Elliott Rose is a bestselling author of romantasy, dark paranormal, and contemporary cowboy romances, including the Crimson Ridge, Port Macabre, and Nocturnal Hearts series. She lives with her partner and rescue dogs in a tiny beachside community in the south of New Zealand and can be found online at ElliottRoseAuthor.com or on social media @elliottroseauthor.
Crimson Ridge
Chasing The Wild
Braving The Storm
Taming The Heart
Saving The Rain
Bouquets & Buckles (Novella)
Port Macabre
Vengeful Gods
Fox, Thorne, Ky, Ven (HEA Novella)
Noire Moon
Macabre Gods
Nocturnal Hearts
Sweet Inferno
In Darkness Waits Desire The Queen’s Temptation
Vicious Cravings
Brutal Birthright
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First published in the United States of America by Kensington Books 2025
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For the readers ready to wear the hat and get railed in the back seat until you forget your own name . . . Daddy Colt has a spot in his truck just for you.
Straight to voicemail. Again. I huff out a frustrated breath and drop my forehead against the steering wheel.
For fuck’s sake, let my douchebag ex-boyfriend answer his phone for once in his goddamn charmed life.
Keeping my head rested against the baking hot plastic, I put the phone to my ear, trying his number for the fifth time. My eyes squeeze tight, already knowing the outcome, but for whatever reason I persist anyway. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his non-personalized voicemail service.
He’s either lost his phone, lost his charger, or is lost at the bottom of a bottle somewhere.
Maybe all of the above.
Kayce Wilder was all blue eyes, dimples, and cowboy charm . . . until he wasn’t.
I’m just thankful to every fucking star in the sky that it was a six-month fling. By the time we might have even considered ourselves to be dating, our relationship—if you could even call our situationship that—was already over.
While I never did find him face-first in some other pair of tits, I had my suspicions. Kayce wasn’t intentionally mean, or
hurtful, or abusive. In fact, he’s the type of happy drunk liable to pass out in the corner anywhere, but that is his problem. He’s a waster and a drinker who is coasting through life on his good looks while busy getting black-out drunk at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.
Making all his rodeo talent and big dreams that he dazzled me with that night we first met seem laughable in comparison to the reality that is Kayce. Underneath that facade, when I finally met the scared little boy, I realized just how much of a waste of time he allowed himself to be.
Chalk that life experience up to being one of the greatest blessings of my life. I’m relieved it only took me six months of giving parts of my life to him, rather than six years.
Or worse.
I shudder, despite the sweat dripping down my spine in the stifling heat.
Imagine if I’d accidentally gotten myself pregnant by a guy like that.
The horror.
And if anything, that was the foundation of our relationship. Sex. Not that it was anything to write home about, mind you. He was ok, and I was ok, and that seemed to be enough for me to tolerate some mediocre fucking. Now that I think about it, we didn’t exactly talk much at all.
Between my hours working at the bar and picking up as many overtime shifts as I could around my studies, there wasn’t a lot of time for dating or hanging out. But when we did find the time, it was easy to fall into bed with him. Kayce was a good time. He made me laugh. And for someone like me, who desperately wanted to forget the difficulties in my life that stifle my laughter, all he had to do was hit me with that cheeky blue-eyed expression, and I’d fold. Promising myself that I’d tell him to sort his shit out, or clean out the trash, or do his own fucking dishes in the morning.
God, I’m so glad I don’t have to come home to a sink stacked full of dirty dishes anymore.
But guess who’s the sucker sitting in a sweltering car with a backseat full of boxes that contain his crap he left behind at my house?
Kayce had been ‘in-between’ places to live, so I foolishly said it would be fine for him to store a few things until he had a new address. His stuff has been in a closet for the past couple of months while I’ve been finishing my latest vet apprentice placement, but now I’m on my way to the next job, a new town, and I really need to cut cords with this guy once and for all.
My first instinct was to chuck them all in the dumpster behind my apartment when he didn’t return my calls, or emails, or messages on Instagram. Fucking useless little shit. But when I rifled through them, I found his childhood photo albums, and school awards, and cute ribbons from junior horse events. All things from his time living in the Midwest with his mom.
From what I know, she’s a pretty shitty parent, and I know all about those. But something tells me there might be a time in his life when he’ll want to have these memories. The greatest love of Kayce’s life right now comes in a bottle, but perhaps in the future, he’ll regret not taking care of these things.
Even if he can’t appreciate them right now.
I bang the phone against my forehead. Think. Goddammit.
All I have is his address scribbled down on a Post-it note from when he gave it to me ages ago, sometime around when we decided to go our separate ways. I don’t even know if that’s his exact address anymore in this tiny little middle-of-nowhere-Montana town. He’s even more transient than I am, and that’s saying something. What I do know for certain is that he’s here somewhere in this quaint little mountain village and it’s the only reason I’m sitting parked on the side of the road.
Crimson Ridge is on my way to my next job, and surprise-surprise, I’m once again being Layla Birch, eternal good girl and pushover, by calling in here to do my ex a favor because it is kind of on my way.
He knows money is tight for me—story of my goddamn life—until I get to this next job for my placement, but I have to pay for this tank of gas anyway. I’ll need it to get me over to the next town where I’m due to start work on Monday.
So, while I sit here sweating like a pig, with my copper curls turned to frizz around my face, I can’t help but notice the lazy summer afternoon unfolding all around me. Like I’m somehow not part of the world that belongs to young women my age. I watch as girls with their tiny shorts and bikini tops lounge in the park across the road. They’re lying propped on their elbows in the cool grass, laughing and giggling behind their hands. Each of them eye-fucking the parade of cowboys hopping out of their big trucks as they pull up and park in the wide main street.
Days like today, I feel a thousand years old, not twenty-five. I flip through the same sequence on my phone, refreshing notifications to see if, just on the off chance, Kayce has replied within the last two minutes to either my emails or my texts. Just a simple reply is all I’m after, to let me know that he’ll be here in town to meet me, like I’d asked.
For fuck’s sake. Still nothing.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I dig around in my purse for the address. Hoping to god it hasn’t got rubbed off, or torn somehow. The yellow Post-it is a bit faded, covered in crumbs I have to brush off, and more crumpled than the last time I looked at it. Fortunately, it’s legible.
Kayce’s pigeon scratch handwriting scrawls over the page in blue ballpoint.
3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Crimson Ridge. It sounds like something out of a slasher movie. One where
the girl gets chased through the woods by a guy in overalls and a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw.
