Spurs of the Haunted Ranch

Prologue Selene

The bassline hums through the scratched wood of the bar top, vibrating up my forearms. A bead of condensation slides down my half-empty pint glass, soaking into the soggy cardboard coaster.

My pen flies across the pages of my black notebook.

Scene 12: The Lord of the Manor tightens the chains.

Out on the hardwood dance floor, sweaty bodies collide. Scuffed boots stomp the beat while couples grind against each other, rough hands sliding over tight denim as hips sway to a lively country tune.

The lead singer lets out a raspy wail, barely drowning out the hoots and hollers erupting around the mechanical bull.

A few feet from my stool, a girl in red cowboy boots tips her head back with a laugh, taking the beer-from-the-hat challenge and chugging amber beer straight from the crown of a Stetson.

The room erupts into a deafening roar, thick with the intoxicating mix of salted peanuts, sweat, and heat. My absolute favorite white noise.

I let the chaos act as a shield, burying myself in the nineteenth century as I keep writing.

Lord Blackwood’s breath brushed against the nape of her neck, cold as the crypt’s stone.

I tap my pen against the paper. I scratch out cold and replace it with ruthless.

But the simile doesn’t land—I’ll have to change it.

Clinking belt buckles become rusted chains; roasted peanuts turn into melting wax candles. I keep writing, chasing the scene, building the tension toward the moment he traps her in the dark and pins her wrists.

Maybe this time I should write a gothic western...

The thwack of the swinging doors hitting the entrance wall cuts through the air.

The band keeps playing, but the energy in the saloon shifts. The laughter at the nearby pool table dies down for a split second. Heads turn toward the entrance in unison, a ripple moving across the dance floor.

I let the ink flow onto the paper, tracing the curve of a comma.

Heavy boots begin a slow, rhythmic thud against the floorboards. A lazy swagger. A presence that makes the bar feel suddenly too small.

I reach for my glass and take a sip. The beer has gone lukewarm, but I swallow it anyway as the footsteps close in, heading straight for my end of the bar.

I stay hunched over my notebook, pen hovering midair.

The footsteps stop. The air to my left thickens instantly.

A wall of body heat settles in just inches from my shoulder.

The sour stench of booze and sweat disappears, replaced by something disarmingly clean—freshly worked leather, cedar shavings, and a sharp, rain-heavy scent, like the moment before a storm breaks.

My fingers tighten around my pen. The ink hovers a millimeter above the page.

I still don’t look up.

The wood creaks under his weight as he lowers himself onto the empty stool beside me.

A second later, a thick forearm claims space on the bar, brushing against my notebook.

From the corner of my eye, I catch rough plaid flannel—a bold grid of mustard yellow and black stretched over serious, solid biceps.

The bartender approaches, wiping his hands on a damp rag.

“A Rustler’s Brew, and…” I hear the shift beside me. I’m pretty sure he nods my way. “Whatever the lady is having.”

His voice is deep, gravelly, oddly cheerful.

Ugh. Here we go.

I don’t look up. As good as he smells—and as much as it’s actively sabotaging my ability to write about gloomy crypts and dark lords—I don’t even turn. Same script, every time: some alpha male assumes a woman sitting alone at a bar is an invitation.

The beers land in front of us.

I click my pen shut with a sharp snap. “I write smut.”

Usually, that shuts conversations down before they even start—somewhere between visible discomfort and a full sprint for the door.

Exactly how I like it. I’ve got zero intention of dipping back into the dating pool.

My idiot ex already gave me a lifetime supply of bullshit, nuking my tolerance for romantic drama.

Now I’m focused on my career. My ideal men exist only on paper, and they do exactly what I tell them to.

Click. The pen pops back out.

“Oh, yeah? Sounds interesting.”

My pen stalls. Why doesn’t he sound intimidated? He sounds… irritatingly genuine. Like he’s actually curious.

I exhale slowly, jaw tightening. “Listen, cowboy…”

“Hey, I’m not exactly a cowboy…” The yellow-and-black flannel sleeve slides onto the bar, closing the distance. He lifts his pint and taps it against mine. His Rustler’s Brew clinks sharply against my Smithwick’s.

