Ready for Wild

by Liora Blake

  “What happens when we get back down to the truck?”

  Another rumble of thunder. No time to play games.

  “We get in my truck, I drive you back to that shitty-ass motel, and you pack up your stuff and check out. Then you follow me to my place in your rental car and stay with me until it’s time for you to fly home. You said I have you for two nights. I want every minute I can get.”

  Relief crosses her face. Still, she’s not moving.

  “Permission to suggest an alternative?”

  I look skyward, asking for patience, because the clouds have already turned darker. We need to get going. Now. Amber knows that, but looks determined for us to have this conversation before she’ll even consider taking another step.

  I flick my hand to encourage at least some sort of forward motion and answer her sharply. “Granted.”

  “You drive me back to the motel, but I don’t check out.” I send her a hard look that says absolutely not, but she ignores it. “Until later. I want you to take me on a date tonight. I’ll get ready at the motel and you come pick me up. Like a real date.”

  I balk. “A date? In Hotchkiss? Where? You’ve already made it clear that True Grit doesn’t meet your standards.”

  Her response comes in a rush. “There’s a turkey foundation dinner at the Elks tonight; I saw a flyer posted at the gas station when I came into town. It starts at seven, and there are still tickets left—I checked. I want you to take me.”

  I know all about the dinner. I’m a member of both the Elks and this local conservation group that works to protect wild turkey habitats—but these dinners aren’t my thing. I’m happy enough to send in my annual membership check, have them send me a bumper sticker, and leave it at that. No need to waste an evening listening to people spin yarns about some hunt they went on or wander around pretending that I want to bid on any of the junk they’re hawking on the silent auction.

  “I hate those things,” I grumble.

  Amber smiles. “Like how you hate hunting shows but just helped me try to make mine better? Like how you said you don’t dance but caved when I asked? Because I brought a dress with me, one I think might change your mind about foundation dinners. An all dressed up for a date with her man dress. And you are my date.”

  I run my tongue over my now-dry lips, inspired by the mere mention of that sort of dress. Amber watches the gesture, looking smug. Shit. Nothing worse than knowing you’re over a barrel—and the barrel knowing it, too.

  “Those things go on forever. Do we have to stay through the whole thing?”

  “Nope. Just so we stay long enough to feel like it’s a date. After that we’ll employ a code word. Either one of us says it and we’re out of there.” She humps her pack around to shift the weight and tightens the waist strap down. “I’m thinking ‘sauerkraut.’ ”

  “Sauerkraut.” I tilt my head. “That’s all I have to say when I’m ready to bail?”

  “Yup. Sauerkraut.”

  Fine. If a bad buffet-style dinner and feigning interest in some crappy art is what it will take to get her out of that motel and into that dress she described, I’m game. She’s here, and this may be the last time we ever see each other in person. There are too many miles between here and Texas, spelling the end of this, I’m sure—so I’m going to make the most of what we can.

  I outstretch my hand in an agreement to her terms. Amber steps forward, takes my hand in hers, and we shake hands like bitter rivals, best friends, and bedmates all rolled into one.

  Amber releases my hand and passes by me to take the lead on the trail. “I can’t wait to meet Charley.”

  Aw, hell.

  Some guys might claim the path to their heart is through their stomach. For me, it’s my dog. Because if a woman falls for my dog, then she’s golden in my book. And if she also meets Charley’s canine approval? I’ll give that woman whatever she wants.

  Anything and everything—even if it’s only for a little while.

  (Braden)

  “We need the possibility of escape as surely as we need hope … ”

  —EDWARD ABBEY, DESERT SOLITAIRE

  Let us take an inventory.

  A roomful of guys telling hunting stories that sound too good to be true? Check.

  A buffet-style dinner with sad-looking lasagna and an even sadder-looking iceberg lettuce salad? Check.

  A silent auction overloaded with once-in-a-lifetime (overpriced) guided hunting trips and limited-edition (ugly) framed prints of game birds in a farmer’s field? Check.