Looks like I’m going to have to take a drive out into hillbilly territory. Because there is no way in hell I am leaving here with these boxes still in my possession. I don’t care if I have to dump them on the front porch for him to find whenever he gets back from his latest bender.
“Fuck this shit.” Cursing out loud, I throw the car into drive. There’s minimal traffic and I pull out, searching for the gas station I know I passed earlier on my way in. This tiny, one-horse town vibe is cute enough, though, and I kind of wish I could eventually find a job in a place like this when I’m qualified and graduated. Tall trees line the middle of the long, straight road, with quaint Victorian-era wooden storefronts along each side of the wide boulevard.
This place has a Stars Hollow feel about it, where they probably have regular community gatherings. Annual pumpkin growing contests, cider festivals in the autumn, summer hoedowns under the twinkling night sky complete with couples slow dancing to a live band beneath strings of fairy lights.
The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place.
I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side. Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs.
This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute.
Punching the Fill option, I start pumping the gas and take the chance to sort my hair out. Tugging on the tie, I shake the mess of pale copper curls around my shoulders before I
pile it back up in a loose top knot again. It is way too fucking hot today to be bothered with wearing my hair down. Sure, my white tee and faded denim cut-offs would look great with my hair all nice and hanging over one shoulder—but today is about being a practical bitch and getting shit done, which means I’m not out here dressing to impress anybody. Especially not Kayce, if I ever do track the bastard down.
Behind me, an impressive black truck pulls in. One of those really big Dodge’s. Racehorse sleek, practical as an ox, absolutely enormous. As it pulls up on the other side of the pumps, it dwarfs me and my Honda runabout. Immediately, my stomach does a little swoon over how guys with trucks like that are just effortlessly hot.
I’m subtly trying to check just how wild my hair is in the reflection of my car windows, which is ridiculous when my only agenda here is to fill up with gas, offload these damn boxes, then carry on my way out of this town. But even so, I sneak a peek at the vehicle pulled up alongside mine. All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls.
The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up.
Christ, Layla, get it together.
Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.
I push through the heavy metal door and hear the metallic chime go off. A fan hits me with a momentary breeze, but it’s just hot air being blown as an unwelcome greeting straight
into my face. The floor is in desperate need of a mop, and the place gives off a funky smell of gasoline and grease.
There’s a bulldog-looking man in a stained undershirt behind the counter, who rings up the register as I walk towards him.
“Just the fuel today?” He’s scowling, with slicked-back gray hair and a faded tattoo wrapping his bicep—something military. This guy looks like he eats Jack for breakfast and Jim for lunch.
“Yes, please,” I chirp. Trying my best to plaster on a smile in the face of his dour customer service, and wave my debit card. He points a stubby finger at the grimy card reader and the screen lights up.
I hold my card over it until it beeps, and am already walking away when he clears his throat with a little more aggression than is really necessary.
“Says declined.” When I turn around, his glare is unnerving.
Jesus. What would he do if I actually tried to steal something? Probably hurdle the counter and kneecap me with a baseball bat. So much for the friendly, small-town vibe. Why does this asshole allow customers to pump first if this is his response when something like this happens?
“Oh.” My cheeks heat, and I let out a little flustered laugh. I know there’s enough money in my account. But in scenarios like these, I can’t help but feel a tinge of shame. There’s nothing worse than feeling like I’ve been called out or have failed in some way.
Which is stupid, I know, but it is what it is.
“Let me try again.” Smiling through a grimace, I hold the card out again.
Ogre-man grunts something and jabs at some buttons on his register, before the terminal lights up. The way he’s studying me makes my neck prickle, my hand is now far less steady
than it was a moment ago, as I carefully hold the card flat against the screen this time. Trying to make sure it wasn’t a contact error or something stupid like that.
Again, it beeps. Lifting the card, words I absolutely do not want to see are stamped in bold black capitals across the screen.
DECLINED.
“You got another way to pay?” His tone is accusatory, and as he exhales sharply the guy slaps the counter.
What a grade-A asshole.
“Um. Just give me a second.”
A tightness forms in my throat as I grab my purse and start making a show of rummaging through it for the alternative payment method that I know fully well doesn’t exist. I’m so certain there was enough money in my account, having checked only this morning to make sure before I drove out here. But now I’m panicking and doubting myself all because this asshole is being such an over-the-top wanker about it.
As I’m searching, I hear him make a dismissive noise. “You people are all the same. Turn up here from out of town and think you can rip off businesses like mine. If you can’t pay, lady, you’re going to have to siphon that fuel out of your tank.”
I’m stammering in the face of his brash rudeness and feeling clammy from head to toe. If I can’t fuel up today, and get to my placement in time to start work tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly risk losing this job. My next three months of bills and expenses and Evaline’s payments start going up in smoke in my mind’s eye.
“Please . . . if you can just give me a moment.”
Over my shoulder, I hear the door bang open and the screech of the chime. Oh, god, now there’s a queue forming behind me to enjoy my humiliation first-hand.
“Just . . . could I try the card one more time, please?” I try
forming a smile while a sting pricks behind my eyes. “I know there’s enough money there to cover the gas.”
Although, now I’m actually sweating. Doubt has crept in. Maybe there was an unexpected bill I forgot to take into account?
But the man is shaking his head and growling something at me about siphoning and the nerve of fucking him around and my cheeks are flaming hot.
“Silly air-headed girls like you have no idea how to be responsible. Always coming in here running up bills you can’t pay for. That’s you parked at pump three? The Honda?” He sneers at me and looks me up and down, before jabbing a finger in my direction. “Stand right there and don’t fucking move. I’ll deal with you in a second.”
I’m stunned. My hands are shaking. This prick has no idea about me, or my life, and thinks he can talk to me like a chauvinistic, condescending asshole. I feel like he’s slapped me, the tirade is so unexpected.
My step falters backward as I step aside, making way for the next person in line. What the fuck am I going to do?
As I’m spiraling in the middle of this shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere, a low, smooth voice cuts in.
“Christ, Kurt. Take your heart pills already. I’ll cover it.”
I’m rendered speechless. The man beside me reaches across and taps his card on the screen. Green lights all perk up, indicating a successful payment, and the asshole behind the counter mutters something resembling a thank you.
But that’s not exactly the reason I’m left without the ability to form words.
A stranger just paid for my fuel, and he is absolutely someone who I had no idea could exist in real life.
