorrow,” I breathe.
The ache in my muscles is bliss. It feels like I’ve moved two ten-ton boulders after the grueling work today, but I’ve never felt more accomplished.
A cricket chirps outside the kitchen window. The sun set an hour ago, and the buzz on my phone is non-existent.
Like I said, bliss.
I take the small cheeseboard I made for myself and pad across the kitchen floor to my bed. With a satisfied sigh, I sink onto the mattress and kick my legs up, taking in my freshly painted toes. On top of the quilt is a copy of French Vogue and my notepad, scrawled with a what-could-be song.
I could be at the Chateau Marmont drinking bubbly rosé, but this is better. This is real.
For the first time in years, I’m alone. And I’m enjoying it. No pressure. No paparazzi. No social media. Just me writing at long fucking last.
I stare at the bottle of pills on my nightstand. Then, with a nudge of my finger, I flick them into the trash. After today, taking orders from Gavin isn’t on my agenda. They don’t help with the black hole, anyway. All they do is make me tired. Numb.
From the nightstand comes the crackle of the two-way radio. I left it on to give myself a bit of company. Not to mention eavesdropping on ranch conversations is interesting. Who knew there was such a thing as a barn manager?
Plus, it’s like a channel to the outside world. To Ford.
I think of that near-miss kiss today in the barn. His hand in my hair. That look in his eyes. Like? Lust? Loathing? Loathing, I decide. It has to be.
Despite my undeniable attraction to this broody country boy, I refuse to fall for Ford Montgomery. My life is a mess, and a man complicates everything. Besides, I’m leaving soon. He has his choice of any woman he wants. A man like Ford doesn’t want a girl like me. He has his life together. He’s a bright light, and I’m just that black hole. Existing. Hovering somewhere in the ether.
Even if he doesn’t make me feel like that.
For once in my life, he makes me feel like I could have hope.
My fingers itch, and I give in, picking up the two-way radio. I switch the channel to Ford’s, telling myself it’s a distraction. Simply a way to entertain my runaway brain.
It’s not because I miss him. And it’s not because he feels like the only friend I’ve had in a long time.
“Moo,” I say into the receiver. “Calling all cows.”
For a few seconds, silence. My heartbeat hammers as I wait. Then a rolling rumble of a chuckle comes through the radio.
“Cows have been secured.”
I recline into a pillow. “What’re you doing?”
“Watching a ballgame.” I picture him in those gray sweatpants, Mouse on his lap, and suddenly, wish I were there. Beside him.
“Who’s winning?”
“The Braves. What are you up to?”
I look at my notepad and flinch. “I wrote a song. A bad one.”
“I doubt that.” The sound of the baseball game gets lower. “Play it for me one day?”
I smile. “Maybe.”
“It’s late,” he says almost sternly.
“I know.” Honesty makes my heart speed up. “I didn’t want to be alone.”
A long pause. Then, “I’ll keep the radio on.”
“Really?”
“Really.” I hear him sigh. “Good night, Reese.”
I settle back against the pillows and close my eyes. “Good night, Ford.”