CHAPTER 5
Special K
It’s four in the morning, a time when most decent people are asleep. Not me. I’m not asleep. And since it’s been quite a few years since I considered myself a decent person, I guess I’m right on point.
I’m walking under a pitch-black sky alive with stars, so bright that they light my way along the ranch lane as I stroll north.
In the profound darkness and silence, it’s easy for me to imagine what life was like for my ancestor, the one with enough stubbornness to make his way from Scotland’s Isle of Mull to America, volunteer to fight in the Civil War, and buy up a large chunk of the Nevada Territory.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Fergus MacLaine walked this very path on a similarly dark night, trying to imagine what the future held for his family, so far from home.
I bet he tried to picture the people who would come after him.
He probably asked himself if his descendants would be willing to build upon his sweat and sacrifice.
I’m that future. I’m the youngest in an unbroken line of MacLaine men who made the most of what my great-great-grandfather started. And I know I won’t be the last because my brothers will have sons and daughters to carry on the family name.
But not me.
There was a time I thought differently—I believed differently. Before.
Making my father and brothers proud is what used to drive me through life. I kept raising the bar higher and higher for myself, pushing past what I thought I could bear, over and over again in my determination to carry on the MacLaine name with honor.
That version of me pictured a life of my own making, stretching out in 4K color into my future.
I’d marry Harper and have a family. I’d serve honorably in field intelligence and one day become a master chief at Coronado, teaching future generations of SEALs before I retired and returned to life on the ranch.
But all that was back before I fucked it all up.
Before I stumbled and fell from grace, nearly taking the reputation of the MacLaines with me.
I kick at the gravel and shake my head.
Tonight’s version of US Navy SEAL Kevin MacLaine, the one wandering the lane in the dark, is a bit different. I’ve set the bar so low for myself that sometimes I think I need a shovel to reach it.
These days, my goal is to keep my thoughts and my fists to myself and disappear into the scenery—as much as a man my size can manage, anyway.
I work myself to the bone so that I can fall into bed at night, my mind so dull from exhaustion that I drop into an empty, black sleep.
Then I wake up before the sun and start it all over again the next day.
That’s the legacy I’m building for myself.
Something simple. Attainable.
But tonight I can’t sleep. Because of her. And there’s a thrumming inside me. I’m vibrating. Perking up.
Which is beyond stupid. So fucking stupid.
That woman is hiding on Washoe Ridge because she’s got troubles. That woman is trouble. And I know I’m in no position to bring any woman into my life, let alone one who’s dragging a heavy bundle of turmoil behind her.
I got plenty of trouble of my own, more than enough turmoil and regret to keep me busy. I sure as hell don’t need anybody else’s added to it.
When I was a nine-year-old wild child, I thought it would be fun to punch out a three-hundred-pound black bear for shits and giggles. I’m the out-of-control motherfucker who damn-near killed a man with my bare hands three years ago. That he deserved it didn’t seem to matter.
So, no.
Just fucking no. I need to stop thinking about her. Now.
But it’s easier said than done.
The image of her standing there—axe trembling in her grip and eyes defiant—that vision is forever burned into my brain. I’ve never seen a woman that beautiful, such a flawless collection of elements so perfectly assembled.
Pale peach skin. Natural blond hair to her mid-back. Pale-blue eyes that sparkle with equal parts intelligence and suspicion. That small, straight nose and those full, pouty lips.
And that pretty face of hers. The sweet rise of her cheekbones and the delicate slope of her chin.
Then there’s her body. Holy shit. That kind of body is the stuff of fantasies. My fantasies.
Tall, lithe, and athletic, but all female. Every fucking glorious curve and hollow.
And all of her in such a ridiculously nonsensical setting. On a mountain top in the Sierra Nevada foothills, in the middle of nowhere. The expression “out of place” doesn’t come anywhere close to cutting it.
The sound of my own laughter brings me to a halt on the lane. I must be out of my damn mind. There is no fucking way that a trespasser should be holding my attention or diverting my energy. I got too much going on here at the ranch and at StellaR Tech. I don’t have time for this.
