Claimed By the Country Men (Claimed by… Reverse Harems #2)

Chapter 1

Lucinda

Water. That's the first sound that cuts through sleep’s fog. Not sirens, not engines, not the mechanical hum of machines that still haunts my dreams.

Just water, trickling over stones like the world's most expensive white noise machine.

I crack one eye open and golden light sucker-punches me through the van’s thin curtains.

Montana sunrise. The kind that promises second chances to girls who can't afford to believe in them.

My body screams from another night on the van's excuse for a bed, but it's the right kind of pain. The kind that says you're still breathing, Lucinda. Still free. I stretch until my joints crack, then shove the curtains aside.

Holy hell.

Mountains roll endlessly in every direction, their peaks still wearing winter's crown despite March trying to muscle its way toward spring. Pine trees crowd the slopes like dark sentinels, and the creek beside me runs crystal clear, catching morning light like scattered diamonds.

The air tastes like pine needles and possibility. The kind I’m not supposed to crave.

This is why I came to Montana. I was looking for places like this, where a girl can disappear into something bigger than herself, bigger than the bullshit people tell about her.

"Good morning, gorgeous," I murmur, my voice rough with sleep. It's become my ritual. Every morning, I say hello to whatever piece of earth I've landed on. It makes me feel less... alone.

I slide into my morning routine, the van life dance that would give my old Upper East Side classmates a collective aneurysm. Bed becomes couch. Sleeping bag disappears. Phone check for Matty's coded Craigslist posts. Nothing new. He's safe. The knot in my chest loosens just enough to breathe.

6:47 AM. Briarhaven, Montana. Population: 3,200. Perfect size for a ghost. Small enough that strangers get noticed, big enough that they don't care for long. I could blend here for a few days, maybe even a few weeks.

But it’s best if I don’t. Two months until twenty-one. Two months until I can tell uncle Richard exactly where he can shove his guardianship.

Two months of sleeping in parking lots and taking cash jobs that don't ask questions. Two months of proving I'm not the "unstable, dangerous girl" a bought judge declared me to be.

I wasn't crazy. Just grieving.

These months on the road? The sanest I've felt since Mom died.

My stomach growls, reminding me that gas station beef jerky doesn't count as dinner.

But first, I need to get clean. One perk of sleeping rough: sometimes you find spots like this where you can wash without hunting down a planet fitness or a truck stop to shower.

I grab my toiletry bag and a change of clothes, then crack open the van's back doors.

The mountain air hits me like a slap, sharp and clean and so cold it makes my eyes water.

But underneath the bite, there's warmth waiting.

Spring is fighting its way through winter, just like I'm fighting my way through this.

The creek is maybe thirty yards from where I parked, hidden by a stand of aspen trees. Perfect privacy. I've gotten good at scoping out these spots. Isolated enough for safety, accessible enough for a quick escape if needed.

I strip down to my underwear and wade in slowly, gasping as the cold hits my skin.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," I hiss through chattering teeth, using one of Mom's favorite expressions. She used to say it when the pain got bad or the nurses couldn’t get the IV in right.

I can almost hear her voice now, wry and warm despite everything: “Lucinda, only you would be half-frozen in a mountain creek and call it a good idea.”

The cold shocks, but it cleanses. I duck under completely, letting mountain water strip away road dust and restless dreams.

When I surface, I'm gasping and grinning like an idiot. This is freedom. Raw. Freezing.Mine.

I wash quickly, trying not to think about how my teeth are chattering so hard I might bite my tongue off.

As I rinse the soap from my hair, I glance down at the water. A face stares back from the still pool, and I barely recognize her.

Too thin, too sharp, eyes that never stop watching for trouble. Hair past my shoulders now, longer than it's been since high school.

I look like someone who's been running.

Mom always said I had her eyes and Dad's stubborn chin. Sometimes I wonder if things would've been different with Dad around to protect us. But wondering doesn't change anything.

Mom taught me that during her long fight with cancer. "We can't change what's behind us, Lucinda. We can only decide what we do next."

What I did next was survive two years in that place.

What I did next was escape.

What I'm doing next is staying free long enough to prove I deserve to be.

I'm rinsing the last of the shampoo from my hair when I hear it.

A sound that doesn't belong in this perfect morning. Soft, but wrong. Pained.

I freeze. Water drips down my spine as the sound comes again. A whimper, almost human. My heart pounds as I wade out and grab my towel. Could be anything. Coyote. Injured hiker. But my gut says hurt, not dangerous. I throw on clothes without drying off. Jeans, shirt, boots.

The whimpering comes from upstream, maybe fifty yards through the trees. I find him in a clearing, and my chest caves in.

A border collie lies on his side near a fallen log. Black and white fur, incredible blue eyes, and blood. So much blood matting his coat from wounds along his ribs. Identical wounds. Someone did this. Someone hurt this beautiful creature on purpose.

"Hey, baby," I whisper, dropping to my knees beside him. His ears flick toward my voice, and his eyes focus on my face with devastating trust. "It's okay. I've got you."

I've never been great with animals, being a city girl and all that, but I know pain when I see it. And I know what it feels like to be abandoned and hurting.

His breathing is shallow, pulse weak under my fingertips. He needs help now.

I don't hesitate. I scoop him up. He is heavier than expected, his blood soaking through my shirt. I don't care.

Each step toward the van feels like running through quicksand, but I don't stop.

"Stay with me," I murmur, wrestling the passenger door open and settling him on the seat. "We're getting you help." My hands shake as I search on my phone for vets near Briarhaven. One result: Briarhaven Animal Clinic, Dr. Colt Mercer. Six miles.

I've never driven this fast in my life. The van shudders and protests as I push it up winding mountain roads, one hand on the wheel and the other stroking the dog's head.

"You're going to be okay," I keep repeating, as much for myself as for him. "We're going to get you to a doctor, and you're going to be fine."

He whimpers, and I press harder on the gas pedal.

That's when I see the lights. Red and blue, flashing in my mirror like a nightmare.

My stomach drops. Blood drains from my body. Police. The one thing I've spent the last months avoiding, and now they're right behind me with their sirens wailing and their red and blue lights painting the morning in panic colors.

I should pull over. Any sane person would.

But I'm not sane, am I? I'm Lucinda Kensington-Reid, escaped mental patient and runaway heiress. If they catch me, I'm back in a cage by sunset.

Back to being erased in slow motion.

Back to watching my life tick away while uncle Richard, uses his power as my guardian to keep me away while he spends my inheritance and tells everyone how "concerned" he is about my "stability."

The dog makes a soft sound, almost like a sigh, and his breathing gets even shallower.

I look at him. At the lights gaining on us. Back at those trusting blue eyes.

And I floor it.

The van roars like it’s protesting the choice, but I grip the wheel tighter and don’t let up.

The speedometer climbs past seventy, past eighty. The van wasn't built for this kind of speed, but somehow it holds together as I take curves that should probably kill us both.

In the passenger seat, the bleeding border collie rests his head against my leg like he knows I'm fighting for both our lives.

Behind us, the sirens get louder.