“More like a new cowboy. I’ve always lived out in the country, but I finally got a ranch of my own. I decided to buy it the second I moved here—it’s always been kind of my—”

Christ. He’s still talking.

A tic starts at the base of my neck. A vein above my eyebrow pulses, keeping time with the mechanical bull behind us. It’s going to pop.

I pick up my beer and take a long sip.

Who am I to turn down a free drink?

After all, it’s the best beer I’ve ever had.

“Do you always talk this fucking much?” I snap, cutting him off.

That vein is about three seconds from popping and turning me into a murderer.

“Is it a writer thing to be so… grumpy?” His tone is calm, unoffended, almost amused. “I have a friend who—”

That’s it.

“Listen, new cowboy—whatever the hell that means…” I spin on my stool, ready to burn him alive with a look.

But… wow.

Just… wow.

The words die before they even make it out.

Beneath the slightly tipped brim of a black Stetson, two clear blue eyes meet mine, bright with amusement.

He’s the opposite of the gothic darkness I was just buried in, apart from his dark hair.

Square jaw, dark stubble, that rough, effortless kind of rugged.

His flannel shirt strains over broad shoulders and a solid chest, the collar snug against a strong neck.

He’s offensively handsome, all sharp lines and bright, magnetic energy.

Can we rewind the tape?

I’m not looking for a relationship. That’s off the table. But… who says I can’t enjoy this absolute specimen of a man for one night?

Maybe I could take the night off. No dark lords and crypts tonight. Just muscles and flannel.

My gaze slides back up, locking with his.

“What did you say your name was?”

A slow, knowing smile curves his lips. His fingers drift to his shirt collar, and with a shameless ease, he undoes the top button, revealing a flash of golden skin and the sharp line of a collarbone.

Christ.

Do not roll my eyes.

Do not ro—

Too late.

He catches my exasperated huff, but doesn’t seem remotely bothered. Instead, his blue eyes brighten with amusement.

“I didn’t say, baby.” A deep dimple appears in his right cheek. Did he really have to have dimples too? “I’m Ron. Ron Willers.”

“Ron Willers.” I test it on my tongue. It sounds damn good. Just like the rest of him.

“So, writer…” Ron tilts his head toward the back of the bar. His Stetson casts a soft shadow over his jaw. “Elm Hollow rules say you never leave a lady alone at the bar. One game of pool. You win, I do whatever you want. I win… you explain exactly how dirty those books of yours really are.”

A country boy wanting to play with fire. Cute.

I slip my notebook into my bag. "Alright, new cowboy. But don’t try the whole ‘let me teach you’ thing—I already know how to play."

Ron laughs, warm and low, landing right in my stomach. He pushes off the bar and heads for the pool tables. I follow, my eyes catching—against my better judgment—the way his back muscles move under the plaid flannel with every step.

He grabs two cues from the rack, chalks the tip of one with a blue cube, and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine. A sharp, searing jolt of electricity shoots up my arm.

I clear my throat, ignoring the feeling.

I line up for the break. I take all the time in the world. I spread my legs slightly, arching my back, and press my chest against the edge of the table. My tight skirt rides up a few inches. I don't look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me.

Yeah... I like to play. And if I'm taking the night off, I might as well savor every second of it.

"Are you sure you want to know what my books are about?" I start, my voice a murmur that cuts right through the noise of the saloon. "There's not a lot of lights-out missionary romance."

I strike the cue ball. A sharp clack. The balls fan out across the green felt in a perfect break.

I straighten up with a wicked smirk, swiping the blue chalk over the tip of my cue.

Ron leans on his cue, ankles crossed, watching me. A lazy, amused smile tugs at his lips. Not a trace of discomfort.

“No lights out. Copy that.” He straightens and unbuttons the cuffs of his flannel shirt with easy confidence, rolling them up to reveal thick, veined forearms.

He isn't trying to be sexy. He just is.

He leans over the table. His posture is relaxed, yet the muscles in his back tense magnificently. He sinks a solid with a smooth, precise stroke.

"And then what?" he prompts, standing back up. "I'm all ears, Selene."

I freeze for half a second.

How does he know my nam—ah, he must’ve heard it from the bartender.

I pull myself together and move around the table, my arm brushing his as I pass.