He’s a wall of rugged man, and I have to tilt my head a little in order to take all of him in. With a faded black t-shirt revealing a tanned neck, scruffy dark curls, and a short beard with a bit of salt and pepper gray in it.
When he turns around to face me, I’m immediately caught in the snare of his bright hazel eyes. There’s something wild about him, and I am nothing but a fawn stunned in highbeam headlights.
“After you, ma’am.” His voice washes over me like rain after a long, hot day as he gestures politely toward the door with something in his hand. When my eyes drop down, they catch on the jet-black cowboy hat in his big paw.
Oh, god . . . and then his tightly fitted wranglers.
This is the real danger out here in small towns like this. Cowboys with impeccable manners who look like they can sweep you off your feet one minute and rail you until you forget your own name in the back seat of their truck the next.
I stammer something incoherent and move toward the door. I’m still not sure what just happened back there, but am more than relieved to escape the silent glare of the prick who will never get my business again in this lifetime.
Ever the country gentleman, this cowboy holds the door open for me. Behavior that is entirely foreign—especially coming from a stranger. In my world, I’m used to fending off men with wandering hands trying to cop a feel at two a.m.
Once back on the forecourt, it’s like the world rushes in again. Birds chirp, the drone of a truck rattles past, and the sweet fragrance of jasmine climbing a trellis drifts from the cafe next door.
“Thank you.” I blurt out. Regaining use of my tongue. “You didn’t have to do that.” I twist my purse in my hands.
Gorgeous-cowboy drags a hand through his unruly hair, before putting his hat back on. As he does so, I catch a little glimpse of the lines around his eyes that don’t exactly tell me his age, but they place him somewhere in the older category.
This man certainly isn’t in his twenties, that’s for certain. Possibly his late thirties.
Jesus. My thighs clench as I take him in properly now. He leans a shoulder against the tailgate of his enormous vehicle.
“No sense arguing with Kurt over a tank of gas. He’ll take any opportunity to make up for having a small dick.”
Something between a cough and a laugh bursts out of me. I was not expecting that the third thing to come out of this man’s mouth would include the word dick.
But I’m certainly not mad about it.
“It was very small dick energy, wasn’t it.” I roll my lips
together. Immediately my slutty brain makes a comment about how this man is the complete opposite of that. Big dick energy radiates off him like the sun.
Something about my response seems to please him. I don’t hate the way that makes me feel, like I would enjoy finding ways to please this rugged man.
“Even so, thank you, that was very gallant what you did in there.”
He narrows his eyes on me. “Gallant?”
“Uhh, you know . . .” I’m stuttering under his intensity. “Like, chivalrous.”
“Sounds like you’re calling me old. Or old-fashioned.”
My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, thinking I’ve offended him somehow, but then I spot the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.
He’s teasing me.
Dear sweet Jesus. This man is hiding a sense of humor underneath that gruff exterior.
This isn’t fair.
“Let’s just say that girls like me don’t happen to come across men like you very often. I mean, especially not men offering to pay for a whole tank of gas out of the blue.” I gesture between the two of us.
He fixes me with a hard look. One that leaves me swallowing down a lump in my throat.
“You’re hanging around the wrong men in that case.”
Somehow, I feel like he just told me off and turned me on in the same breath.
“Don’t I know it.” I offer a small smile. My mind wanders briefly to the boxes in my back seat and Kayce while I shudder a little on the inside, considering the current mess I’ve found myself in. All because of his useless ass. The exact type of wrong man.
I want to ask what his name is, but something tells me
that’s not wise. What do I need to go asking this man’s name for? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again. Unless . . . unless what? I could always offer to pay him back for the fuel. But even then, to what end would that be. I’ve still got nearly a year’s worth of study and placements ahead in my future.
I’m in no position to even be thinking about dating, or doing anything but putting my head down and working for at least the next twelve months.
This feels like one of those sliding doors moments. In another time, if we were different people, maybe then I would ask his name, and he’d ask for mine. A world where I have the job of my dreams, running stables and taking care of horses all day, and I can buy a whole cart of groceries without checking my bank balance.
Instead, I’m standing here in the beating sun, as sweat trickles down my back and my thighs stick together. I’ve got nothing more than a declined card and a tank full of fuel thanks to the charity of a stranger.
All the while, God’s favorite cowboy watches me from where he leans casually against his truck. A vehicle that’s probably worth more than my entire annual take home pay.
“I hope it didn’t ruin your visit to Crimson Ridge.” His hazel eyes are still fixed on me with a keen expression. Even though his gaze might be glued to my face, I can feel him taking in every inch of my appearance.
My body heats under his perceptive stare.
“How do you know I’m just visiting?” I tilt my head to one side. For some reason he’s still standing here talking to me in this grimy gas station, and I’m making no effort to move toward my car. Not only that, but I can’t help but feel like he’s definitely, absolutely flirting with me a little.
His attention feels warm and not too forward. This stranger isn’t being overly direct, but there’s something sparking between us, and I’m sure it isn’t just my imagination.
One of his dark eyebrows lifts a little and he nods towards my license plate. The one that says OLEANDER TOWN AUTO, from the dealer where I bought it years ago. “We don’t have those kinds of plates here.”
“I could be borrowing a friend’s car,” I tease. This time, his eyes most definitely drop down my body, and every inch of me comes alive.
“A friend, hmm?” He mulls the word over. “Is that the kind of friend that comes with a dick, or without one?”
Well, fuck. Is he asking if I have a boyfriend?
“Uhh. No friend.” I chew my cheek a little. “Boys my age aren’t worth my time, I find.”
That makes his eyes snap up to mine. Oh, holy hell, I might as well just wave a big sign that says please fuck me, I’m single, with that kind of statement.
He rubs a thumb along his jaw, still leaning against the truck, and he looks so damn good I want to melt. As he shifts his arm, it drags up the hem of his t-shirt a little, revealing a sliver of tanned skin above his belted jeans. Am I having heart palpitations? My pulse thuds relentlessly in my ears.
This man is stunning, a little rough around the edges, with a lump at the bridge of his nose hinting at stories from his past. This cowboy is just my type, only I’ve never actually met someone like him in the flesh before. He’s compelling, attractive, enticing in a way that makes my skin prickle with excitement.
“So, if you’re staying here in town . . . what are you doing on Friday night?” His voice is all rumbly, and I feel it right in my chest.
But then I realize what he’s asking. Or maybe, is about to ask.
And I fall back to earth with a jolt.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head, and his expression hardens. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was saying . . . I really am just passing through.” Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot. It took me
all of two seconds to lead this guy on, and now I feel like the world’s biggest cock-tease.
