Chapter 2
Bronc
The wind carried grit from the cattle pens two blocks over, sharpening the diesel fumes into something that stung the back of my throat. I leaned against the chipped concrete pillar, thumb hooked in my belt loop as the Greyhound wheezed to a stop. Travelers spilled out—tired salesmen clutching briefcases, college kids hauling overstuffed duffels, a grandmother herding three sticky-faced children. None of them matched the woman from the grainy driver’s license photo Wrecker had dug up.
Then she stepped down.
The black dye job was worse in person—roots bleeding gold along her neckline, a fringe of bangs brushing her eyelashes actually were damn cute. That thrift store cardigan hung loose around narrow shoulders, swallowing her whole until the wind pressed the fabric against her torso. My gaze caught on the way her jeans pooled around new-looking Hey Dudes, the hem frayed where she’d cut off the original length. Every inch screamed a struggling woman chasing work in a podunk Texas town.
Except for the hands.
She gripped the bus’s handrail like it might dissolve beneath her fingers, knuckles pale under a fading July tan. Hands that had never hauled bales or scrubbed floors, the nails bitten ragged but still shaped with the ghost of a French manicure. I pushed offmy truck just as she stumbled into a teenager barreling toward the vending machines. Her apology came out too crisp, vowels rounded with an accent she couldn’t quite flatten into something Midwestern.
“Julia Harris.”
Her spine snapped straight at the name, chin lifting as she turned. She made a joke about coffee. Damn cute. Up close, the dye looked even worse—store-brand box color, applied in haste. But beneath it lurked something richer, like sunbaked wheat stalks caught mid-sway. Her eyes widened, lashes sweeping up to reveal irises that couldn’t decide between brown and midnight except for the amber flecks. A shiver raced through her before she locked it down, full lips curving into a smile that didn’t touch those watchful eyes. And a pert nose dusted with the most appealing tiny fucking freckles. I shook my head. I needed to get my shit together.
“Mr. Baucaum.” She adjusted the strap of her rather large Louis Vuitton tote, the movement pulling her sweater tight across collarbones sharp enough to draw blood. I noticed the wince she gave against the pressure. “I’d shake hands, but mine are currently auditioning for an earthquake simulator.”
The joke landed with a self-deprecating twist, her voice lower than I’d expected—smoke and honey where I’d prepared for something brighter. Behind us, a toddler wailed as his mother dragged him toward the restrooms. Julia flinched at the sound, shoulders creeping toward her ears.
“Bronc’s fine.” I reached for her bag, noting the fresh scrape along its leather exterior. “Welcome to the friendly side of nowhere.”
Her laugh came out with half a cough. “If by friendly you mean determined to sandblast my retinas…”
A gust whipped her bangs sideways, revealing a thin scar along her hairline—old, poorly stitched. My fingers twitched toward itbefore I caught myself. “Wait until the tumbleweeds roll through. They’ll steal your left shoe just to watch you hop.”
“Charming.” She fell into step beside me, her strides two to my one. The bag banged against her hip as we walked. She hadn’t let me take it from her. Her ankle twisted slightly in a parking lot crack, and she almost lost her footing. My hand found her elbow before she face-planted into a parking meter.
She hesitated, staring at the passenger door handle like it might bite. When I moved to open it for her, she jerked back, boot heel catching on the curb.
“I’ve got it,” she blurted, hauling herself up with a white-knuckled grip on the ‘oh-shit’ handle. The seat creaked as she settled in, knees knocking together until she forced them still. Her gaze swept the dashboard—clean, no club insignias, GPS disabled—before landing on the dented thermos in the cupholder.
“Coffee’s fresh,” I said, sliding behind the wheel.
She eyed the thermos like it contained hemlock. “Only if you have cream and sugar.”
“Noted.”
The engine roared to life, drowning out whatever she muttered next. As I pulled onto Main Street, her reflection flickered in the side mirror—chin ducked, fingers worrying a loose thread on her sweater cuff. Waiting. Assessing. Cataloging exits.
“How was Chicago when you left?”
“Damp.” Her thumbnail picked at the thread’s knot. “Though after eight hours sitting next to a man who believed Axe Body Spray counted as bathing, I’d take a monsoon.”
The barb held an unexpected bite. I glanced over to find her studying the feed store we passed, gaze tracking a cluster of ranch hands loading hay bales. Her tongue darted out to wet chapped lips.
“You ride?”
“Horses?” A beat too late, her shoulders lifted. “Only if they’re attached to carousels.”
Bullshit. That hitch in her breath when the geldings nickered? Pure muscle memory. I drummed my fingers on the wheel, letting silence pool between us. The tactic worked better than interrogation—innocents rushed to fill voids, liars clammed up tight.
She lasted three traffic lights.
“Any decent barbecue joints around here?”
“A few.” I thought of my mother’s bar and grill; she’d likely frequent when she settled in. “Now for gourmet food? You consider Fritos in chili ‘gourmet’?”
