Chapter 1

1

Melissa

“ I nmate Carson!” Bucky calls out.

I’m in my cell, curled up with a book, passing the time without letting my brain rot. It’s been a good strategy for the past three years. Losing myself between the pages of a book has kept me from spiraling into madness. It has also kept the panic attacks under control—relatively. They’re fewer and less often.

“Yeah,” I reply, slowly getting up. I hide the book under my pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bucky says, half-smiling as he unlocks my cell.

Bucky’s one of the nicer guards. He knows how to keep the other women in the correctional facility in check—especially the ones with gang affiliations. I’m pretty sure he was the one who made sure I didn’t have a cellmate. Bucky knows I’m better off on my own, keeping my distance from everyone else. I just want to finish the last two years of this prison sentence so I can start over.

“Are you sure?” I ask, my brow furrowed.

“Yeah, the warden wants to see you.”

“There’s nothing wrong, but the warden wants to see me?”

“It’s a little too soon for panic, Melissa. Deep breath, girl. Chill.”

Deep breath, Bucky says. It usually helps, but the warden’s attention on me always triggers an unpleasant feeling. I stay out of trouble. I keep my nose clean. Hell, I shouldn’t even be here in the first place, but I keep my head down and tread carefully every day.

“What does he want?”

“I don’t know, Mel, but for what it’s worth, he didn’t seem angry when he called me into his office earlier. If anything, he was pretty upbeat.”

I follow Bucky down the hallway, feeling momentarily safe behind his burly figure. This part of the cell block is always a hot mess. The inmates get into fights a lot; they’re cranky and itching for conflict, lashing out. I often take the stairs at the other end of the corridor to avoid running into them.

Passing by one of their cells, I see Ramona, my nemesis, and she sees me. She smirks, but she knows she can’t touch me anymore. The last time she tried to rope me into one of her so-called turf wars, she ended up spending two weeks in solitary.

“Lookin’ good, Mel,” Ramona snickers. “On your way to the principal’s office, huh?”

“Give that bitch detention!” Gloria, one of her acolytes calls out from the neighboring cell.

She’s a big lady with tattoos everywhere and rabid pink hair. “Nice to see you too, Gloria,” I mumble.

“Fuck you, bitch!”

“Mind your business, inmates!” Bucky shouts, and there’s instant silence in his wake.

I can almost hear them growling from their cells, but they can’t touch me. Not today, anyway.

“You’ve been a model prisoner,” Bucky tells me as we continue walking.

“I was a model citizen, too,” I scoff. “Look where that got me.”

“Good behavior might still get you an early release,” Bucky says.

“I’ve got two years left on my sentence and a shitty lawyer who hasn’t even returned my calls the past couple of months.”

Bucky gives me another smile before he opens the door to the warden’s office. His teeth are stained from coffee and cigarettes, but his pale blue eyes and rosy cheeks liven him up when he smiles. He has a way of reassuring me without saying anything.

Bucky has often been kind and patient with me although he intimidates most of the other inmates. Then again, he’s right. I have been a model prisoner, avoiding conflict and keeping to myself.

“You’re gonna be alright,” he says, then nods at the warden. “Got Melissa Carson for you, Warden Jeffries.”

“Ah, Carson. Come in,” Jeffries says.

“Sir?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper as I stand before his desk, fingers fidgeting behind my back. At least Bucky didn’t cuff me, which is the usual procedure when stepping out of the inmate-reserved areas.

“Have a seat, Carson,” Jeffries replies.

“Is everything okay, sir?” I ask meekly.

He gives me a surprised look. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’m in your office.”

“Oh.” He opens a green folder, flipping through several printed pages with renewed interest. I don’t have a good line of sight from where I’m sitting, so I can only rely on his often-unreadable facial expressions to try and figure out what’s going on. “You’ve been a good inmate.”

I blink a few times, briefly lost as I take deep, calming breaths. “Thank you?”