In another time, or life, I could maybe be Layla Birch: carefree woman who says yes to handsome strangers asking her out on a Friday night.
I could be the woman who gets to enjoy an easy conversation with a gorgeous man such as this one. Indulging in drinks and stolen glances and the giddy moment of wondering whether the night might end with being treated to more intimate pleasures.
Wondering whether there might be the type of goodnight that involves a brush of lips and sensual glide of hot, seeking tongues.
Instead of all that, I’m stuck on a hamster wheel of bills to pay, a qualification to finish, and forever feeling older than my years.
When, by all rights, I should be dating and kissing handsome men with enthralling eyes and unruly hair.
“Well.” He pushes away from the truck, and suddenly ice solidifies in the air between us. Those shoulders of his are now tense beneath the thin cotton of his tee. “Travel safe, then.”
And as quick as a flash, he’s fishing his keys out of his back pocket and is on the move, opening the cab of his truck without so much as another look in my direction.
I make a start toward him. “Wait, I need to pay you back for the gas.” God, I’ve fucked this all up.
“Don’t worry about it.” He swings up into the driver’s side and slams the door.
The giant black truck roars to life as he revs the accelerator, taking off out of the gas station. Leaving me standing there coated in sweat and shame and feeling my heart sink into the oil-stained concrete.
My foul mood only worsens when I plug the stupid hillbilly address into the map on my phone, and all I can see is a longass road finishing in a dead end. The red pin glares back at me like a big middle finger.
Surely, it can’t be right.
I pinch the screen to zoom out, and this address isn’t even hillbilly territory. It’s on Mars.
The location is so far out of town I want to cry. It’ll use up a large chunk of the gas that the handsome stranger just paid for in order for me to drive out there and back again.
Kayce Wilder can go fuck himself, I bet he wrote the address down wrong—it would be typical of him—so I decide to get resourceful and go in search of some local knowledge. Crimson Ridge is small enough, surely someone will know something, but I certainly won’t be setting foot back inside the gas station.
So I park my car under the shade of the trees lining the median and make my way into the cute little cafe next door. The outside is surrounded by jasmine blossoms winding along the porch, shading the footpath from the beating sun. The place is quiet, with the lunch rush long gone, and when I cross the threshold, cool air welcomes me inside. Thank fuck for that. My shoulders sag with relief.
A girl around my age is behind the counter washing some glasses, so I make my way over. She’s got long, poker-straight black hair, with bleached ends. Her tank top is way too tight, but hey, if that’s what gets her tips then so be it.
Sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
I can hardly judge, considering the places I’ve had to work over the years just to take care of myself.
“Excuse me.” I plaster on my best friendly smile. “Would you be able to help me with some directions?”
“Sure.” She eyes me and tosses the hand towel over her shoulder.
Loudly chewing gum, she looks me up and down as I approach, which immediately sets my teeth on edge. Whatever, I don’t need to be her friend. I just need some fucking confirmation that my trek to the middle of nowhere isn’t going to be a colossal waste of time.
“This address here, can you tell me if it’s real?” I show her the screen of my phone, the one with the pin located way off in the middle of nowhere. “Like, is it legit? I’m trying to find a friend, but I think the address might have been written down wrong.”
The girl taps at the screen and then gives me an odd look. The kind of sidelong glance that seems weirdly knowing and curious at the same time. It makes me feel uncomfortable within an instant, like I’m missing something and she’s in on a joke that I don’t get.
Her lips curl into more of a sneer than a smile. “You wouldn’t be the first girl trying to find your way up to his place.” She hands me back my phone and leans on the counter. Putting her tits right in my face. Like she’s pissing all over her territory or something.
Fucking hell.
Kayce Wilder. Certified man whore.
“I’m taking it you certainly know how to get there, then?” I’m about done with all of this and have half a mind to just toss this girl the boxes right here in the middle of the cafe and let him come and get them from his fuck buddy.
She just gives me a coy smile and smacks her gum loudly.
“Might have been there before. But you’re a bit young for him, ain’t you?”
What? I can’t even with this level of weirdness going on. It’s hot as hell and I’m dying for a cold glass of water and feeling just about done with being the good girl.
“Look, it isn’t like that. Can you just tell me if the address is correct? That’s all I need to know.” I shove my phone in my
pocket and give her a pleading look. Yep, that’s right. I’m at the lowest ebb yet, groveling to some slut who my ex has obviously been fucking. Or maybe is currently fucking. Or, I don’t know . . . I just want to get this dealt with so I can get on the road.
“That’s the one. Right at the top of the mountain. It’s a dead end, so you can’t miss it.” She picks up a dirty glass and runs it under the tap. “Hope you don’t get lost . . . if the beasts up there don’t eat you, the wildlife might.” And with that, she saunters out through the back with a flick of her hair.
For fuck’s sake.
I shove my sunglasses on and stomp back to my car. Cursing Kayce and his unique brand of uselessness the whole way as I start to follow the directions on my phone.
The drive takes me away from town, and pretty quickly, I start climbing what must be Crimson Ridge. I keep glancing at the screen perched on my thigh, and there’s no other place to go but to follow this one road as it snakes up into the trees. If I wasn’t in such a shitty mood, I’m sure this place would be gorgeous. There’s lush forest rolling across the hillsides, without any signs of houses or people. Just endless shades of green, punctuated by sheer outcrops of reddish rock extending in frighteningly sharp drops into the valleys below.
The ridgeline itself forms a long sharp cut into the sky, like a knife lying on its side, and in the golden light of summer, the exposed rock looks a bronze kind of color. I can only imagine in autumn when the leaves turn red and brown and orange out here, it must look spectacular.
As I keep making my way higher and higher, I realize I must be approaching Devil’s Peak. I start to catch glimpses of the jagged top of an imposing black outline against the sky. It cuts across the pine trees and protrudes up into a cloud formation, even on a sweltering day like today when there is only blue sky as far as the eye can see.
I’ve been driving for about twenty minutes already, and I look down at my phone and see there’s no service. Just fucking great. Even if I did decide to bail now and wanted to leave Kayce a scathing voicemail about how I’ve burned his stack of photo albums, or god-forbid broke down, I’m stuck out here with no choice but to either carry on or brave a chainsaw-toting hillbilly and hike the ridiculous distance back to town.
The voice in the back of my head reminds me that I’m too nice and that he doesn’t deserve my kindness, but even though I’m deeply regretting my choice to try and help him out with this last favor, I’m also never going to change.
