Chapter 4

My body jerks awake,and despite the thick duvet and cool room, I can't get comfortable. Anxiety wakes me up every twenty minutes. My migraine has calmed, but the exhaustion doesn't keep me sleeping soundly. I keep seeing the same images over and over again from different angles: torn flesh and blood that wouldn't stop dripping. At the time, I hadn't known exactly what we were running from, but we had been leaving a trail. There wasn't enough time to stop it. The pace was on a constant loop every time I shut my eyes. I didn't want to fill the prescription meds that the government-issued therapist prescribed to me on our way out of town. Now I regret that decision.

I pull the throw blanket from the bottom of the bed and drape it over my shoulders, walking out the double doors to the patio. The transition from the cool hardwood to the blue slate is a welcome warmth under my bare feet. I tilt my head back, taking in a deep breath of that sugar-dusted smell. The sky's just starting to turn, with the faintest hues of peach and yellow painted along the dividing line that separated the earth from the sky.

Horse paddocks are to the left, far enough away that even if there were horses out this early, I wouldn't be able to see them as anything larger than a speck in the distance. The steps down to the grass are slick with the morning's dew, but I want to feel it between my toes. There are only a few times I can remember walking barefoot in the grass back at home; during concerts on the main lawn or lazy Sunday picnics in Central Park. Those were plans and a weekend destination. This is a stark contrast to all of it. A quiet change from the concrete, cabs, and smoking grates of a typical morning commute. This is steps from where I slept. It's Ace's overly exaggerated backyard.

A quick whistle, followed by "Whoa, girl," in a low, deep gravel has my head turning so fast it's entirely possible I'm going to have whiplash. Add it to the roster of things I'll need to work through. It seems far too early for someone to be riding up on horseback, but then again, I have no idea what people do in Fiasco, Kentucky. Maybe this is entirely normal.

After a short succession of whistles, a dog comes darting out of nowhere, running alongside the horseback rider. The pup's chocolate brown head is mismatched from the rest of its white-and-gray speckled body. It's keeping up with the speed of the horse and its rider, who is getting closer by the second as he crests the small knoll less than a football field away.With his body squared and headed right for me, he pulls the reins and instantly comes close to a stop. This isn't Griz or Ace. No, this man is bulkier, younger than them, but easily older than me. He looks pissed off, like I'm inconveniencing him for existing in his path. Even if I wanted to scurry inside, the way he keeps his focus on me, I have a feeling he"s the kind of man who would follow. The kind who wouldn't ask, but demand answers to the question that's most likely: who the hell are you? And I'd have to lie because that's what I am now. A liar.

But I'm not going to run away. Even if I'm still trying to figure out exactly who this new version of Laney might be, I'm not going to let her be the kind of woman who runs away. So, I stand taller. I know what quiet judgment feels like as his eyes rove over me. Judge away. I'm doing the same.

There's a movie I saw as a teenager that I always watched whenever it was playing. The first time I saw it, I thought it was a western. It starts with a woman in a showdown with an outlaw named Rogan. The woman lets him believe he is going to get the peep show that he just demanded, but as she unties her skirt, she pulls out a dagger and throws it with perfect aim directly to his heart. She rescues herself. And as she limps out of her home, in the distance, she sees the love of her life on horseback. He waits for her to ride off into the sunset. He was there to be with her, but she didn't need him to rescue her. She did that just fine on her own. That has always stuck with me.

I always liked the idea of a man like that. A sexy feminist who doesn't need to boss a woman around or save the day in order to prove his masculinity. One who trusts and allows her to handle her shit, without having to rescue her, but is there when she needs him. I sure as hell haven't found any men like that.

The kicker in all of this is that the movie turned out not to be a western at all. It was an 80s rom-com about a recluse author who is forced on an adventure just like the storylines in her romance novels. She surprises herself by turning out to be a badass in the end. She rescues her sister, gets the guy, and becomes the hero of her own story. I've always loved that movie.

This isn't that movie. No matter how much I think this cowboy looks like a fantasy from far away, the closer he comes to me, the scowl on his face gets clearer. He's not happy. I'm not exactly sure who he might be, but if I had to guess, Ace hasn't given him the memo that I'm welcome. He slows his horse no more than fifty feet from where I'm sitting now, but his dog doesn't stop.

His eyes flick down, and I quickly remember that I'm wearing nothing more than an oversized t-shirt, my legs and feet bare. I ball up my fists, unsure what to do with my hands as he watches me. My cheeks flush as he commands his horse to step closer. I only realize I'm holding my breath when my lungs force out an exhale.

