Chapter One
Dixie
Iclocked out at The Hungry Heifer at ten thirty-two on a Wednesday night, my feet screaming and my back aching from an eight-hour shift. The dinner rush had finally died down around nine, leaving just a handful of stragglers nursing coffee and pie at the counter while I wiped down tables and refilled ketchup bottles.
"See you Friday, Doris," I called, grabbing my purse from her office.
"Drive safe, hon." Doris didn't look up from counting the register, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She'd been managing The Hungry Heifer since before I was born and knew everyone's order by heart. "You got enough gas to get home?"
"I'm good." The question was kind, not nosy. Doris had been good to me since I came back from Houston—never askedinvasive questions, slipped me leftover pie to take home. She knew I was struggling without making me say it out loud.
The February night bit through my thin jacket the second I stepped outside. I desperately wanted a heavier coat, but Daisy had needed new shoes last month, and winter coats weren't exactly a priority when you were choosing between heat and groceries. But I'd been colder. Houston had taught me that—taught me a lot of things I wished I could unlearn. At least here I had Mom, Daisy, and a warm place to sleep at night. That counted for something.
My Honda Civic started on the second try—another thing I had to fix but couldn't afford. The check engine light had been on for three months, and I'd gotten real good at ignoring it. Ignorance was free. Mechanics were not.
My reflection in the rearview mirror showed the damage: chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail that had seen better days, dark circles under my brown eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. Twenty-seven years old and already exhausted. At least the grease splatter on my uniform wasn't too visible in the dim light. Small victories.
The Uber app toggled to "online," and I waited for a ride request. Wednesday nights were hit or miss—sometimes steady, sometimes dead. But every little bit helped when you were trying to keep your head above water. Between the diner and driving, I made maybe two thousand a month. After rent, utilities, groceries, and everything else, I had about twelve dollars left over. Which was twelve dollars more than I'd had in Houston, so hey—progress.
The notification pinged almost immediately. Rusty Spur to Massey Ranch. Twenty minutes, fifteen bucks before tip.
Not great, but better than going home empty-handed.
I accepted and headed toward Bitter Root's only honky-tonk, country music crackling through my half-broken speakers.Wednesday night at The Rusty Spur meant dealing with someone who was either going to hit on me or puke in my back seat.
Sometimes both.
The gravel parking lot was half-full of jacked-up trucks and bumper stickers that made questionable political statements. Inside, Garth Brooks competed with what sounded like a very enthusiastic bachelorette party. Pink cowboy hats bobbed past the windows.
I texted the rider and waited. Two minutes turned to five. I was about to cancel when the bar door finally swung open.
The guy who stumbled out was definitely not what I'd expected.
He was way too well-dressed for The Rusty Spur—dark jeans that actually fit, expensive boots, and a white button-down that looked like it had started the evening crisp and professional. Now the shirt was half-untucked, two buttons undone at the collar, sleeves shoved up to his elbows showing tanned forearms. His dark hair stuck up in several directions like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, and a fresh bruise was forming along his jaw. Knuckles on his right hand looked scraped.
And he was stupid hot.
Offensively attractive. Suspiciously handsome, like he was hiding a personality disorder or a secret wife. Green eyes bright even in the dim light, strong jaw shadowed with stubble that probably felt amazing against—
Nope. Not going there.
He yanked open my back door and basically poured himself into my Honda with all the grace of a baby giraffe learning to walk.
"You my ride?" His voice had that lazy Texas drawl that worked on every woman between here and Houston.
Not on me, though. Immune to pretty cowboys. Had to be.
"If you're Hunter, then yes." I kept my tone professional.
"Unfortunately." He slumped against the seat and closed his eyes, one hand draped dramatically across his forehead. "Just drive. I don't care where. Away from here. Can you take me to Mexico?"
"Uber doesn't cover international kidnapping." I pulled out of the parking lot, heading toward the address in the app—Massey Ranch. "But I can get you home."
"Home." He said it like the word tasted bad. "Right. Home. Where my perfect life is waiting to remind me how imperfect I am."
Oh good. A philosophical drunk. My favorite kind.
The silence lasted maybe ten seconds before he started up again.