  Every element I expect from a foundation dinner has been met tonight. Only one thing is different: my date. A certain blonde in a blue dress who is currently standing on the other side of the room chatting up another local couple who can’t seem to get enough of all that sparkle Amber knows how to make use of. I’m proof enough of that—I’m here, after all.

  I wander past the silent auction tables again, pausing once more at the blue lapis necklace-and-earrings set on display. As cheesy as it sounds, the stones are nearly the same shade as Amber’s eyes. Enough that I’ve actually debated putting a bid in on them. The main thing stopping me has been that I have no idea how I would give them to her.

  Would I present them ceremoniously, wrapped up in a gift box? Or would that be too much? Maybe I’d be better off to just casually toss them her way in a plastic bag.

  Also, when would I give them to her? Before sex? After sex? Both assume that we’re going to have sex, and even if that’s the case, neither is a good option. Whether pre or post, both offer too much opportunity for misinterpretation—like I was putting a deposit on services to come, or a tip on services rendered. And I’m not interested in wading into that tsunami. The bigger issue is that gifts—jewelry, especially—are for girlfriends, fiancées, or wives. None of which I’m lucky enough to call Amber.

  Still, I find myself fingering the small bid sheet on the table and darting a glance at the ballpoint pen laid aside it. Amber’s laugh breaks my concentration, and my head jerks up, picking her out immediately in the crowd.

  She’s now talking to two old-timers, both of whom look like this is the best night they’ve experienced since some USO show back in the day. Amber gives the old guy on her left a playful swat on his forearm, then laughs when the one on her right obviously says something at his pal’s expense. When they both return her laugh with their own, she offers up her signature Amber Regan smile, the one I now know is manufactured for the camera and conjured up for her admirers. Her private smile is something else entirely. Unguarded and honest in a way no camera could do justice to.

  Fuck it. Right or wrong, girlfriend or not, I don’t care. I grab the ballpoint pen, scribble down a bid that’s sure to be enough, then toss it back on the table and walk away before I can change my mind. If the perfect moment to give them to her never arises, that’s fine—I’ll shove them in the back of a dresser drawer and try to forget they’re even there. But if the moment does come and I don’t take a chance on earning another private smile from her, I’ll wish that I had.

  I spot Garrett sitting at one of the folding tables near the bar, talking to Cooper Lowry as they each work on another beer. Cooper is a retired pro football player who recently relocated to the Grand Valley to play house with his hippie-dippy girlfriend Whitney and help run the organic orchard she owns in Hotchkiss. Their relationship works for reasons no one quite understands. Whitney also happens to be very, very pregnant. Perched on Cooper’s lap, her belly acts as the perfect shelf for a paper plate holding a slice of chocolate sheet cake.

  I make my way over to them and drag out a chair, dropping onto it so heavily the flimsy plastic creaks under the force of my weight. Garrett and Cooper both raise their brows, beer bottles poised near their lips.

  “What?” I snap.

  Garrett takes a swig of his beer then uses it to gesture toward the rest of the room. “Aren’t you missing your new sidekick?”

  I rub the back of my neck. “She’s off being Amber R
egan. Capital A, capital R.”

  “And you aren’t allowed to be there when she is?” Cooper asks, frowning.

  I shrug, slouching down in my chair. I don’t know if I’m allowed to or not. I do know that I’m running out of steam on sharing her with this roomful of people, many of whom either want to fuck her or fawn over her. Selfish or not, I want her all to myself and away from prying eyes, even if I get why she’s impossible to ignore. Amber dressed in a gunnysack would draw attention, but clad in a bold blue dress that traces every one of her many curves? A room goes silent when she walks in.

  Whitney pipes in idly, managing to distill all of my frenetic thoughts into something that makes sense.

  “He doesn’t care about the capital A, Amber. It’s easier to wait it out, even if it drives him nuts. His Amber will show back up eventually. That’s the person he wants to go home with, anyway.”

  Whitney’s eyes dart my way, a strange alliance between two nobodies who found themselves falling for two somebodies. While the term “his Amber” is a reach, the rest is dead-on. My eyes flare just enough to silently tell Whitney thank you, grateful that she’s put words to what I can’t.

