1. Emery

1

EMERY

There I was, sweat dripping down my butt crack, the beginnings of a sunburn on the back of my neck, left to wonder if I hadn’t put too much faith in a ladder I’d found in the old barn. One thing was for certain—the ground was looking awfully far away.

It was ground that I now owned, along with the three-story white clapboard farmhouse I was attempting to repaint, four outbuildings of varying degrees of structural soundness, and fifty acres of mostly untouched land.

I blamed my predicament on Texas Monthly and W. Locke, their darling Pulitzer Prize–winning poet. I’d read a few of his lines about the beauty of the Texas Hill Country and I was hooked. After burning through every single book of poetry he’d published, waiting on bated breath for each new offering, his words convinced me to leave the rush of Austin behind for a slower-paced life in that same Texas Hill Country.

Ain’t no one ever seen a sunrise who ain’t seen the sun rise over the rugged hills of home.

Yeah, well, fuck you poet-man. The sunrise from my patio in Tarrytown was damned nice and didn’t come with mosquitos. Or deer ticks. Or whatever the hell else was crawling around on my property.

To be fair, Kessler also bore partial responsibility. My business partner, lawyer, and very best friend in the world had jerked a knot in my tail after I’d gone off on one of our most valuable employees, a sales rep who’d been responsible for a third of our bookings in the last year.

“You are burnt the fuck out, dude, and it’s more than your losing it on William. Our folks have been walking on eggshells for the last six months.”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

“Just last week you made Marlene cry because she’d purchased the wrong coffee for the office.”

“It was the wrong coffee!”

“Which can be corrected without calling into question the intelligence of our oldest and most loyal employee!”

“Shit. I’ll apologize to her, too.”

“That’s all well and good, but when was the last time you slept?”

“Pfft. Sleep is for the weak.”

“EHH,” he said, his buzzer noise perfect. “You’re gonna die of a heart attack by thirty-seven if you keep this up.”

“Dude, I just turned thirty-six.”

“Exactly. For such a sweet guy, you have been an absolute nightmare. Fix it.”

Kessler’s words pulled on the loose thread of the ill-fitting sweater that had become my identity, and I quickly understood how far I’d traveled beyond the threshold of too much. After convincing William and Marlene to stay with lengthy apologies and big bonuses, I left my daughter with my mother and hopped on the first island flight I could find.

How horrific, then, to discover that catastrophic burnout could not be cured with a week of drinking and fucking my way through Bora Bora. Not only had the alcohol simply left me hungover, the nameless sex—usually a favorite pastime—fell flat in every iteration. The trip, however, had not been a total loss: silently contemplating the tide had made it clear that I needed to make a far more drastic change if I wanted to get my life back on track.

Thus influenced by a few cracked-earth verses, Kessler’s dire warning, and the sea, I’d taken some overdue leave, rented out my house, and headed for the hills. Only time would tell if this was a stroke of brilliance or the most deeply idiotic thing I’d ever done in my life.

In a decision that landed me solidly in the idiot column, I’d passed over several turnkey offerings in favor of a fixer-upper because I’d liked the way the winding oak trees framed the big clapboard house. More self-importantly, I’d wanted to fix it up myself without hiring a contractor. Considering that I couldn’t get the paint sprayer to stop clogging and I’d nearly fallen three stories to my death after a bee zoomed by my head, I may have bitten off more than I could chew.

That was a pattern, come to think of it.

Hell, I was lucky that the property came with two driveways because I almost always missed the first one, and it didn’t matter what direction I was coming from. Which, frankly, felt a little on the nose, metaphorically speaking.

Additionally, the dramatic acreage I’d just purchased fronted a winding two-lane that the locals had nicknamed the Devil’s Backbone for its steep twists and turns. Last night I discovered that, after the sun went down, the narrow highway became a wonderland of hell-bent eighteen-wheelers, blind hairpin turns, and suicidal wildlife.