His scent hits me all over again.

"I write about control," I murmur, bending over my shot.

"About dark, ruthless men. Men who take a woman, tie her wrists to a wrought-iron headboard, and don't let her speak. They push her to the edge until she forgets how she even ended up in that bed. And then the women do the exact same thing to them."

I sink my ball and look at him out of the corner of my eye.

If he folds now... it means he doesn’t even deserve one night with me.

Yeah, I'm entirely done settling for mediocre sex and idiots who have no idea what they're doing.

Ron walks around the table, stopping directly in front of me. Our eyes lock. The blue of his eyes has darkened, turning stormy and intense.

But what short-circuits my brain is that he doesn’t look intimidated at all.

He looks… captivated.

He leans over the table, his face inches from mine, completely invading my personal space. His voice drops an octave.

"Sounds to me like your heroes have good taste," he murmurs, his eyes fixed on my mouth.

"But I'd guess the real challenge isn't tying a woman up."

He strikes the cue ball without even looking at it.

A dull thud, and the eight ball vanishes into the pocket.

"The real challenge is finding a woman so stubborn, so used to having everything under control, and making her surrender willingly. Making her beg you to put those ropes on her wrists. And if a man can’t accept that a woman can dominate him right back, I just think he’s intimidated by her.

Don’t you agree, author?"

My breath catches in my throat.

Holy Christ.

My heart is hammering against my ribs. My inner thighs quiver, flooded with heat.

Am I really that predictable? And yet… I’ve never met anyone who could satisfy me.

I slowly set the cue down on the green felt and step toward him, lifting my gaze to meet those scorching blue eyes.

"Okay, new cowboy..." I whisper. "Do you also have a truck?"

The windows are already completely fogged up. My bare back is pressed against the freezing leather of the bench seat, a sharp contrast to the heat blazing through my skin wherever Ron touches me.

My skirt is a bunched-up pile of fabric around my hips. Ron's flannel shirt has ended up god knows where.

I’ve always written about darkness as the place where true power hides, but the sheer size of this man—illuminated in flashes by the headlights of passing cars—is the most commanding presence I’ve ever seen.

His broad chest glistens with sweat; the muscles in his arms tense as he braces them on either side of my head, caging me against the seat.

“How do you like it?”

No one has ever asked me that before. But I don’t say a word. After all, it’s just a one-night stand, and I’m not here to chat.

“Are you suddenly feeling insecure?” I shoot back.

That crooked smirk tells me he took the bait.

His erection glides against me with maddening slowness. When he finally slides inside, the fullness is so overwhelming it pulls a broken breath from my lips, my back arching as the seat springs groan beneath us.

Ron stays perfectly still, teeth clenched, giving me a moment to adjust to him. Then he starts moving.

It starts slowly, a deep, grinding friction that pulls a moan from my lips against his shoulder. But it doesn't last long. The rhythm shifts, fractures, accelerates—spiraling into something completely out of control, each hard thrust rocking the cab.

He buries himself in me. Again.

I feel every thrust reverberate through me, his hot breath against my skin, his heavy weight pinning me down, crushing me—and instead of satisfying me, it only makes me crave more.

My legs tangle with his, chasing a stability that simply doesn't exist in this cramped space.

Ron’s hands slide up my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh with a raw confidence that makes me lose my mind.

Every stroke radiates through my core, shooting up my spine until my whole body pulls taut.

I can't hold back. I dig my nails into his shoulders as the pace turns dirtier, more brazen—the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air, drowning out everything else.

He keeps pounding into me, never once breaking eye contact.

The climax hits out of nowhere, stealing my breath.

My body surrenders, shaking with intense contractions.

I feel Ron go rigid above me, a low groan vibrating in his chest as he follows me over the edge, his body tensing as he finishes with a force that leaves me trembling.

He hovers over me, his hot breath fanning across my face as the outside world ceases to exist.

My racing heart takes a while to slow down. And only then, as the haze of pleasure begins to fade and the night’s chill creeps back between us, does it hit me how absurd this is.

Damn, I think, as he absentmindedly strokes my side, my one-night stand just made missionary the most erotic thing I've ever experienced.

I need to get out of here…