by Kira Blakely
* * *
It takes days before I can manage to walk with what has to be a fractured rib and all my bruises, and even more days before I find my way back to the cabin.
I live off wild berries, fruits, and plants I can find and identify as edible – thanks to dad for the crash course, the camping trips have sure as hell paid off today.
Days of wandering and the cabin appears between tree branches. My pulse ticks up then settles. No signs of the Tahoe. No men in black.
They probably think I’m dead. Good.
I limp inside, grunting with each step, and sit down at the table. I tend to my wounds, pop a couple painkillers, and breathe shallow. The cuts are swollen, the bruises still tender, but I probably won’t get an infection, now.
I’m on autopilot. Clean, eat, shower, clothes, mom. That’s the list, for now.
I shower, tug on fresh clothes. My phone and laptop are gone with the fucking wind – if the wind has snake tattoos – which means I’ve gotta hit the road.
Mom will be expecting a call – she hasn’t been herself since dad died, and she needs me. She needs the support. She’s likely worried sick by now.
I whip a set of car keys off the entrance hall table, then trudge out to the garage.
Revenge burbles in the back of my mind. Those questions, silenced by pain and the need to survive, reappear. Why? Who sent them?
I shove that aside and pick the black Ford pickup truck over the red CRV and blue Cherokee.
Ten minutes later, I’m on the road, and the truck cruises past an endless row of trees on either side. I turn on the radio, scan the stations, then freeze.
“Sources confirm that the body found two days ago is that of Chester Donahue, who earlier this week, was reported missing while hiking…”
My body?
“Funeral services will be held tomorrow morning at the Silvermist Memorial Park…”
What the fuck?
* * *
I sit in the pickup truck across the street from the memorial park, watching the crowd of men and women in black from behind dark sunglasses.
Well, shit, who knew I was such a popular asshole?
I recognize most of the mourners – friends, people I went to college with, women I dated, relatives. They all think I’m dead.
My mother hobbles into view, supported by my uncle. Her face is hidden behind sunglasses and a black veil but I’d know those brown curls anywhere. She carries the Gucci handbag my father gave her for their last wedding anniversary. The only splash of color in her outfit.
She stumbles. My uncle catches her and coos something in her ear. She nods, but her shoulders shake.
She’s crying for me. She thinks she’s lost her only son.
As much as I want to tell her, want to yell and wave her over, I can’t. Whoever wanted me dead is still out there. His goons are still out there. They can find me as easily as they did before and finish the job. And if they figure out I’m alive, they might decide to hurt my family instead.
I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to live and find out who tried to kill me. I’ll make them pay.
I start the engine and drive off.
Let them think I’m dead. Let the whole world – my mother, my relatives and friends, my killer and his goons – think I’m dead.
In the meantime, I’ll regroup. I’ll get smarter, stronger and when I find out who’s behind this, he’d better be fuckin’ ready. He’d better be pumped.
Because I’ll show him the meaning of true pain.
Chapter 1
Lauren
Three weeks later
This has got to be the hottest summer ever.
It’s morning in early June, but with the temperature climbing steadily over eighty, it feels like a mid-July afternoon.
I stand under the sun in between the rows of tomatoes and Brussels sprouts, strands of hair sticking to my forehead under my straw hat, my skin coated in sweat.
My throat is parched– the Sahara ain’t got nothing on me. Even though I’ve been under the sun for less than an hour, the front of my thin, pink shirt is soaked.
I fan myself with it. The cotton sticks to the valley between my breasts and my jeans suffocate my thighs.
God, what I’d give to strip down right here.
Pfff. As if.
I toss my gardening shears into the basket of vegetables and stand up, take off my hat.
I’ve picked enough for the day. Maybe I’ll head back to the house and take another shower before lunch.
Life is so leisurely here, so peaceful. It hides the pain that lurks beneath – the memory of losing… “Stop it,” I say.
I put my hat back on then pick up my shears, and pass through the small wheat field. I take off my glove and run my hand through the swaying heads of wheat, something I’ve done since I was a child.
It’s good to be home.
