Giddy Up Orc Cowboy (Brides of the Lonesome Creek Orcs #6)

Chapter 1

Riley

The government sedan’s engine cut off with a finality that made my stomach clench. Lonesome Creek spread ahead of me through the dusty windshield like something out of a postcard. Wooden boardwalks, quaint storefronts, and even a saloon with red wooden swinging doors. It looked peaceful. Safe.

I’d learned not to trust safe.

“This is it,” Agent Morrison grunted, not bothering to look at me as he popped the trunk. “Your new life, James. We wish you all the best.”

I bit back the response burning across the tip of my tongue.

Two years of hiding, two years of looking over my shoulder every waking moment, followed by a trial where I had to expose myself to them, and this was the thanks I got for bringing down one of the largest embezzlement schemes in corporate history.

A one-way ticket to the middle of nowhere and a handler who was clearly glad to see the end of his babysitting duty.

“Thanks.” I wasn’t even sure why I said it, but it seemed like I needed to say something. It beat fuck you, although that was debatable.

I climbed out of the vehicle, my legs unsteady after the four-hour drive.

The clean mountain air hit my lungs, nothing like the smog-choked city I’d left behind.

I went around to the back and tugged out my suitcase, dropping it onto the dusty ground beside me.

This case contained everything I had left in the world.

The corporation had burned the rest to the ground in an attempt to make me change my story.

Morrison was putting the vehicle into drive. “Sheriff Bronish is expecting you,” he called out the window as he zipped that up as well. “Your cover’s solid.”

They expected me to work as a cop in a tourist town, and I had the fake credentials to prove it. What did I know about being a deputy sheriff beyond how to handle a weapon and my knowledge of the law?

I guess I was about to find out.

Gravel sprayed as he drove the vehicle back toward the nearest, bigger town.

And just like that, Riley James ceased to exist, and Riley Smith was born. Smith was awfully generic, but I kind of liked it. It would make it easier to blend in.

I stood alone on the empty street, listening to the distant laughter of children, a door slamming somewhere nearby, and the jingle of wind chimes from a nearby porch.

As I stared around, I automatically catalogued potential threats and escape routes.

One street visible from my position, with an alley that appeared to run behind the entire length of the boardwalk and false front buildings.

Various barns, including one named Function Hall and another, Pottery Barn.

Small houses off in the distance to my left were probably residences for the orcs who ran this Wild West reenactment town—a combination of orc traditions and creatures mixed in with human’s.

A vast plain stretched out in all directions, meeting a dense forest and mountains beyond. If I had to run again, I could disappear into the woods.

Always planning the next escape had kept me alive this long.

A couple emerged from the bakery, the woman’s laugh bright and genuine as the man…

No, the orc, tall with dark hair and medium green skin and tusks.

He bent his frame to whisper something in the woman’s ear.

I’d read about orcs in the briefing materials, and watched the news coverage when they’d first emerged from their underground kingdom, but seeing one in person was different.

He had to be at least seven feet tall. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, narrow being relative because of his size.

The way he touched her hand showed infinite gentleness.

Was she his mate? I’d heard that was the term orcs used when they were married. In the literature the government provided about Lonesome Creek, I’d read that seven orc brothers and one orc cousin had built this tourist destination. All but one of them had mated with a woman.

One left for me. Ha ha. Like that would happen. I wasn’t looking for love or a relationship, let alone with an orc, though I had nothing against them.

Although, this one was cute in a big, slightly bumbling way. I could see why the woman was gazing up at him with complete adoration.

She glanced my way and offered a warm smile and a wave.

Without thinking, I lifted my hand in response, then immediately regretted drawing attention to myself.

But the couple simply continued along the boardwalk, the orc’s protective bulk positioned between his mate and the street in a move so unconscious it had to be instinct.

I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have someone protect me like that.

I shook off the dangerous thought and focused on my mission. Sheriff’s office. Introduce myself to my new boss, Dungar Bronish. Try to convince the small-town lawman that a forensic lawyer could handle deputy work without revealing why I really needed to disappear.

The sheriff’s office sat at the left end of the main street, a sturdy wooden building with “Lonesome Creek Sheriff & Jailhouse” painted in neat block letters across the front window. Through that window, I caught a glimpse of movement, someone large shifting in the shadows beyond the glass.

