Spurred (Grizzly River Ranch #3)

Prologue

LENNON

I check my watch for the third time in as many minutes, mentally calculating how late I’ll be for dinner at this rate.

Atlee is going to kill me. She’s been planning this dinner with Aubree for weeks—some kind of celebration for their upcoming joint wedding shower.

Being maid of honor for my sister and bridesmaid for her soon-to-be sister-in-law means twice the responsibility, and I’m already failing spectacularly.

The email from Shawn had come just as I was packing up to leave the office.

“Just need your eyes on this before you go,” he’d said.

And, of course, “this” turned out to be a sixty-page brief that needed immediate revisions.

By the time I finished, the sun was already setting behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the winding road to Grizzly River Ranch.

I’m so focused on my lateness that I almost miss the concerning thump coming from the front passenger tire. By the time I register what’s happening, the car is already pulling sharply to the right, the unmistakable flap-flap-flap of a flat tire forcing me to ease onto the shoulder.

“Perfect,” I mutter, putting the car in park and dropping my head against the steering wheel. “Just perfect.”

For a moment, I consider calling Atlee, but I can already picture her stressed expression as she tries to manage dinner preparations while sending someone to rescue me. No, better to handle this myself.

I grab my phone and step out of the car, shivering slightly in the early evening chill.

Spring hasn’t fully committed to Grizzly River yet.

The days are warm, but the evenings still carry the coldness of winter.

The light is fading fast, turning the deserted stretch of road into something from a horror movie—lonely woman, isolated location, no cell service.

Wait. No cell service?

I stare at my phone in disbelief. One bar flickers in and out like it’s taunting me. Of course.

Gritting my teeth, I pop the trunk and rummage around for the jack and spare tire. I’ve changed a flat before—once, in broad daylight, with my dad standing over my shoulder barking instructions. How hard could it be to replicate that experience in near darkness, alone, on a deserted road?

I’m struggling with the lug wrench, cursing under my breath, when headlights appear in the distance. For a split second, fear spikes through me. Then the lights slow, and a familiar pickup truck pulls in behind my car.

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by a different kind of tension as Carson steps out of the driver’s side, his tall frame silhouetted against his headlights.

“Car trouble?” he calls, walking toward me with that easy, loose-limbed stride of his.

“Just a flat,” I reply, trying to sound casual, like I’m not secretly pleased to see him. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

He reaches me, looking down at the tire and the wrench in my hand with barely concealed amusement. “Clearly.”

“I was doing fine before you showed up,” I lie, tossing my hair back from my face. “But feel free to help if you’re so inclined.”

“Wouldn’t dream of interfering with your mechanical expertise,” he says, but he’s already taking the wrench from my hands, our fingers brushing, and I try to ignore the sparks that fly between us. “Just happened to be driving by.”

“Just happened to be driving by this specific stretch of road at this specific time?” I arch an eyebrow. “What a coincidence.”

He grins, that crooked half-smile that does something alarming to my insides. “Isn’t it, though?”

The truth is, these coincidences have been happening with increasing frequency over the past few months. Ever since the night at the Rusty Spur when Atlee first pointed out the way he looked at me. Since he was held hostage by Noah, he’s been showing up more and more in places that I might be.

And each time, there’s that same electricity between us, that same flirtation that never quite crosses the line into something more serious.

“So,” he says, crouching down to position the jack under my car, muscles flexing beneath his worn t-shirt. “Where were you headed this fine evening?”

“Dinner at Jesse and Aubree’s,” I tell him, hugging my arms around myself against the evening chill. “Wedding shower planning committee.”

He glances up at me. “For Devlin and Atlee?”

“And both of them,” I confirm. “They’re doing a joint thing since the weddings are only a month apart.”

“Romantic,” he comments, turning his attention back to the tire. “Two brothers marrying two best friends.”