This is the type of person I am, for right or wrong.
Just as I think this insanity will never end, with the gravel becoming chunkier beneath my tires and the road growing narrower, I crest the final bend and emerge into a clearing amongst the trees.
It’s a small plateau, looking directly out at the view of Devil’s Peak.
My foot almost slams on the brakes as I take it all in with my mouth hanging open.
But the gravel veers left along a winding driveway, guiding me beneath a wooden arch with a steer skull hanging from the middle. It snakes a path leading me toward a yard and large, plain wood barn which looks like it must be the stables. Sweeping down below the property is a meadow of wildflowers and long grass, and I can see the elegant, bowed necks of horses grazing off in the distance. My eyes are darting, bouncing, flitting everywhere at once as I pull up in front of what can only be described as a mountain-property wet dream.
It’s wood and stone and has wide-span glass windows overlooking the view. A porch wraps around the entire length of the building, which sits low and elongated against a backdrop of pine trees rising steeply behind the roofline.
This is no rundown old shack hidden away in the hills.
What I’m seeing is a thing of beauty, designed to blend in with the landscape and not only that but it looks modern as all hell.
As I get out of the car, the scent of hay and wild herbs tickles my nose. Lazy, chirping crickets in the baking sun greet me. Sweet fucking relief, it’s a little cooler up here than down in town, with a crisp wind blowing from the direction of the forested ridge.
How the fuck has Kayce Wilder landed on his feet in a place like this? I was expecting him to be shacked up in someone’s drafty old farmhouse, with a stained couch and mice in the walls.
Not a five-star luxury lodge.
Lettering made of iron hangs above the double doors to the barn, spelling out the letters: D.P.R in bold black set against cedarwood planks.
Devil’s Peak Ranch.
Wide stone steps lead me up to the front door framed by rough pieces of stacked slate in charcoal and gray, and the woody smell mixed with cut grass is divine. Someone has taken a lot of care to create this place and I’m in openmouthed awe as I reach the imposing front doorstep.
There’s no knocker or doorbell—I’m guessing you don’t need those way out here—so I raise my fist and bang on the wood.
Before I can even drop my hand, the door is yanked open so hard I almost fall into the entranceway.
What greets me on the other side is a wild tangle of curly dark hair, wetted locks that sit against tanned, damp skin, and fearsome hazel eyes.
And the man before me is naked, except for a towel.
Idon’t know how long I stare. But the gorgeous cowboy from town, the very person who paid for my tank of gas, clutches a towel low on his hips, pinning me with a murderous expression.
Nothing makes sense in my mind.
Why is he here?
What the fuck is going on?
He’s got the door gripped so tight in one hand that I can see white ridges on his knuckles, and he looks about one second from slamming it in my face.
We both seem to be caught in some kind of limbo, staring at each other while our minds try to make sense of this situation. His forehead is creased in a way that tells me this is not a pleasant surprise. In fact, there’s so much fuck off energy rolling off his muscled torso that I’m surprised I haven’t been bowled backward down the steps.
This must be his house.
Holy fuck. Is this his ranch?
From the hostile reception I’m guessing he lives out here for a reason. No visitors.
Especially not the unexpected kind.
My mouth is full of sand, and I’m shrinking beneath his glare. Meanwhile, he’s all bronzed skin and a thick chest, with a v extending down below his towel that I definitely should not be tracing with my eyes.
“Layla fucking Birch?!” A slurred shout cuts through the potent tension hanging between us.
My ex-boyfriend, Kayce, barges past the man in the towel like he owns the place. Suddenly, I’m being lifted off the ground in a bear hug and twirled in the air like I’m five years old. “What are you doing here, princess?”
All I want to do is demand to know the same thing. Oh, and this asshole has definitely been day-drinking. Kayce only ever called me that when he’d had a few. Probably me and every other girl riding his dick. I stiffen at the thought of the bitch from the cafe in town.
“Kayce, put me down.” I’m so flustered by what is happening right now I feel like I can’t think straight.
“Oh, shit, sorry. My bad.” He drops me and then slings an arm around my neck, pinning me to his side. My skin crawls with a weird sensation. I know we dated, and we’ve had sex, for god’s sake, but right now, I want his hands off my body.
I don’t want him to touch me so openly.
Especially not in front of this other man.
Kayce beams down at me with that blue-eyed charm turned up to megawatt status. Giving me a look that, for a brief moment in time, used to make me go all gooey inside, thinking that he was looking at me as if I was someone special. Only now, it does absolutely nothing for me.
“Dad, this is my girlfriend, Layla.”
My brain and body separate into different dimensions for a moment.
Dad?
I’m staring slack-jawed, taking in the bare-chested, muscled dream before me, who is glaring right back with darkness
in his eyes and a tic in his jaw. My eyes keep drifting to the point where he’s still gripping his towel, and it’s like I’ve stumbled into some kind of cowboy Bermuda Triangle. Mayday. Mayday. All the dials are spinning, alarms are blaring, and a crash is imminent. When this wreckage is found, there will be no survivors.
Wait. No . “Not girlfriend. Ex.” I correct Kayce, strongly emphasizing the word ex a little louder than necessary. Unwinding myself from beneath his arm, I take a step to the side and put some breathing room between me and the younger Wilder man.
His father—holy shit, his father—stares at me with cold indifference. Gone is the charming cowboy from our brief interaction earlier. It’s like he murdered that version of the man I swooned over so easily, and dumped his corpse in the ravine I just drove past.
“We dated briefly.” I offer as a totally unnecessary added explanation. Words feel clumsy and acidic on my tongue.
“Come in. Man, this is so cool. I can’t believe you’re here. I’ll grab us a drink.” Kayce moves toward the kitchen and I feel his father’s eyes lasered on me. I can’t look at him. This is all too much. This day can go fuck itself. I’d like the ground to swallow me up whole, thank you very much.
“Horses need packing. There’s a group arriving in an hour.” The stony-faced man barks after his son, still glaring at me. He seems angry at Kayce, and isn’t moving from the doorway either, effectively barring me from entering his house.
I’m trapped right in the middle of something I don’t want to understand.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it later.” Kayce shrugs him off and I cringe. He’s a dick to his father too, how predictable.
“Later won’t cut it. They should have been sorted out by now. Tonight’s group booked a twilight ride.”
“I got busy.” Kayce wanders back over and attempts to
press a beer into my hands, but I shake my head and turn it down. All I want to do is leave his boxes out here on the porch, and get the hell off this mountain.
