Tame the Heart (Runaway Ranch #1)

Prologue

H earts, flowers, and sunshine are some of my favorite things.

Maybe it’s the car I’m spinning around in, or maybe it’s because it’s my normal. Probably both. Apparently, birthdays are meant to have many awful and wild surprises all at once.

With a tight grip on the steering wheel, I slam my eyes shut as the sound of screeching tires over the rain-slicked road echoes in my head.

Over and over like a fun house tilt-a-whirl ride, sending my stomach lurching into my throat.

My heart hammers in my ears like it’s made of gunfire.

Finally, the front of my sunny VW beetle hits a telephone pole with a wicked crunch.

My eyes fly open as the power to the block goes dark.

I gasp, seeing I’ve stopped feet from Bloom’s Blooms, the white-shuttered flower shop my father and brother own.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

They’ll never let me out of the house again.

Be safe is what my dad said today when I left the house. It’s always be careful, be safe , it’s never have fun .

Overcautious is what my big brother Max calls it. I call it overprotective .

Needing oxygen, a life preserver, an escape hatch—because in five seconds all of Carmel, Indiana will come running—I open my door and fall to the wet cement.

I gulp humid air and take in the damage.

Crumpled fender. Smoking hood. Strawberry milkshake all over my dash, and I groan because I really wanted that milkshake.

Still, the rain falling from the sky is pleasant, and I’d give anything to stretch out in snow-angel position and listen to the gentle soundtrack of rain.

I don’t even get five seconds before the front door to the flower shop slams open. My dad and my older brother run out, their faces harried. Dad has his pruning shears in his hand, which means I’ve caught him in the act of what he calls “sweet talking” wild roses.

Shit. They’ll never believe it wasn’t my heart.

Everything is always about my heart.

Because why wouldn’t it be?

I squint at the shrubs to my right and catch the disappearing end of a bushy red tail.

I smile brightly. At least one thing has gone right today.

“Ruby!”

Suddenly, my brother and my father are on their knees in front of me, their hands everywhere like no one has lectured them on personal space.

“Ruby Jane, are you okay?” Ted Bloom booms in a voice that has my stomach clenching. It’s always that same sad tone. It’s always my middle name. To remind him of my mother.

I lean back against the car and puff a lock of hair out of my eyes. “I’m fine, Dad,” I say with a bright smile. Making my father worry is like burying an ax in my heart. I always want to reassure him I’m okay. “Not even a scratch.”

My father’s hands fold around my shoulders. “Hospital.”

I shake my head, taking in his craggy face. “No more hospitals.” I meet his tired eyes. “I’m not hurt. I swear.”

Max’s blue eyes narrow like he thinks I’m lying. “Did you have a flutter?”

A flutter is what we call one of my fainting episodes. Whenever my heart rate skyrockets, my body floods with adrenaline, which causes me to pass out. This year I’ve only had one “fluttering” incident. I’m not in orange alert territory yet, not until I faint behind the wheel or in the shower.

I sock him in the arm. “No, asshole.”

“Then what happened?”

“I swerved to avoid a squirrel.”

Max looks horrified. And disgusted. “Jesus, Rubes.” He makes it sound like avoiding helpless animals is a bad thing.

Tilting my head up, I try to find the bushy red tail again. Black smoke clogs the sky.

I quirk an eyebrow, impressed. It’s the most action I’ve had in this lifetime. “Oh man, I smoked the car, didn’t I, Max?”

“The car? You’re worried about the fucking car? You could have died!” Max whisper-hisses, and it’s like the words drop into the perfect Tetris position to make sense.

I could have died. Today.

“Huh,” I say brightly. “I could have. That really sucks.”

My brother stares at me like I’m nuts. My father looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm, because I can see the classic Bloom vein throbbing in his temple.

I’m saved by old Mrs. Hester, coming out of the American Legion and asking him why her daylilies always die so fast. Instantly, an argument begins.

If I had my phone, I’d hop on it and try to calm the quarrel with a peace-sign emoji. But I can barely hear what they’re saying over the din of the gathering crowd complaining about the power outage.

That’s when I look up and spot the squirrel in a tree, chittering away with another squirrel. Without warning, hot tears flood my eyes.

It’s the stupidest thought, but it rocks me.

Even the squirrel has more of a life than I do. It has a best friend, or better, a lover.

It has more than me.

Once again, Max’s words flood my ears: You could have died.

I could have died.

Which is not new information.

I could have met my maker today, and what would I have to show for it? What would I have written in my gratitude journal from the afterlife?

That I, Ruby Bloom, am grateful for my very planned schedule?

That my father and brother hovering is one of my favorite sports?

That my favorite words are: Planned. Orderly.

Safe. Vegetables. Oatmeal. Hospital. Medication.

Syncope. That even though I work for a luxury travel agency, running social media and content marketing from the comfort of my bedroom, I’ve never set foot outside Indiana.

That I’ve only had sex once in my life with a man who sounded like a carburetor when he came and who I scared half to death by fainting when it ended.

Maybe all men sound like a carburetor, not like I would know what good sex is. I’ve never even been handled rough. Never had an orgasm. Never been in love.

I blink then. It’s like an unexpected sucker punch to the face. The what-ifs.

What if I have two good years left? What if I die and have never lived?

What if I go my whole life without love? Without good sex?

My heart, agreeing with me, hammers like it wants to beat its way out of my chest.

I close my eyes and imagine my heart running off, away from my body. Where would it go? What would it do?

For so long, I thought I was happy, when all I’ve been is happily unhappy.

I’ve spent my entire life living quiet and safe for my father, but the right thing feels so ... wrong. So sad. So boring.

This world is beautiful, and I’m watching it pass me by.

I let out a strangled squeak. I feel my throat closing up, panic attack style.

And that’s when it hits me.

I’m not afraid of dying. Others are.

“Ruby?” Max’s voice floats.

“Today’s my birthday,” I tell Max.

“Yeah, Rubes.” He sounds worried. “I know. We got a cake inside that’s melting.”

I’m melting.

I’m too hot, sweating when the rain just keeps falling.

My father’s on the phone and now I can hear the ambulance, which just makes me want to curl up and .

..well, not die, exactly, because I’ve already been there done that today.

More like sink into an abyss of exhausting existential despair because I wish everyone would let me be.

Let me live.

“You okay?” Max asks. “Rubes?”

In answer, I push away from the car and lie down on the wet cement. I spread my arms out. A pebble grinds itself into my shoulder while the May rain seeps through my dress, chilling my bones.

I place two fingers on my throat. I’ve lived with SVT long enough that I can monitor my heartbeat. I track the rapid tick of my pulse, and it sounds like—

More time. More time. I still have more time.

“Fuck.” Max hovers over me, hands in his shaggy blond hair like he’s ready to tear it all out. I can see the soft blue of his eyes, matching mine, matching our mothers. “Where does it hurt?”

I stare at the squirrel, now squeaking in a tree above me. The sun is brighter. Intense. My brother’s panicked voice rattles in my head. Out of the corner of my eye, my hair, a bright strawberry blonde, mixes with the rainwater, and slowly turns a muddy red-brown.

My heart speeds up its beat.

I rest a palm over my chest and sigh. “Everywhere.”