I wasn’t a religious man, but when a massive seventy-point deer—the exaggeration is slight —eyeballed me from a stand of trees hugging the razor-sharp edge of the darkened roadway, I instantly accepted Jesus as my lord and savior.

Also Buddha, Krishna, and whoever the Norwegians were worshipping these days, just to cover my bases. I had a ten-year-old daughter to care for, after all.

Anyway, I had to get back to painting because I favored unpleasant morning humidity over deadly afternoon heatstroke. I also wanted to get this side of the house done and checked off my list. Frankly, if I thought too hard about the number of things I still needed to do to make this place livable for me and Stevie, I was gonna vomit.

Or cry.

Crying was definitely a possibility.

Why, yes. Burnout recovery is going fantastically , thank you for asking.

As if on cue, the overpriced water bottle I’d purchased from a bougie Austin boutique tumped over, spilling the last of my filtered hydrogen water into the dirt below.

Now I couldn’t afford to cry or vomit because the fluid loss alone would kill me in this heat.

Not wanting to be a cautionary tale, I climbed down the ladder to refill the bottle and maybe find a hat.

Crouching down to examine the cracked rubber water hose, I decided against risking botulism—or whatever the fuck was growing in there—and unscrewed it from the spigot. Twisting the knob, I managed to get water and mud all over my work boots and was shocked— shocked —to discover that the high-end footwear was neither water nor mud proof.

Removing the useless lid to my bottle, I let the water run cold before shoving the bottle into the stream. After making an even bigger mess of myself, I tipped the bottle back and drank deeply, not caring about how much water dripped down my already drenched T-shirt. At least I wouldn’t die of dehydration.

I was still chugging away when a massive shadow slid into my peripheral vision.

“Utility sent out a boil notice last night.”

Startled by the voice coming from above, I choked, water burning through my nasal passages. I spun around to find a man dismounting a coal-black horse, like something out of a punk Western nightmare. He was whipcord thin, wearing cowboy boots, broken-in jeans, black leather bracelets, and a tight Golden Girls T-shirt. He was younger than me, maybe late twenties, and his silver-blue eyes peeked out from beneath the brim of a vintage Texaco snapback with a glare so sharp it could draw blood.

Fuck, he’s intense.

“W-what?” I asked, not sure what to make of . . . all of that .

My high-dollar neighborhood in Austin didn’t exactly get a lot of horse traffic, and all of this guy’s ’ness —cowboy-ness, queerness, hotness, take your pick—was setting me back on my heels. I was a brawny six foot two with at least eighty pounds and a handful of inches on him, but he looked like he was angling for a fight.

I bet he even fucks angry.

And on that unhelpful thought, unbidden images, tipped in gold, flooded my brain, the first in months.

Nope, nope, nope. Shut it down, Em.

“The water,” he said, pointing to the dripping spigot. “We’ve got a boil notice.”

His graveled, irritated drawl stroked my cock better than a hand ever had. Dizzy from the shift in blood flow, I could barely follow the words spilling from his surly mouth.

“Uh, what? A bowl notice?”

“ Boil ,” he enunciated, two syllables worth. “It means you need to boil the water before you drink it. Shouldn’t last more than forty-eight hours.”

Huh. Maybe the water had already infected my brain. Maybe this whole thing was a fever dream, and I was actually back in my well-appointed house, enjoying the air conditioning while having authentic Indian food delivered to my door.

I dug my thumbnail into the opposite palm and, sadly, I was still sweating under an angry sun, confronting an angry man, grateful I’d managed to stay off my knees.

Kess would have a field day with this.

I batted away another bee.

“Oh. So . . . do I need to go to the hospital then?” I held up my bottle.

“You the one who bought this place?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“Uh, yeah.” I looked around, still not convinced he wasn’t an apparition, or perhaps one of the deities I’d blithely offended.

He frowned at the shutters I’d painted a fashionable matte charcoal just this morning. They used to be a bright kelly green and...No. Just... no .

“Do you even know what you’re doing out here?”

The derision in his tone wasn’t hard to miss, mostly because he was aiming it right at me.