“Jesus, Kayce.” His father shakes his head and looks like he wants to chew him out but stops himself. I don’t blame the guy, I know the exact feeling.
Without another glance my way, he stalks off to the depths of the house, and I’m left alone with Kayce Wilder, who is double-fisting beers, looking like the cat who got the cream.
“You couldn’t have at least replied to me? I’ve had to drive up a fucking mountain to track your ass down and bring your shit here, you know.” I growl, following behind his long strides across the wooden decking.
He shrugs and doesn’t offer an explanation, or an apology. But that’s Kayce for you. All effervescence and crooked smiles that have enabled him to coast through life without any consequences for any goddamn thing.
“So, now you’ve officially met my dad.” Kayce changes the subject and dumps himself into a chair on the front porch. He readjusts the trucker cap he’s wearing with one hand, resting one of the beers on his knee.
It’s inviting out here, the wooden porch is wide with a railing along the edge and there’s a handful of comfortable outdoor armchairs. From the look of the floor to ceiling ranch sliders further down the far end, the bedrooms must have access out here too. I’m sure the mornings and evenings must be stunning, with the south-facing vantage point getting sun all day long.
But I will not be sitting down.
“He seems nice.” I offer. Shuffling on my feet.
Kayce snorts. “Colton Wilder? Nice? That man is the most miserable old bastard you’ll ever meet. He never leaves this shithole mountain, and it’s nothing but fucking work up here from dawn ’til dusk.” He tips his beer back.
Ok, so maybe I am smarting more than a little at the way his father completely blanked me back there. He didn’t say a single word to me. Not even a polite acknowledgment that we’d only just met down in town? Maybe the guy is the exact kind of asshole Kayce says he is. It was kind of rude.
It would be typical, that someone so cold could have a place this stunning to call home.
“I dunno, it seems pretty up here, though.” I shade my eyes to look out over the late sun caressing the tall grass in a golden hue, and from here, not only does Devil’s Peak command the horizon, but I see the infamous Crimson Ridge that gives the town its name towering like a shard of reddish-colored rock beyond the dense pine trees.
“Don’t be sucked in. Summer is all soft and warm and flirty right now, but winter is an icy-hearted bitch who wants nothing more than to steal your soul.” Kayce rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “It’s months and months up here with no cell reception, Wi-Fi that drops out every five fucking minutes, and nothing to do but feel like you’re going to go insane in the dark before they reopen the roads in between storms.”
No cell reception, even up here in the clearing? I dig my phone out and see there are still no bars. Well, that at least explains why Kayce was even more useless than normal in replying to my messages.
“Yeah, and Dad’s piece of shit Wi-Fi hardly works. He doesn’t use technology because he’s such a grumpy dickhead, and can’t see the benefit in joining the real world. This place is like a fucking jail or some shit.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “Then why are you here,
Kayce?” Why stay if he hates it so much? I want to kick him in the balls for being such a spoiled bitch about it. What I would give to land a job in a place as incredible as this . . .
“Because I fucked up, princess. I didn’t get a sponsor this season. While I figure out my next move, Dad is cool with me staying here for the rest of summer. If I’m really desperate for money, I figure I’ll stick around and work the winter for him, too.”
“Sounds awesome. Good for you.”
He snorts.
“What isn’t so awesome is how he rides my ass all the time, trying to make up for being a shitty father when I was a kid. We’ve never gotten along. So it’s real fucking peachy, let me tell you.”
Now it makes sense why I didn’t hear him talk about his dad while we were together. Two and two are now adding up as to why the albums in the back seat of my car don’t have a single photo featuring him and his father.
“Well, you could stay with your mom?” I don’t even know why I’m getting into this with him. Kayce Wilder is not my problem. Not my circus to tangle with anymore.
Those blue eyes are hazed with sadness when they land on me.
“Nah. I’m not going back there.” He says it with such finality that I know things really can’t be good if he’d tolerate being here rather than stay with his own mom.
That right there is a feeling I know intimately well.
Swigging back his beer, he kicks his long legs out. My ex looks like he’s settling in for the afternoon, and I don’t have time for this self-indulgent pity party he’s got going on.
I spin on my heel and set off for the steps, calling over my shoulder as I go.
“Put the beer down, Kayce. I need you to come grab some boxes.”
I’m also about done with his shit . . . and this whole confusing, gorgeous-father-I’m-still-flustered-over situation. I need to get moving, and when I haul-ass out of here in a cloud of dust, I’ll never have to see either of the Wilder men, ever again.
“Your resume looks great, Layla. It would be a pleasure to have you join us at Shipton Stables for the rest of the winter.”
I close my eyes and mouth a silent thank you toward the roof of my car while clutching the phone against my ear.
“Are you sure starting at this time of year isn’t a problem for you? Many people your age are still on holiday this side of the new year, and we really can’t hold the position if there are any delays. We need to fill it urgently.” The lady on the other end of the phone is firm, but kind.
I get it, I really do.
They have a business to run, and finding apprentice veterinary students to work the winter season must get frustrating at the best of times, with part-time contracts starting and ending every few months. Not to mention, we’ve just emerged from the usual fuckery of Christmas and New Year and all the crap that comes with people picking up casual shifts over the holiday season. There are plenty of assholes out there who love to call in sick or never show up for their rostered hours—I
know all about having to cover late notice for those kinds of dickheads.
She’s very, very politely asking me not to fuck her around.
“No, I’m absolutely sure. You can count on me to be there.” Nothing says eager and broke like already being packed before I even got confirmation this job would accept me. The few belongings I’ve been carting around since last summer are neatly crammed in the trunk of my car, ready to roll out of this shitty little motel parking lot.
Basically, I was waiting on this call. What she doesn’t need to know is that the job I had been promised fell through right before Christmas, leaving me well and truly in the lurch over the holidays.
I’ve had to chew into my meager savings just to scrape through the past few weeks until I could secure a job—any vet placement would do—on extremely late notice and at the height of the festive season, no less. So when Shipton Stables put out an urgent ‘help-wanted’ request online, I couldn’t care less about the three hour drive to get there. I just needed them to give me the green light that they’d be happy to take me on.
“Great. Well, in that case, we’ll have paperwork ready for you to fill out when you arrive, and the first shift we’ll roster you for starts at eight a.m. the day after tomorrow.”
We chat a little more, going over some basics about my orientation before hanging up. Tucking my phone against my chest, I flop back in the driver’s seat with relief.