  “Well, if it were me? I’d get my capital A-S-S over there before that guy tries to feel hers,” Garrett says, his eyes trained on the other side of the room.

  Hackles rising, I follow Garrett’s gaze, knowing I’m not going to like whatever it is that’s caught his attention.

  Amber is easy to find again, a cobalt-blue fantasy in a room of beige and brown. She’s standing near the far side of the room, flanked by a tall, skinny cowboy fuck who clearly has no sense of personal boundaries. Amber takes a few steps backward, her signature smile still in place, until the length of her back is pressed to the wall behind her. Cowboy Jones leans in, outstretching an arm to the wall just above Amber’s head, and her body language changes the moment that he does. Shoulders back, chin up, spine straight. All to make herself seem taller or more imposing, while still keeping that smile on her face.

  The chair creaks when I stand up to head her way, my entire body coiled tight like a python ready to strike. Amber is tough, I know that. She may not require my help, or need me to back her up, but if Cowboy Jones does anything that Amber doesn’t want him to, I’m determined to be close enough that I can show him exactly what it feels like to have his space crowded.

  I stop near enough to suit me, cross my arms over my chest—and wait. Amber sneaks a look my way and there’s nothing particularly troubled in her expression but I notice that one of her lowered hands is twitching slightly. Maybe that’s a covert signal—Amber encouraging me to go ahead and clothesline Cowboy Jones the way I want to. Either that or she’s flexing her fingers so she can deck him herself. We can only hope, because that is a show I’d fucking pay to see.

  I’m not sure, though, so I stay put … and wait.

  Her smile fades when Cowboy Jones winds closer, boxing her in with his posture. Amber does not want to be boxed in—that much is clear, simply from the faint tick in her jaw and the caution now in her eyes. Five long strides put me a hairsbreadth away from Cowboy’s neck, but I keep my hands to myself even when he cranes his face my way with a sneer and all I want to do is grab him by the neck and sling him across room.

  “Sauerkraut,” I growl, my eyes on Amber’s.

  Relief spreads across her features, and Amber ducks under Cowboy’s arm. “Took you long enough.”

  I outstretch my hand. “Sauerkraut, sauerkraut, sauerkraut.”

  Amber puts her hand in mine, letting out a little chuckle when she does. “Agreed. Let’s get out of here.”

  (Amber)

  “He had wished for a dog, and as though some good fairy had waved a magic wand, there was a dog.”

  —JIM KJELGAARD, STORMY

  Going home with Braden has one major drawback, one I hadn’t considered, even though I know enough about him that it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise. The problem? His damn house is too far away.

  After he called sauerkraut on the banquet dinner, we made a few hasty goodbyes, headed out to the parking lot, got distracted for a bit by a private moment in which Braden made it clear that he really likes my dress—then once my clothes were tugged back down where they belong, we set off for his place, with Braden leading the way in his truck while I followed in my rental car.

  That was almost an hour ago. Braden’s a prickly pear who probably functions best with a buffer between himself and the rest of the world, so it makes sense that he would live outside of town, for sure. I totally get that he’s a curmudgeon of the mountain man sort, but come on. Jeremiah Johnson lived closer to civilization than this guy.

  Keeping an eye on his taillights, I rummage around for my phone on the passenger seat, eventually snatching it out from underneath my hoodie. The display lights up the darkened car interior as I scroll through my contacts to find his number. It rings only once before he picks up.

  “Five minutes,” he declares.

  My lips twitch. He shouldn’t know me this well; it’s unnerving. I mean, all the mystery is gone—already. And we haven’t even had sex yet.

  “Maybe I was going to ask about something else. Like the weather. Or the history of your rural homestead. The one that is evidently near the goddam New Mexico state line.”

  “Hang up and drive. We’re turning left up here.”

  With that, he hangs up. I cast a halfhearted glare at my phone face then toss it back on the seat.