“I’m serious. You’ve been a model inmate. I’m sure Bucky and the other guards have told you that.”

“Yes. Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

“No.” He pauses to look at me. “Do you remember the Path to Freedom Initiative?”

“The inmate reform program, yes.”

“You applied for that.”

“Every year, sir. But I was never considered.” I pause as my eyes widen with understanding. “Sir…”

Jeffries offers a broad smile. “Congratulations, Carson. You have qualified for a precious slot in the Path to Freedom Initiative.”

I want to jump out of my seat and squeal with joy. My heart is so full, I’m terrified I’m dreaming. But I pinch myself until it hurts and find myself awake, so I take a few more deep breaths in order to contain my excitement while Jeffries holds back a chuckle.

“You’ve earned it.”

“Thank you, sir. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You’ll finish the rest of your sentence outside this correction facility,” he says, “as a live-in ranch employee.”

“A ranch employee?” Panic takes over. “But I don’t have any experience on a ranch.”

“Believe me when I tell you that I picked the best option for you. The Avery Ranch outside of Long Pine is in need of kitchen staff. Specifically, they need a decent cook.”

“Oh, I can do that.”

Jeffries smirks. “Did you think I was going to have you roping calves and shoeing horses?”

“I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.”

“You never really belonged here, Carson.”

I nod in agreement and bite my tongue. The last thing I want to do right now is go on a tirade about how I was unjustly imprisoned. I’m too tired for that. Besides, it’s been three years. Jake is in the wind, and I had to pick myself back up after he let me take the fall for him. I can’t change the past. I can only reclaim my future. And this Path to Freedom Initiative is precisely what I need.

“Thank you, sir.”

“I think you’re going to like the Avery Ranch. They recently signed up with the program, and they provided us with all the documentation necessary for your transfer,” Jeffries continues. “The facility gets a cut from your salary, but you will retain up to about seventy-five percent of your earnings whilst in their employment.”

“While living on the ranch.”

“Yes. It’ll get you set up for the future”

“I’ll be able to set some cash aside, yes sir.”

“Of course, you won’t have access to it until you finish your sentence,” he bluntly reminds me. “Your living expenses will be covered by the ranch and this facility in equal measure. We’ll also cover your medical expenses, should you need it. Your earnings will be deposited into a bank account that you’ll be granted access to upon being discharged from the corrections system.”

Another deep breath. None of that matters. I’m getting out of here. That’s all that matters.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. If you have things to pack, now’s your chance,” Jeffries replies.

I give him a confused frown. “Excuse me?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Twenty-four hours later, I get out of Bucky’s prison-assigned black van. Before me, the truck stop stretches lazily against the November morning sky while rain drizzles over the metal roof and drips into dark puddles. The snows will come soon enough, but until then, everything is grey and drab—yet I love the view.

I love it because it’s not the courtyard of a prison. I love it because I’m not going back to my cell, to those grimy walls and that awful single bed. I’m not free yet, but this is as close as I’m going to get to real freedom for the next two years, and it’s better than the previous three.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bucky asks as he joins me outside, my paperwork stuck to a clipboard for my new bosses to sign as part of the process.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

I stare at Bucky for a long second. Indeed, tears are pricking my eyes, and I have a hard time describing the emotions behind them. “I’m not sad or anything,” I say. “It’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve worn anything other than a prison jumpsuit, so I’m a little choked up.” I chuckle dryly.

“And you’ve lost a little bit of weight,” he replies.

My grey hoodie and jeans do fit looser than the last time I wore them—the night I was arrested. I lost my appetite from the moment I heard the judge deliver my sentence. I remember looking around the courtroom. Jake was nowhere to be found. He testified against me. He lied. He let me take the fall for him and ran like the coward he is.

“Anyway, thanks for everything, Bucky. But I hope I never see you again.”

“I know what you mean,” he sighs deeply. “I hope I never see you again either, Mel.” He glances to our left. I follow his gaze and see a red pickup truck pull into a parking spot. “That’s your ride.”