Thank you Shipton Stables and the kind receptionist lady whose name I have already forgotten.
I. Have. A. Job.
While I’ve been sitting out here taking the call, icy crystals have already started to form on my windshield. I quickly turn the ignition and wait for the warmth to start pouring in. Wiggling my fingers in front of the air vent, the chill bites more than a little painfully.
New gloves are going to be one of my first purchases. First, I have one more week to get through before my paycheck from Shipton arrives, and that should tide over the payments for Evaline. I swipe open my emails on my phone and hit reply to the conversation I’ve been having over the past few weeks with the administration office. They’d been kind enough to give me an extension on December’s payments, but that means January is going to need to be repaid at double the usual amount.
I tap out a quick one-liner explaining that my new job is confirmed and that I’ll be able to cover the overdue fees within the coming week. Then, I email my course supervisor to let him know that I’ve secured my next veterinary placement, along with forwarding him their business details, website, and other administrative information they need to register in my file.
One step closer to being graduated come August, fully qualified, and securing a permanent position somewhere. While there’s no requirement for me to complete my work placements within a set period of time, there is a minimum of twelve months of on-the-job apprenticeship training required before I can become fully certified. As of this winter, I’m in a race against my own life to become a graduated, qualified veterinarian. And with that comes the security of being able to finally land a job with a full-time salary, guaranteed hours, insurance, and medical. I simply don’t have the luxury of taking my time while surviving on part-time wages and picking up as many bar shifts to supplement my income as possible, like other students my age.
The financial weight of supporting not only myself, but taking care of the woman who was a better mother to me than my own, is drowning me slowly day by day. The home Evaline is in has been the only place able to meet her needs, but it comes with a price.
I need this job, and just need to survive these next seven months until the earliest possible moment I can graduate.
As I sit here waiting for my fingertips to thaw, my phone buzzes in my lap. Without looking at the screen, I answer the call—expecting it to be Shipton Stables ringing back about some other detail for my impending arrival.
“Hello.”
“Am I speaking with Miss Birch?” A clipped voice appears on the other end of the line.
My stomach sinks. This isn’t the woman I was speaking to moments before.
“Yes, I’m Layla Birch.” As I reply, I angle the phone so I can see the number on the screen.
Restricted caller ID.
Fucking brilliant. I mentally chide myself for picking up. Calls like this terrify me, and I usually send them straight to my voicemail graveyard. These people only ever call for one reason, and it’s almost always to do with owing money.
“This is Bonnie Wilton from Gratitude Finance.” My nose wrinkles like I’ve just stepped in pig shit. Even the name of the company sounds slimy. Gratitude for what? Being scammed out of money by promises of instant loans and insanely high interest rates. Ugh, these people are vultures.
Good news is, I’ve never heard of them before, and certainly would never take out finance with a company like that, so they must have the wrong person.
“I’m sorry. I think you must have the wrong number.” I can’t be fucked being polite. I’m freezing and want to get on the road to my new job, ASAP.
“Is your last known address 3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Miss Birch?”
Why does that sound familiar?
“In the town of Crimson Ridge?” The woman persists.
My stomach hits the floor.
“Uhh. No.” My insides flop like a fish on dry land as I picture Kayce and the ranch and him sitting on the porch with a beer when I last saw him over the summer.
“Well, the information I have on file here says you have an outstanding amount of two thousand, five hundred and eighty with us. And you’ve missed your last three repayments.” She thinks I’m lying. I can hear it in her tone.
“That’s not me. I haven’t taken out any finance, I promise.”
“Can you provide me with proof of your permanent address?” She taps at a keyboard in the background.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Unfortunately, I can’t, you see I’ve been—”
“We would need copies of utility bills covering the past six months, or something to indicate where you have been residing to prove that isn’t your address.” The woman on the other end of the phone sounds bored. Like she’s heard it all before and doesn’t give me a chance to even finish speaking.
My hands are trembling. Did she say two thousand dollars?
“Without being able to provide us with that proof, we need to settle the amount in full, otherwise our team will have to move to the next stage of enforcement action.”
I think I’m going to be sick.
Kayce Wilder is a dead man.
“Can I ask how long ago this finance was taken out?” I mumble. There’s no way I can pay that, and I shouldn’t have to, but these assholes don’t care about who or what or where. They’ll come for me and every dollar I’ve worked so hard for and take everything plus the sky-high interest they believe they’re owed.
The woman is silent, but I can hear the clack of her keyboard as she looks up the information.
“You’ve been a client of ours since May last year.”
I quickly do the math. That was about a month before
Kayce and I officially ended things. He’d been sponging off me, staying in my apartment for almost six weeks by that point, if I remember rightly.
What a piece of shit.
“And how long do I have to make the full payment?” I think I’ve gone numb. At this point, I’m just going through the motions.
“Because you are already three weeks behind in your repayments, you have passed our leniency period when we might consider extensions or requests for other alternative payment structures.” She drones into the speaker. “We tried to contact you at your primary listed number multiple times, Miss Birch, but you have been unresponsive.”
Hot tears prick the back of my throat.
“Fine. Just tell me the due date, please.”
Another round of clacking, and I’m pretty sure I hear a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. To this woman, I’m just another number in a computer system. One who they now get to come after like a bully in the locker room with threats of enforcement and legal action.
I swallow down the tears.
None of this is my fault, nor should this loan even have been allowed to be registered in my name. What would something like this do for my future? I’m twenty-five and work every goddamn hour of my life just to make ends meet, for fuck’s sake. I don’t have a life, I don’t go out, and this is the shit that gets tossed my way?
Bitterness starts to churn somewhere deep in my gut.
“You must repay the amount in full by January tenth at the latest. We accept bank transfers and deposits, no credit.”
Barely one week to come up with over two thousand five hundred dollars? “Fine.”
“I’ve sent a text to this number I’m speaking to you on with
my details and you can contact me on my extension if you need to discuss your case further.” True to her word, I feel the vibration of her incoming message.
“Ok.”
My mind is reeling.
“Happy holidays, Miss Birch.” The woman deadpans into the phone, then the line goes dead.
Meanwhile, I’m left sitting in an icy parking lot, feeling like an elephant is sitting on my chest.
My fingers wrap around the steering wheel like a vise as I imagine it being Kayce’s pretty boy neck.
“I want to punch him in his smug fucking face and knee him in the balls. Actually, scratch that, I want to string him up by his balls and castrate him like a bull.”
I yell into the unhinged voicemail I’m leaving my best friend, Sage. Letting her know where I’m going, so at least one person in this world knows where to look for me.
