Frankie
I’ve been here three days.
Three miserable days.
It’s not exactly the Ritz.
It’s not even a Motel 6.
It’s barely more than an outhouse.
But I thought it would at least serve a purpose, which was to be alone. Alone, dammit. A girl on the run is supposed to be alone. It’s the whole point of running!
So this is all I get? All I’m allowed to have? Just three miserable days of solitude? Why is it so damned impossible for a woman to be alone?
I narrow my gaze at the behemoth standing next to his horse. He’s got his huge arms extended in front of him, palms out, as if he’s assuring me I have nothing to fear.
Right.
His scowl carves deep creases in his brow, visible under his cowboy hat. And the scowl and the hat can’t hide the startling blue of his eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like those.
I don’t recognize him, and I would bet money that I’ve never seen him before. I’d remember. And this is good, because if I did recognize him, it would mean I’ve been found, which would mean I’m in a shitload of trouble.
I can’t let that happen. I can’t get found and I can’t get in that kind of trouble. It would be the end of me.
The axe shakes in front of my body. It’s heavy and I can’t get my hands to stop trembling. It’s the adrenaline. I take a deep breath and try to get my brain to work.
It doesn’t matter who this gym bro in a Stetson is. He’s got to go.
If it weren’t for his WWE-worthy body, I’d think he was handsome enough to be a country western supermodel or a Nashville superstar. But he’s dressed like a ranch hand.
“I said stay back!” I raise the shaking axe. His scowl deepens and he takes a step toward me.
He probably works for that ranch down below. From certain spots up here, I can look down on a huge spread. This guy must tend some of the cattle I’ve seen roaming around the area.
But if he’s a ranch hand, they sure outfit their employees with the finest of everything, because I can tell at a glance that his giant Quarter Horse is worth a fortune.
And even though it’s been a long time since I spent any time riding, I can’t miss the fancy, hand-tooled leatherwork of a custom-made saddle.
That’s when I notice that the cowboy’s hair is the exact shade of strawberry blond as his horse. I get the impression that’s not a mistake.
I sniff the air. Under the notes of trail dust and dried sweat, I smell giant wads of cash. I can detect money from a mile away. It’s one of my many talents, and one that has helped me achieve certain career goals working in Sin City.
More specifically, the career goals I set for myself while at Lynx, the most exclusive “gentleman’s club” in Las Vegas.
The other Lynx dancers call me, “Tits with Assets.” One advised me that I should start an Only Fans channel. Like that would ever happen.
Not now, anyway. Not from up here.
I watch the guy inch closer. He doesn’t walk; he stalks like a panther. Agile but strong as an ox. Dangerous. I bet he could wrestle a longhorn to the ground with one arm tied behind his back.
There’s probably an audience for that in Vegas. Who wouldn’t want to watch a show starring Cowboy Eye Candy and a big, dangerous bull. There’s an audience for everything in Vegas.
I should know.
He’s still broadcasting his neutrality to me. Shoulders relaxed. Spine soft. Palms out.
He just can’t get rid of his scowl, though. Maybe that’s his baseline, which would be a shame. He’d probably be shockingly hot if he’d stop frowning.
But I can tell by the easy way he carries himself and the grace in his movements that he’s a man who lives fully in his body. Since I’m the same, I can always spot it in others. This is a man who knows how to use his body and is well aware of its capabilities.
I bet he has lots of capabilities.
I don’t trust those men. They’ve always got an agenda, and it’s usually one they don’t like to share.
The cowboy takes another step. My knuckles go white on the axe handle and I lift the weapon over my shoulder. My triceps burn and I gulp down mouthfuls of the thin air.
“You’ll regret this, asshole!” I yell.
He points to my pile of wood. “Won’t burn.”
“What?”
“Green. Not seasoned.”
I lower the axe. “What are you—some kind of socially awkward forest ranger?”
I detect a slight twitch of his mouth, but I see nothing in his eyes. They’re humorless and shut down.
“Rancher. Name’s Kevin MacLaine. You’re on MacLaine land.”
“I have no idea who those people are or what you’re talking about, but you’re wrong. Get lost. I have a gun and a deed to this place.”
He arches an eyebrow at me, the first outward sign of any kind of emotion other than the scowl. “Gun’s a smart move. There’s bobcats, black bear…”
“What the…?”
“And rattlesnakes, of course.”
I’m seeing red. I don’t appreciate someone trying to scare me off. Bears? What a crock of shit. “Get off my property.”
He looks down at his feet a second and then locks eyes with me again. “Deed’s garbage. Sorry. You’ll need to pack up and move out.”
“Make me.”
As soon as the words come out, I want to snatch them from the air, shove them back in my mouth, and put a padlock on my lips. What have I done? MacLaine’s expression has just changed. I don’t see anger.
I see intense curiosity.
I think I prefer the frowning and the dead eyes.
I lower the axe to the front of my body again and catch my breath, but I don’t take my eyes off his face. It wouldn’t be safe to. And I don’t want to. Because he fascinates me.
This is a highly sexual man standing in front of me, out here in the middle of nowhere. I know his type—I’ve known a lot of them. He’s the powerful and secretive kind. I don’t like that combo. I like my men approachable and honest.
At least I think I would, if I ever met a man like that.
My rancher friend is a feral, sexy animal.
Holy shit, this man is hot.
I shake my head. Nope.
Fuckin’ nope to the nope.
Not happening, Frankie. Don’t go there. Don’t let one brain go anywhere near there.
I don’t mean to, but I laugh out loud. It’s the stress and exhaustion. It’s also because at this point, I really don’t give a shit.
I’m so completely done with men, so exhausted by them. Every single man I’ve ever known has brought me nothing but grief. They always start out great, hot even. And with a few of them, I’ve gotten a hint of something more, a promise of the storybook happy ending.
That combo of hot and hopeful has been known to keep me going for a while, even make me blind to huge red flags flapping around in the wind right in front of me.
But in the end, every relationship I’ve ever fallen into has left me shaking my head and walking away in disgust.
Except the last one.
I didn’t walk away from the last one. Not from Drago Kozlov.
I ran.
I ran for my life. I worry I’ll always have to run from Drago and his buddies.
However many of them are still alive.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” the cowboy says, turning to leave. “You’ll need to be gone.”
I let the sharp end of the axe hit the ground and I lean on it like a cane. “Or what?”
MacLaine turns back to me, raises an eyebrow, and then casually mounts his expensive horse. I watch him ease into the saddle and spin away from me, then spin back to face me again.
He’s one giant hunk of man muscle, closer to seven feet than six, but he moves with complete ease, at home in his skin, and even more home on his horse. He controls his horse like it’s nothing, like it’s an extension of himself, his hands light as feathers on the reins.
Dark blond curls poke out from under his cowboy hat and catch the late morning light. His eyes are the color of the millions of tiny wild violets popping up all over this landscape.
He nods ever so slightly at me. “Goodbye. Safe travels.”
TO be CONTINUED…