That's... suspicious
I hate you
Love you too
…
Bring me back a cowboy hat
I set the phone down, chuckling despite how tired I was. Mara was six years younger than me and somehow the smartest person I knew. She was the only reason I hadn’t told Avery to go to hell a long time ago.
Her scholarship and student loans barely paid for half her tuition. Our parents helped when they could, so I covered the rest. I didn’t want her taking a job and risking the flawless GPA she needed to get into medical school.
I cranked the AC to max and pulled out of the lot. Sheridan disappeared fast, giving way to nothing but straight road. Before long, I was flying down the highway at seventy miles an hour.
I reached for the radio dial, scanning for an upbeat pop station to keep me alert. Instead, a voice warped by static filled the car.
“…still no rain in the forecast, folks, and alfalfa hay prices are climbing right along with the heat…”
I stared at the dashboard, sighed, and left it on.
The mountains grew larger, from hazy blue to sharp gray. Every so often, an antelope would lift its head from the roadside and watch me pass, like I was the strange one.
When the turnoff for Redbow finally appeared, the town itself was three blocks long. It had a faded, postcard kind of charm: a general store with hand-painted lettering on the glass, a diner with a glowing neon sign, and a corner tavern with a dirt lot full of dusty pickup trucks.
That was the full business district. Good thing I brought my Kindle.
Right past the quirky motel I was supposed to stay at, the pavement ended without warning. A thick plume of dust kicked up in my rearview mirror, but the SUV handled the ruts easily.
"GPS signal lost," the navigation app chimed.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I muttered.
I followed the road through miles of open scrub until a wooden gate came into view, propped open with a rock. The nameWild Sage Ranchwas burned into the wood, the letters soft with age.
My tires rattled as I drove over the metal cattle guard. I followed the dirt road around the bend, and soon after, a massive two-story wooden ranch house came into view. A wraparound porch hugged the front, lined with mismatched rocking chairs and a stack of chopped firewood.
But it was the paddock to the left that made me hit the brakes.
A huge, dark horse tore frantic circles in the dirt. And there in the middle of it, perfectly still, was Brock Wilder.
He held a long rope as the horse spun around him. When it jerked sideways, Brock didn’t fight it. Three strides later, it dropped its head and settled, breathing hard.
He was taller than he looked in the videos, broader across the shoulders too. His white T-shirt clung to his chest, and every time he pulled on the rope, his arms flexed in a way that was hard not to stare at.
So, hewascapable of discipline and control. He just chose when to use it.
I rolled to a stop at the edge of the gravel and killed the engine. He still hadn’t looked up. Was he ignoring me on purpose?
I stepped out. He turned then, looping the rope around his hand.
He gave me one look and scoffed. “You’re the wrangler they sent.”
“I’m the PR specialist.” I slammed the car door shut. “But considering I’m here to keep you from swinging at the locals, wrangler works just fine.”
The horse tossed its head, but Brock’s gaze stayed locked on mine. He tied the rope to the fence post, swung the gate open, and walked toward me.
Up close, his jaw was tight under a few days of scruff. A fading yellow bruise lined its edge. His eyes dragged down my dress to my kitten heels sinking into the dirt. When he finally looked up, his blue eyes locked on mine, and the corner of his mouth ticked up.