“That douchebag took out a loan in my name without asking, and then forgot to meet his payments. And, fucking typical, his number is going straight to nowhere. He is the worst. THE WORST.”
Of course, the line was dead when I tried calling him earlier. Because he’s living up a mountain in the middle of nowhere, avoiding life and every goddamn adult responsibility that comes with it.
“No wonder he couldn’t find himself a sponsor and had to drop off the rodeo circuit. Useless dick.” I thump the steering wheel with my palm.
“So in case you have to look for my body, instead of being on my way to my new job, I gotta detour back to Crimson
Ridge . . . it’s a fucking tiny place, in the depths of goddamn winter, because hell will freeze over before I let him get away with this shit. You will be pleased to know I’m channeling my inner Sage Maloney and will absolutely claw his eyes out of his motherfucking skull.”
My best friend is feisty, loud, and would shred Kayce to pieces on my behalf given half the chance. She’s my ride-ordie, and we grew up as close as sisters, with her family living next door to Evaline. For as long as I’ve known that girl, she’s called her Aunt Evie, and we spent our childhood and teenage years roaming between the two houses like wild creatures. I was welcomed with open arms, living with utter freedom while we giggled our way through endless sleepovers and homework dates, bouncing between her family home and my aunt’s place.
My only option is to march onto that ranch and demand every dollar is paid while I watch him do it.
Thank god I was more or less having to drive in this direction to reach Shipton Stables. It’s not exactly enroute, but close enough that a minor detour into the mountains won’t set me back too much.
Get in, get this shit sorted, and get out.
Maybe after I pluck his eyeballs, I’ll leave my handprint across Kayce’s jaw while I’m there for good measure. Or run him over.
“Ok. Bye. I’ll text you when I’m done, but I’ll probably be out of service when you pick this message up. Wish me luck, Sergeant. Love you. If I get taken in for grievous bodily harm please front my bail for me, we both know I just can’t pull off orange with my hair color.” I stab the red button to end the call and let out a frustrated exhale.
As I drive through the wide boulevard of the town I last visited in the height of late summer, I can see that the winter season has certainly taken a firm hold. Lights are on in all the
storefronts open at this time of year, and even though it is currently midday, the sky feels somber and dark, like someone forgot to remind the sun to get out of bed.
The trees that hung lush with green leaves five months ago are now bare. Thousands of spindly fingers form twisted patterns against the ominous-looking sky. Hardly any vehicles line the streets, and there are certainly no cute girls lounging in the park working on their tans. Only piles of grit lie mounded up on either side of the road, and an eerie quiet hangs over the place.
My phone has the address pulled up on screen, but I remember the drive towards Devil’s Peak like it was yesterday.
I also remember the last time I was here as if it were yesterday, too.
Colton Wilder.
Over the course of the past five months, I’ve replayed our conversation at the gas station a hundred times. In quiet moments, especially while lying in bed, always oh-so-fuckingalone, my mind can’t help but keep returning to that day and raking over every detail with a fine-tooth comb. Did I completely misread his signals?
Maybe. Possibly. Ugh.
Why is it so hard to get that man out of my mind? Usually, by the time I’m done overthinking everything, I’ve convinced myself that I threw myself at the poor guy, demanded his money, and then came onto him so strong that he took off speeding down the main street to escape my assault.
Oh, and I then proceeded to follow him to his home, like a stalker.
Yup. That would absolutely account for his ice-king demeanor and death glare when I knocked on the door.
I should count myself lucky he didn’t march me off his property with a shotgun between my shoulder blades.
But then again, when I’m not being so hard on myself, I
remember the warmth of his hazel eyes as they held mine. I can still hear the rumble in his voice when we joked together. Can clearly picture the veins on his hands as he raked his fingers through his hair, right before putting his sexy-as-hell cowboy hat back on.
My heart does a little flutter when I recall the way he told me not to hang around the wrong type of men, and asked if I was free for an evening.
Quickly followed by the cold indifference he showed me as he blocked me from entering his house.
My nose wrinkles at the memory of how uncomfortable that felt.
Prick.
As the road winds its way like a snake up the incline, I can see thick drifts of snow coating the embankments, and the temperature outside plummets the higher I climb. The drive up the mountain is vastly more treacherous this time around.
My little car isn’t made for these conditions, nor are the tires I currently have, but I am a woman possessed.
When I finally make it to the entrance to Devil’s Peak Ranch, I feel like I can exhale again. Thick purple clouds billow on the horizon and the peak is painted in a solid lacquer of white. Most of the trees up this high are covered in a sugary dusting of snow, but the house and yard are clear. For now, at least. Judging by the clouds, it looks like there’s more snow heading this way.
Hurling myself out of the vehicle, I slam the door, feeling fired up and ready to serve both barrels to my asshole ex. Those last few miles were filled with giving myself a pep talk about all the creative techniques I intend on using while skinning Kayce alive.
Only, I’m crossing the yard, and it feels a lot emptier than before. Last time I was here, there were a couple of vehicles, and now there is only the sight of the big stallion of a truck that presumably belongs to Colton Wilder.
What if Kayce isn’t even here? My shoulders deflate a little and I immediately start debating whether to turn around with my tail between my legs.
“You lost or something?” A gruff voice shouts from over by the entrance to the barn, and I’m halfway toward the steps leading up to the front door when a familiar figure strides in my direction.
My ex-boyfriend’s father is kitted out in a rugged weatherproof jacket, with a faded ball cap on backward. His hands and side of his face are smeared in blood, and those hazel eyes of his are burning. But that’s not what makes my heart stop in my throat. It’s the sight of the bloodied carcass slung across his shoulders.
A headless deer is slit open right along where the creature’s stomach should have been, and the smell of copper burns straight up my nose.
Behind him, a bloody trail carves through the snow where it drips onto the ground.
In my line of work, I’m no stranger to the reality of ranch life. Death is an ever-present part of vet work and managing livestock and rural living. But the gruesome sight of him carrying a freshly killed animal feels more confronting than I was prepared for.
The man before me heaves the body onto the flatbed of his truck and turns to look at me. He’s coated in crimson, and the smell is even more overwhelming up close. There’s hot, thick, pooling blood collecting on the ground from where the head has been severed.
His sharp gaze flicks between me and my shitty little car, and recognition colors his features.
“Is Kayce here?” My stomach churns.
“Thought you two were broken up.” He tosses a giant knife down beside the gutted animal. The blade glistens, slick with