But before I even realize what I’m doing, I turn on my bootheel and head back to the compound. To the horse barn, more specifically. And my brain is swirling. My thoughts are racing. And all I can think of are those boots.
Those white vinyl, thigh-high, fuck-me boots. In a patch of isolated wilderness. At a dilapidated cabin she thinks is hers, for some laughable reason.
Well, fuck it.
I might never sleep again if I don’t collect intel on why she’s here and who she is and why the holy fucking hell she’s wearing those boots.
I’m moving at a jog as I close in on Finn’s fancy horse barn. Once we started making boatloads of money with StellaR Tech’s national security contracts, Finn sunk most of his take of profits into a Yosemite Ranch horse breeding program, and this palace of a barn is testament to his big plans.
For Cal, it’s been all about investing in additional land and ensuring the ranch’s financial stability. For Evander, it’s been about his fancy clothes, collectible cars, and first-class world travel. For Declan, it’s been his planes and jets and helicopters.
And for me?
Nothing much really, aside from building the home of my dreams, the way all we MacLaine boys have done here at Yosemite Ranch.
I’ve given a lot of cash to veteran’s charities and dumped a truckload of money into our little regional hospital.
The rest is either put back into StellaR Tech and the ranch or socked away in slow-but-steady investments.
I guess I’m pretty boring compared to my brothers.
But then again, none of my brothers screwed the pooch the way I did. Or ended up losing their mojo in such spectacular fashion. None of my brothers doubt themselves the way I do.
Maybe one day I’ll forgive myself enough to find a passion for life again. Maybe someday I’ll find a focus for my time, energy, and money.
What that might be, I’ve got no idea. Being a SEAL was my life passion. It was my career and my purpose. And I’m fairly certain nothing will ever be significant enough to fill the hole created by its absence.
It’s so early that even the stable hands aren’t awake, so when I enter the barn and flip on the lights, I’m greeted with a chorus of equine complaints. I distinctly hear Diego Guapo in the background, singing the song of his cranky people.
I walk along the wide center aisle to my horse.
“Rise and shine, my dude,” I tell him, opening the stall door made of shiny wood and anodized steel.
DG gives me a serious serving of side-eye as I slip on his halter.
“Yeah, I disturbed your beauty sleep. But you’re a MacLaine.
We MacLaines get up early to do all the shit that’s got to be getting done. So deal with it.”
As I lead DG toward the tack room, Joe Valencia enters through the back door connected to the bunkhouse. It looks like I disturbed his rest, too.
“Anything I can help you with this morning?” he asks, yawning.
“Sorry if I woke you up, but I got this.” I clip DG’s halter to the cross ties and retrieve his saddle pad. When I return, Joe’s leaning against the wall, raking a hand through his hair.
“Still looking for the stragglers, Special K? Should I saddle up and join you?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I hold the saddle pad in front of DG so he can sniff it since he’s a picky sonofabitch.
Then I settle it on his back between his withers and croup.
I walk off to fetch a few things from the women’s changing room.
I find one of Summer’s warm shearling coats and a pair of hiking boots.
It’s not like she’s going to need them in her condition, so why not?
I grab the saddle from the tack room and return to DG. Joe’s staring at me in confusion but says nothing.
Joe and I have been working cattle together since before my voice broke.
He’s not just the foreman of all our ranch staff, he’s my friend.
Friendships tend to develop when you’re spending days at a time on horseback in each other’s company.
Aside from my brothers and Summer, I’d say Joe is the closest friend I’ve got. The only friend, really.
What I like most about the man is that he never expects clever banter from me, or any banter at all. And that’s a rare gift.
“All right,” Joe says with a shrug. He wanders into the break room to start the coffee pot, leaving me to it.
I tie the boot laces together and sling them around my neck, then get the bit and bridle on DG and double-check the girth. Next, I tie up the coat to the cantle, walk DG out the back double doors, and mount.
I ride off.
To Boots, the woman on Washoe Ridge.