“Three months ago, I’d have called it crazy,” I admit. “Now it seems like the most natural thing in the world.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat that might be affirmation, or not. Carson works in silence for a moment, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the metallic clinking of the lug nuts as he removes them one by one.

“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.

“Think about what?”

“Marriage. Family. The whole white picket fence deal.”

The question catches me off guard. “Sometimes,” I answer cautiously. “When I’m not drowning in briefs and depositions.”

He nods as if I’ve confirmed something for him. “You’d make a good mom.”

“You don’t know that,” I say, unsure why his words make my heart race. “You barely know me.”

He looks up at me again, his expression serious now. “I know more than you think, Lennon.”

There’s something in his tone, something that makes me wonder what exactly he means. But before I can ask, he’s back to focusing on the tire, the spare now in position as he tightens the lug nuts with practiced efficiency.

“Almost done,” he says, standing and dusting off his hands on his jeans. “You’ll be on your way to that dinner in no—”

The crack of a gunshot cuts through the evening stillness, followed immediately by the ping of a bullet hitting metal somewhere near us. Carson reacts before I can even process what’s happening, tackling me to the ground behind my car.

“What the—” I start, but he covers my mouth with his hand, his body shielding mine as another shot rings out, then another.

“When I say go, we run for my truck,” he whispers, his breath warm against my ear. “Stay low. Zigzag if you can. Ready?”

I nod, too stunned to argue. His hand moves from my mouth to grasp mine.

“Go!”

We sprint toward his truck, bullets kicking up dirt at our feet.

Carson practically throws me into the passenger seat before diving across the hood and into the driver’s side.

The engine roars to life, and we’re peeling away in a spray of gravel, tires screeching as he executes a hairpin turn back toward the main road.

“What the hell was that?” I gasp when I finally find my voice. “Who’s shooting at us?”

Carson’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. “I was hoping you could tell me. Anyone with a reason to want you dead, Lennon?”

The question is so absurd I almost laugh, except for the deadly seriousness in his expression. “I’m a paralegal, not a mob boss,” I say. “Why would anyone want to shoot me?”

“You tell me,” he says, eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror. “Any cases you’re working on that might have pissed someone off?”

I start to shake my head, then pause. “There’s this thing Shawn and I have been investigating.”

Carson’s head snaps toward me. “What kind of thing?”

“I can’t exactly tell you. Just something that we’ve been building quietly.”

“How quietly?”

“Just Shawn and me,” I say. “And whoever just tried to kill us, apparently.”

Carson mutters something under his breath that sounds like a curse. “We need to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere they won’t look.”

I notice we’re not heading toward Grizzly River Ranch anymore, but in the opposite direction. “Where are we going?”

“Dark Skies Ranch,” he answers grimly. “My place. It’s secure, remote, and no one would think to look for you there.”

“I need to call Atlee,” I say, reaching for my phone. “She’ll be worried sick.”

“Use my phone,” Carson says, handing me his. “Better reception. But don’t tell her where you are. Not yet. Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”

As I dial my sister’s number, I realize we’ve crossed some invisible line. Whatever careful dance Carson and I have been doing these past months, whatever walls I’ve built to keep him at a safe distance, they’re gone now, shattered by gunfire and the knowledge that someone wants me dead.

“You’re staying at Dark Skies until we figure out what the hell is going on,” Carson says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m not letting anything happen to you, Lennon. Not on my watch.”

The fierce protectiveness in his voice should irritate me. I’ve spent my whole life taking care of myself, taking care of Atlee, needing no one. Instead, I find myself oddly comforted by it, by the certainty in his words.

“Fine,” I agree, watching the dark landscape rush past outside the window. “But this is temporary.”

He glances over at me, that half-smile making another appearance despite the gravity of our situation. “We’ll see about that.”

As Dark Skies Ranch appears in the distance, a sprawling structure silhouetted against the night sky, I can’t shake the feeling that nothing about this—about us—is going to be temporary.

And for once in my life, that thought doesn’t terrify me nearly as much as it should.