“Cedarstone’s not a real town.” The words come out sharper than I intended. “It’s a tourist trap with a cowboy theme park. Our core audience is rural. Small towns. Places where rodeo actuallymeanssomething.”
“Our core audience is whoever buys tickets.”
“No. It’s people who grew up with this and who remember what it feels like.” I’m pacing now. “Towns like this one, like the one we grew up in. Where you and Mom had me. Where she?—”
I stop myself. Too far.
The silence on the other end is different now. Heavier.
I was twelve. Just a kid running wild through the streets, spending summers at the local rodeo grounds, watching the riders with stars in my eyes. Mom was still healthy then. Still laughing. Still the center of everything.
A year later, she was gone. The car accident took her fast, and after the funeral, Dad couldn’t stand to stay in that town anymore. “Too many memories,” he’d said. So he packed us up, hit the road, and started the circuit. Been moving ever since.
Mom never saw any of it. Never saw what Dad built in the years after she died. Sometimes I wonder if she’d be proud of us or if she’d hate what we’ve become—always running, never stopping long enough to feel anything real.
“Just get to the damn ranch,” my father says finally. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Fine.”
“And, Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“Fix your mess before it becomes mine.” The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone for a long moment, then toss it onto the bed. My head is still pounding, my mouth tastes like something died in it, and apparently I’m a wanted man in a town I barely know.
Great. Fantastic start to the day.
I stare around the room, trying to find something that might explain how I ended up here. There’s a key on the nightstand—room 107, The Ridge Motel—and a piece of paper with the motel’s address printed on it. Nothing else. No note, no wallet, no phone number scrawled on a napkin.
Just the memory of hazel eyes and a scent I can’t shake.
“You smell like my scent match.”
Did I actually say that to someone last night? Sounds like exactly the kind of thing my drunk brain would decide was a good idea.
Except I wasn’t drunk. IknowI wasn’t drunk. I had one drink at the bar—a Coke, because I’m not a fucking idiot. Someone must have slipped something into it. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
But then how did I get here? Who brought me to this motel? And who the hell was the woman with the hazel eyes?
I grab my phone and pull up my contacts. Carter’s name is right at the top.
Me:Need a ride. The Ridge Motel. Out front.
The response comes in less than a few seconds.
Carter:Holy shit, you’re alive. Whose bed did you end up in last night?
Me:Fuck off and just pick me up.
Carter:On my way. 20 min.
I toss the phone on the bed again and head for the bathroom. The mirror confirms what I already suspected: I look like hell. There’s a bruise forming along my jaw, purple and angry, and my eyes are bloodshot. My hair is a disaster. I smell like sweatand stale beer and something else—something floral and sweet that doesn’t belong to me.
Wildflowers.
I turn on the shower, letting the water run until it’s hot enough to steam up the tiny bathroom. The pressure is shit, but it’s better than nothing. I stand under the spray and let it pound against my skull, trying to beat some clarity into my brain.