A woman in her mid-sixties gets out of the truck, cursing under her breath when she notices the rain drizzling and causing her blonde hair to frizz. She looks pretty spry for her age, clad in denim and a plaid shirt underneath a camel-brown coat with woolen lapels. Her boots tap on the pavement as she walks toward us.

“That’s Darla Avery, the owners’ aunt,” Bucky tells me. “She’s going to take you to the ranch. Seemed like a nice lady over the phone.”

I keep my mouth shut until Darla reaches us. She gives me a curious, suspicious glare, her hazel eyes scanning every inch of my face, making me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass before it burns up.

“You’re Bucky?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Robert Strickland, Ridgeboro Correctional Facility. Pleasure to meet you. And this is Melissa Carson.”

“Carson, eh?” Darla seems to have taken a dislike to me already or maybe I’m just being paranoid. “Are your folks from the area?”

“No, ma’am. Lincoln.”

“Alright. Get in. It’s not a long ride, but the weather is shit and traffic’s gonna be a bitch ‘til we get past mile marker twelve.”

Bucky gives her the clipboard along with a pen. “Just need you to sign here and here.”

“Sure,” Darla mutters, her gaze never leaving my face. She must’ve read my file. She knows why I’m doing time, so she has a right to be a little suspicious. I should be more understanding, at least until they get to know me enough to understand that I’m not a threat even though I’m a prison inmate.

“You got any luggage, Carson?”

“No, ma’am, just this bag,” I reply, turning so she can see the duffel hanging from my shoulder.

The rain starts to intensify. I enjoy the feel of it. I welcome the sensation—yet another testament to my semi-freedom.

“Got any sharp objects in there? Any weapons?”

“No, ma’am,” I say, feeling slightly insulted.

“Mrs. Avery—”

“Ms.”

“Ms. Avery, she just came out of a correctional facility,” Bucky says. “And her charges never involved any kind of dangerous weapons. The Path to Freedom Initiative would never—”

“Hey, I don’t give a rat’s ass about no Path to Freedom whatever,” Darla says, cutting him off again. “I watch out for my nephews and my ranch, and I ask whatever questions I wanna ask.”

“I don’t carry knives or guns or anything that could be used as a weapon,” I calmly reply. “You have nothing to worry about, Ms. Avery. I’m here to work and finish the rest of my sentence period.”

“Good. Come on.”

She heads back to the truck while I give Bucky one last smile and mouth a “Thank you” before I rush after Darla. Once we’re in the pickup truck, seat belts on, and the open road ahead, a heavy kind of silence settles between Darla and me. Traffic is bad, just as she expected. Ahead of us, all I see through the rain-speckled windshield is a river of red taillights. On either side of the road are empty pastures, fenced in to keep the cattle in and trespassers out.

“The boys won’t be expecting someone like you,” Darla says out of the blue.

“Someone like me?” I ask, hands neatly folded in my lap.

“Honestly, you’re not what I expected, either,” Darla mutters. “When Colton signed the ranch up for this whole Path to Freedom Initiative, I warned him. I warned him it could be dangerous. I don’t believe people can change.”

“Ma’am, I—”

“That being said, we all thought they were going to send us a tatted-up goon from a men’s prison,” Darla continues.

I can’t help but laugh lightly. She seems irritated and intrigued at the same time. “I’m sorry,” I say, trying to find the right words. “It’s just that… this whole inmate program is really hard to get into. You need to be a low-risk, model prisoner. They won’t let in anybody sentenced for violent crimes or for burglary and theft.”

“Right. You’re just a drug dealer.”

I feel my face burn. I stopped touting my innocence about six months into my sentence when I realized it wasn’t going to do me any good. Whether I was guilty of the crime I’d been convicted of made no difference. I had a label, and I had to own it.

“I never hurt anybody. I never stole anything. And I’ve been a model prisoner from day one, Ms. Avery. Also, I’m not a fan of tattoos.”