  A single reflector mounted on a skinny T-post is the only marking at the dirt driveway we turn onto, which immediately ascends up a steep grade with multiple switchbacks. Eventually, the road flattens out and a clearing comes into view, along with a small cabin surrounded by pine trees, where two bright porch lamps near the front door light up the exterior of the house. The cabin’s steep pitched roof slopes toward a covered front elevation that’s framed with simple columns. Two log-hewn Adirondack chairs sit on the porch, but other than that, the place is plain and unadorned. Despite those spartan qualities, the house doesn’t seem unwelcoming, merely … Braden-like.

  Before I even have the car shut off, a toffee-colored Chessie barrels around from the far side of the house at a dead run, barking once, before hauling to a stop near the front door. A grin sweeps across on my face.

  Hello, Charley.

  She plops down into a sloppy sit, most of her considerable weight tipped onto one haunch, tongue hanging out of her mouth as she pants heavily. Her focus is fixed on Braden’s truck, and even though she’s nearly vibrating out of her fur with excitement, when he finally appears from around the side of his truck, she stays put and doesn’t move from her perch. Her tail is the only thing that betrays her obedience, thumping wildly against the porch.

  Well-trained and adoring. No wonder Braden finds me exhausting. The primary female in his life is submissive as hell.

  Gathering my purse and phone, I pop the trunk release. When I step out, Braden has two of my three bags from the trunk already in hand. I nudge my chin Charley’s way.

  “How long did it take to train her like that?”

  Braden’s mouth lifts on one side. “The training never ends. We’re both a work in progress, she’s just making me look good at the moment.”

  I grab the remaining bag from the trunk. “Is she an outside dog? She came around from the side of the house pretty fast.”

  Braden lets out a snort. “No. She’s a house baby. There’s a doggy door around back so she can go in and out at her leisure, then I have an invisible fence just to be safe.” He gestures toward the interior of the rental car. “Is that everything? Anything else you want to bring inside?”

  I shake my head. Braden proceeds to stand there, staring at the empty trunk compartment as though he’s not sure what comes next. I slam the trunk shut. Braden’s gaze meets mine and he blinks once, allowing him to focus and take me in—just standing here waiting for an invitation. His eyes darken and my heartbeat begins to thump when the invitat
ion comes wordlessly. A tip of his head toward the house before he turns on his heel to head that way.

  The moment his feet hit the patio, Charley springs forward, her body wiggling from crown to tail in greeting. Braden grins and, with my bags still in hand, bends over at the waist to plant a smooch on the top of Charley’s waggling head. My knees nearly buckle when he all but coos his own greeting.

  “I know. Yes, I’m home. Were you good today? Yes, yes. I know you were.”

  While some women might feel a need to fan themselves at the sight of a man holding a baby, this display is more my catnip. Burly Braden with his backside pointed my way, kissing and fussing over his dog. Charley immediately starts to whine and whimper, wanting more.

  Join the club, girl.

  It’s possible some sort of appreciative noise has slipped from my mouth because Braden looks out the corners of his eyes, then whispers conspiratorially in Charley’s ear. Charley bounces my way like she’s just now figured out that Braden isn’t alone. She drops onto her haunches at my feet and nudges my free hand with her muzzle, giving up a doggy groan when I scratch behind her ears. She sinks her full weight against my thighs, and I lock my knees just to be safe—she may be well behaved and beautiful, but she’s also a big girl. Perfectly sized for Braden, but a bit outsized for me.

  “Hello, Miss Charley. You’re bigger than I expected.” Leaning down, I work one hand under her muzzle and stroke the fur on her chest with an open hand, scratching lightly with my fingertips. “And prettier. Yes. So pretty.”

  She starts to lick my face, and I sputter a laugh, squeezing my eyes shut until her weight suddenly disappears. I open my eyes and find her bouncing restlessly, nails clicking on the porch, one encouragement away from jumping up to put her paws on my chest. I brace myself for the impact and grin.

  “Charley. Stay down,” Braden warns. Her butt hits the deck on a dime. “Good girl. No getting your paws on that dress.”

  I wave off Braden’s reprimand. “It’s fine. I don’t mind.”