“Do I know what I’m doing? Absolutely not,” I admitted freely. “But my little girl loves horses and I wanted us to be closer to my mom, who lives over in Spring Branch.”

Before he could respond, I held up a finger. “I also blame the asshole poet who said that the Texas Hill Country was quote ‘a secret only a chosen few got to experience.’ Which I’m beginning to suspect is a load of horseshit. The weekend traffic off 290 is insane.”

The muscle in the man’s cheek twitched as though I had personally pissed it off, and my nipples hardened under my still-wet T-shirt.

“You gonna bring a kid out here ?” he asked, saying kid like I was planning on introducing Ebola to Central Texas.

Okay, then. Thank you for the boner killer.

I neutralized my usually friendly expression. “Sir, what are you doing on my property?”

“I came over here to suggest you use the stabilizers that came with that ladder before you bust your ass. Unless you wanna end up in the hospital.”

“Stabilizers?”

I sounded like a fucking idiot, and the skinny punk cowboy seemed to agree.

“You got the ladder from the barn, yes?”

“Yes . . .”

“There’s a set of hooks on the wall above where all that was kept. Stabilizers are hanging there.”

“How did you?—”

“Also noticed your sprayer’s clogging up. You need to add a half cup of water for every gallon. Otherwise, it’s like tryin’ to spray pancake batter.”

True, but . . .

“How did you—were you spying on me?”

Shaking his head, he gestured in the distance to what appeared to be a break in the barbed wire. “The Dalls I’m rehabilitating are hell on the fence line, and from that vantage point, it was pretty clear you didn’t know what the fuck you were doing.”

“Your...dolls?” I asked, noting—belatedly—the gun on his hip. Jesus Fucking Christ, who was this guy? And why would his dolls be trying to get through the fence?

Note to self: Buy a gun and learn how to shoot it.

He tilted his head to the side. “You’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you?”

“Hey.”

“Where’re you from, city mouse?” he asked, ignoring my offense.

“Austin, and what the fuck does that have to do with you and your weird doll fetish?”

He snorted. “Texas Dall Sheep. D-A-L-L. They got big twisty horns and sometimes get caught up in the fencing.”

“Oh. Whatever. Just keep your livestock on your side of the fence. I don’t want my daughter to get hurt,” I said, jerking as another bee came into view.

“You don’t have to go all Matrix every time you see a bee. One of the springboks pronked right into one of my hives and shook a few loose, but they’re not aggressive.”

“Yeah, well”—I swatted it away—“Stevie’s allergic.”

She’d only gotten a rash with some swelling that one time, but...I stopped, finally processing what he said. “Wait, you have springboks? Like, from Africa?”

“Maybe you haven’t been payin’ attention, but that’s not exactly unique out here. Texas weather and environment aren’t so different from the places these guys originate from and people out here like to shoot more than just whitetails. At any given time, I’ve got waterbucks, sikas, various gazelles and antelopes, you name it.”

“You let people hunt on your property?” I asked, realizing I should’ve asked a few more questions before buying the place.

The disgusted curl of his lip suggested an answer.

“No, I run a sanctuary for injured, abused, and misplaced exotic game.”

“So, you’re like, what? The Tiger King?”

Oof . If his eyes could inflict damage, I’d be lying on the ground in a pool of blood right now.

“I don’t rehab predators, just game.”

“Oh.” Looking to get off that subject and maybe inject some humor into this painful conversation, I held up my bottle. “What about the water? Am I about to die of dysentery?”

His jaw tensed. “What do I look like, customer service? Call the fucking water company.”

Dick.

“Who are you?” I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation.

“Lockwood,” he spat out, eyes flashing as he gripped the saddle and swung himself back up onto his dark ride in one smooth motion. “Welcome to the fucking neighborhood.”

With that, he tipped his hat and galloped off, his Wrangler-clad ass bouncing in the saddle. I watched him go through the gate between our properties, then poured out the tainted water from my bottle as I gave the ladder a suspicious once-over.

Welcome to the neighborhood, indeed.