“Can you cook?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s why the program paired me with the Avery Ranch. I spent two to four hours a day in the prison kitchen cooking alongside the staff and catering to three thousand inmates.”

“Good. We only have seven people on the ranch, so it’ll be like a walk in the park for you,” Darla replies.

Again, minutes of awkward silence go by. She’s either warming up to me, or she’s running out of reasons not to like me. Either way, her body language does most of the talking for her. She seems more relaxed than before.

After a while, she takes a tight right turn onto a dirt road. Around us, mellow hills rise, parts of them covered in thick woods. It’s been a while since I’ve been in rural Nebraska. Even before prison, I was mostly a city person, and my life in Lincoln was anything but exciting. Jake made it exciting, and then took it to an extreme.

“If you don’t mind me asking, who are the seven people I’ll be feeding?”

“There’s Colton, Ethan, and Mitch. They’re my nephews and run the ranch. There’s me, of course. Sammy, who’s been around for decades. He’s the ranch manager. I’m the administrator. And we’ve got Kyle and Jason, our ranch hands. That’s all the crew we need for the winter season.”

“I see. Did you have a cook before?”

Darla gives me a sour look and releases a heavy sigh. “Yeah, me, but I can’t taste much anymore.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve got some kind of neurodegenerative disorder or disease or whatever. My taste buds don’t work right. I can barely taste anything. I damn near slipped into a diabetic coma ’cause I couldn’t taste the sugar in my coffee for weeks on end. So, I can’t be in charge of cooking anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “That can’t be easy.”

“It isn’t. A whole life of loving sweets, and now I can’t taste them anymore. I can only chew food for the nutrients. Fuel for the body and all that crap.”

“Isn’t there a treatment?”

Darla shrugs. “Not that they know of. It’s a rare affliction, so there isn’t much data on it. For now, we all agreed we need a cook on the ranch, and the boys thought it would be a good idea to give back to the community with this Path to Freedom Initiative thingy. Two birds, one stone.”

“That’s good of them. I’ll always be grateful.”

“Here’s the ranch,” she says as we pass through the front gates, which open automatically. Ahead, the two-story ranch house stands proudly. It’s painted a creamy white with brown shutters abutting tall windows. A wide porch stretches out in front supported by sculpted-wood pillars and topped with a second- floor terrace. It’s beautiful, and by its perfectly weathered look, it’s been around for a few generations at least.

“I’ve never seen a ranch house like this before,” I mutter as Darla pulls up to the front and parks next to several newish pickup trucks and a sleek-looking grey SUV.

“Nor will you. Colton had it remodeled ten years ago. That top floor is new,” Darla replies.

“I see. That makes sense.”

“It was cheaper than spreading out and losing good dirt.”

“Good dirt?”

Darla turns the engine off and motions for me to get out. “Yeah. For the back garden, for everything else. Come on, the rain’s about to get worse, and I don’t wanna end up looking like a drowned rat this early in the day.”

From the little I can see as we rush toward the house, the ranch is surrounded by rolling, hills and tall trees and I catch a glimpse of a creek in the distance.

It must be beautiful in the summertime , I think. I hope I’m still here to see it.

For now, I take a deep breath and catch a whiff of wet dirt and manure. I thought the smell would be nasty, but it’s quickly growing on me, maybe because it doesn’t remind me of the inside of a prison cell.

“So, before we go in,” Darla says, stopping at the front door for a moment. “There are a few things you should know.”

“Okay, I’m listening,” I reply, my bag on my shoulder.

“The Avery Ranch has been around for generations,” Darla explains. “It’s worth a lot, and prospectors often come with offers. Others try to force their way onto our turf. It never works out for any of them. We aren’t selling. Ever. We live on several acres of pure green gold, and the climate here loves us. We roll with it.”

“That’s pretty cool,” I say, smiling slightly. “There’s a legacy to be passed on.”