My steps slowed. Then stopped entirely.

The figure in the office was huge. Easily as large as the orc from the bakery, but this one radiated an intensity that made my survival instincts scream.

Wide, muscular shoulders and chest. Powerful frame.

For one heart-stopping moment, my mind flashed to the corporate security team that had been hunting me, the bulky men in expensive suits who’d made it clear they’d do anything to silence me before the trial.

What if he was one of them? What if this relocation was a setup?

My hand instinctively moved toward the pepper spray in my pocket, my muscles coiling to run. Years of swallowing paranoia had taught me to trust no one, especially men big enough to snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

Then he turned toward the window, and my world shifted.

Kind eyes. That was my first coherent thought.

Dark, intelligent eyes set in a face that was undeniably orcish, with his prominent bone structure, tusks jutting up from his lower jawline, and skin the color of sage.

He came across as gentle in a way that made my chest tighten.

There was something careful in the way he moved, as if he was constantly aware of his own strength and the damage it could do.

He caught sight of me through the glass and stilled, his gaze locking on mine in a way that should’ve terrified me. Instead, for the first time in too long, I felt my throat loosen.

I could finally breathe.

I’d spent years jumping at shadows, flinching from every unexpected sound, and looking for threats in every stranger’s face. But this mountain of an orc who could probably crush me with one hand made me feel safer than I had in years with just one glance.

Which was insane. I didn’t even know his name.

But as he moved toward the door, I found myself walking forward instead of running away.

The door opened before I could knock, and I had to crane my neck back to meet his eyes.

Up close, he was even more imposing, all seven feet of solid muscle and careful control, his dark hair neatly trimmed, his sheriff’s uniform stretching across a body that belonged in ancient myths about warriors and heroes.

“You must be Deputy Smith,” he said, his voice a low rumble vibrating through my bones. “I’m Sheriff Dungar Bronish. Dungar if you please. Welcome to Lonesome Creek.”

He held out his hand, and I stared at it for a moment before remembering how to function. His palm completely engulfed mine, warm and calloused and gentle. Strength radiated from his grip, maybe even enough to bend steel, but he held my fingers like I was made of glass.

“Riley,” I said, surprised my voice came out steady. “Riley Smith. Thank you for the opportunity, Sheriff Bronish.”

A tingle shot up my arm, and he frowned down at our clasped hands before his groan ripped out.

Before I could leap away or think of how to respond, he tugged me inside, slammed the door shut, and plunged to his knees, which was comical in a way because that only put him at my eye-level. But I was short, only a scratch above five feet, and he was…well, an orc.

“Riley… Riley…” he gulped out.

“Yes, I, um… Why are you on your knees? Are you alright?”

“I’m…fine. You… You’re…” He blinked a moment, studying my face before he flipped my hand over and lowered his head. When his tongue met my palm, it tickled. Then overheated as if he’d placed a poker in my hand, scorching hot from the fire.

He proceeded to lick my right palm all the way to my wrist, then reverently took my left hand and repeated the action.

Flames licked at my wrist, but I was too fascinated by this orcish gesture that must be part of their formal greeting process to look at my arm.

“Riley,” he croaked. “Riley.”

“Yes, um, that’s my name. Riley.” I pushed for a smile. “Don’t wear it out.”

He lumbered to his feet and gazed down at me with an almost silly, happy expression on his face.

“You don’t know what this means, do you?” he asked.

“What in particular?” Should I mention the palm-licking thing? It might break tradition to do so, so I’d take my cue from him.

“Let’s…” He frowned as he gazed at my wrists, and I’d swear he looked disappointed. His swallow took a long time to go down. “It’s nothing. Nothing. I’m Dungar.”

“Yes, Sheriff Bronish. Dungar. My new boss.”

“Boss. Yes, your boss.”

He was a little odd, but cute in his own way. I could live with it.

His dark gaze swept over me, perhaps noting my defensive posture, the way I’d positioned myself for a quick escape out the front or rear door, and the neutral expression I’d perfected over months of hiding. “You look tired. It’s a long drive from Denver.”