His dark hair peeks out from the edges of a worn royal-blue baseball hat. Broad shoulders and perfect posture make it look like he was born to ride a horse. The way he carries himself is confident and rugged. My eyes wander across his strong chest, up to his chiseled jaw that hides behind thick scruff. I do more than just glance down the length of his arms to his corded forearms and white knuckles gripping the reins. I'm staring. His grip seems as tense as my entire body feels. As his eyes roam from my face to my feet and back up again, the only sounds around us are the chirps of the waking birds and the wapping of the dog"s tail in the air as its wet nose brushes a sniff along my leg.

"You lost?" are the first words the cowboy says to me. As intense as it is to have watched a man ride closer on horseback, I don't expect the biting tone of his question.

"At the moment, no."

His brow furrows into a deeper scowl. My bet is he's trying to figure out exactly who I might be. "Then what are you doing in your underwear on my property?"

His property?

I lift my chin, holding up my thumb to count off what I'm about to say with all the attitude that I can muster. "First, this is Griz's property," I add my pointer finger. "Second, I was enjoying the quiet morning." I drop the first two fingers and raise my middle finger all by itself. "And, third"—I pluck at the cotton hem with my other hand—"it's a t-shirt." I drop my voice lower, just north of a whisper when I add, "Not underwear. Not wearing those right now."

I don't miss his eyes flicking down to the hem of my shirt again. He grits his teeth hard enough so that his square jawline twitches, making it look even more severe against the shadow of scruff over his cheeks and chin. As he meets my stare, I can see how much that remark tipped him over the edge from annoyance to downright pissed.

I tuck my bottom lip into my teeth, trying not to smile. I am absolutely wearing underwear. And maybe I'm an idiot for saying I'm not to a stranger, but I'm running on little to no sleep. My lack of giving a shit has me feeling more than good. Why does it feel so good to just say what I want?

His dog nudges my leg again, knocking me out of the stare-down I've apparently entered. I let her smell the top of my hand first before I lean down to scratch behind the pup"s floppy brown ears. "Hello there. You're awfully sweet, aren't you." Her muddy paws make a mess of my blanket, but I'm sure I can wash it. I whisper loud enough for him to hear, "Much friendlier than the cowboy staring at us right now, huh?"

Running my hands down to the scruff of her neck, I read the name, Julep, that's sewn on her harness. I smile and keep scratching as she leans into it. "Julep, is he still watching us?"

"I'm going to do you a favor and be honest with you."

I rub behind Julep's ears and flick my eyes up to him. "I'm guessing by your charming tone that this ‘honest favor' won't be the kind that has me smiling or moaning afterwards?"

It takes all my energy not to slap my palm over my lips and apologize for just saying the first thing that popped into my mind. When I look up, I catch his gruff exterior crack for a moment as he clears his throat. The right side of his mouth kicks up just wide enough for the thicker patch of hair above his lip to move.

"Not interested."

I pucker out my bottom lip. "Is that your version of being honest?

He drags his gaze around my crouched body and lingers on my ass that's just barely covered by the way I'm perched in front of his dog. "I'm especially not interested in my brother's leftovers, honey."

What?Then it registers, that this is one of Ace's brothers.

"Not your honey, cowboy," I clap back as I stand back up.

This time, his chest moves and shoulders flex, amused at my response. "No cowboys around here. You've got horsemen and bourbon boys in Fiasco," he says with a little southern twang on the end. It's just enough bravado to remind me that I'm out here pantless and he's managed to switch on something within me that feels an awful lot like attraction. I really need to get some rest; I'm confusing insults for flirtation.

"Seems like you might have some assholes too."

I swear his lip tilts up a little more, almost rewarding me with a smile, but his phone alarm sounds from his back pocket, leaving his reaction and my question unanswered.

When he clicks it off, he spins his hat backward, giving me one more glance before he says, "Let's go, Julep." The baseball hat was cute. Flipped backward, it's hot. But if he were wearing a cowboy hat, I'd be squeezing my thighs together.

The dog barks, knocking me out of my wandering thoughts. She barks twice more at him, as if to say, "I'm coming."

Me too, girl. Me too.

He lifts his reins and lets out a short whistle, taking the horse from a dead stop to turning in a full circle. He moves past me with enough speed that my hair whips up with the wind and smacks me right across my face. I don't focus on the fact that I never got his name. Or the fact that I never told him mine. Instead, the only thing that has my attention is this zero-gravity sensation. A stomach swoop, cheeks burning, and the speechless state I rarely find myself in.

I let out a nervous laugh. "Who the hell was that?"