Darla sighs deeply. “Yeah, provided my boys settle down and get married. That hasn’t been in the books for them for one reason or another.” She pauses and shakes her head slowly, and I guess there’s a history I’m not yet privy to. “So, bottom line, we don’t let anyone on the property if we don’t know who they are or what they want. The boys will instruct you further on the matter.”

“I understand.”

“Second, the ranch is run by my nephews. Their parents passed away some years ago while they were still deployed. They came back to take over.”

“The boys. What are their names again?” I ask.

“Colton and Ethan. They’re twins. There’s also Mitch, their adopted brother. The three of them have the final say on everything. Remember that.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nods once, satisfied with my responses so far. “Good. Come on.”

I follow her inside and find myself instantly mesmerized by what they’ve done with the decor. They’ve kept it rustic yet modern, stylish yet cozy.

And the men who come to greet us have my full and undivided attention.

I recognize the twins quickly, even though they’re not identical. Tall as mighty oaks, with broad shoulders and the kind of arms that could easily snap me in two like a twig. The third one is different but just as gorgeous and superbly built, and they’re all in their early to mid-forties—I can tell by the fine lines around their eyes and the specks of silver in their hair and beards.

“Fellas, here she is. Your new cook,” Darla announces. “Melissa Carson, meet Colton and Ethan Avery, and this is Mitch Teller, your new bosses.”

I stand in the middle of the open living room, my eyes wide and my lips sealed shut as I try to think of something remotely clever to say. My brain refuses to cooperate, so all I manage to do is reach my hand out.

“Nice to meet you all,” I mumble.

Colton is the first to approach me, a curious twinkle dancing in his blue eyes. He’s wearing a wool sweaters and loose jeans, but they’re not loose enough to hide those linebacker thighs of his. His blonde hair is slightly longer than his brother’s, and he’s one of the few men I’ve seen to look phenomenally good with a short stubble and a mustache, given his bone structure.

“You’re different from what we expected,” he says, his voice causing me to exhale sharply, and try to at least offer a lighthearted laugh. But at the same time, he shakes my hand, and the physical contact is so electrifying, I can barely register my own existence.

“Ms. Avery mentioned that. I’m sorry I’m not a big, bulky tatted-up gang member,” I finally reply.

“That’s okay. I think we prefer you,” Mitch cuts in, half-smiling as he, too, comes closer to shake my hand. “Please, tell us you’re a good cook.”

“I’d like to think I am. I’ve never had any complaints.”

Mitch’s handshake is firm, but the way his thumb lingers over my knuckle while his dark brown eyes seem to pierce through to my soul rattles me.

Mitch is slightly shorter than the other two, but still a head taller than me. He’s bulkier as well. His skin is a tad darker, his black hair short and his massive chest makes my knees quiver discretely. “Welcome to the Avery Ranch, Melissa.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No sir in this house,” Ethan says. But he doesn’t move from his spot by the fireplace. Clean shaven and stockier than his brother, Ethan has the same devastating blonde hair and blue eyes as his brother. He and Mitch are both in plaid shirts, though I don’t mind the way the fabric clings to their torsos. “You can call us by our first names, and we’ll do the same.”

“Yes, sir. I mean, okay, Ethan.”

Darla gives me another one of her hard looks. “The boys like to have breakfast early in the morning, which means you need to be up at about five to make sure the table’s ready by half past six.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“Aunt Darla, go easy on the girl,” Colton chuckles softly. “Let her dry off from the rain before you throw her into the kitchen.”

At this point, I think she can throw me pretty much anywhere she wants as long as I get to be around these gorgeous men. Prison isolation seems to have done quite the number on my libido.

The way they look at me spells trouble. There’s an underlying darkness, a hunger I can’t quite place, but it lingers between us, unspoken yet noticeably intense. Perhaps I’m losing my mind. I’m just the convict who will be cooking their meals.

It’s going to be a long two years.