For the past year, I’ve been attending a university in Havre, studying to become a preschool teacher, and I’ve missed Little Peace Ranch every minute of every day.
I’ve missed the open air, the rusty, old barns, the bales of hay, the feel of the dirt beneath my hands, the bleating of the sheep, even the smell of the horses. I grew up on this ranch and it’s a part of me as I am a part of it.
I reach the old, green tool shed, hang my hat on the peg outside, then go in. I place the shears in their drawer, then close it.
My gaze travels up and beyond the small window toward the creek babbling beneath the trees.
I gasp.
There’s a man bathing in the creek. Naked.
His dirty blond hair, almost the same color as dried hay, is short, fluffed by the wind. His shoulders are broad, his back wide, the muscles divided by the pronounced dip of his spine. His skin is pale but marked by cuts and bruises – was he in an accident?
I’m captivated by him – this stranger in my creek.
He’s got a tight ass too, visible just above the line of water.
How would that feel under my skin? My hands?
“Christ, what’s wrong with you, girl?” I whisper.
He turns around, giving me a view which draws another gasp from my lips.
His face is straight from the cover of a magazine, a wide forehead, his nose straight, cheekbones high, bordered by a thin layer of hair that traces his smooth jaw all the way to his square chin.
A pretty face, but manly, strong.
He scoops some water in his large hands and splashes it on his chest.
I stare.
The water trickles over his muscles, and glides down his sculpted stomach, perfect in spite of an ugly, purplish bruise, then drips past his tan V-line.
I swallow, my hand sliding to my chest. My fingers grip the sweat-stained front of my shirt, and the heat rises.
The stranger scoops out more water, this time splashing it on his face. The water creates a temporary mask over his smooth features and drips down his jawline.
My hand goes back up, a finger trapped between my lips as he washes his arm, his hand running over the curves of muscle from his shoulder to his wrist. He does the same with his other arm, then bends over the water and splashes some on his back.
He turns again, wades into the shallows, and my eyes grow wide as they examine the parts of him previously concealed. He’s long and thick and…
I take a step back. My body goes crazy, my pussy buzzes and my breasts tingle.
It’s not like I’ve never seen a man before. I’m a virgin, yeah, and I plan on staying that way until… I don’t know, I’m ready. Or married. Or –
The stranger runs his hands down to that thick cock, past, over his legs, sluicing water off his skin.
I’m caught, my finger wet from my own tongue, trapped staring at this enigma. I pulse, tighten, wetness fills my panties. This isn’t like anything I’ve experienced before. This man electrifies me.
Why?
I don’t care.
I swallow and let my finger slide from my lip
s, down the front of my shirt, beneath the hem of my jeans and into my panties. He’s so thick. What would it be like to feel him between my legs?
I have no frame of reference except my own finger, and that’s woefully inadequate in comparison to what he’s – uh, packing.
My clit tingles, throbs. It’s almost painful. I place my finger on that sweet button of pleasure, and tap once, a gentle tease.
The stranger scrubs his body down, outside.
“Stop it, Lauren,” I whisper to myself. “This isn’t you. What are you doing?” But the words are breathless. I’m already at the edge. I glide my finger over my lips and collect my juices, slide them back up and circle my clit again.
A moan escapes me, way too loud. Plangent, actually.
“Who’s there?” The stranger calls out, looks up.
Oh god, oh god. What am I doing?
I don’t answer, wrench my hand from my pants and wipe my fingers on my jeans. My heart thuds in time with his approaching footsteps. Is he clothed? Or is he still naked?
The door to the tool shed opens, and I grab the closest thing I can – the gardening spray bottle – and point it at him.
I have no time to think about my choice of weapon. The moment he’s in front of me, all of my thoughts vanish. His eyes are the color of the cloudless summer sky.
He opens his lips. “Who –?”
“Don’t come any closer.” I hook my finger around the trigger of the bottle.
Those slightly upturned lips curve into a sexy half-smile. “Go ahead. Shoot. I don’t mind getting wetter.”
Right. His skin is still moist, beads of water glistening on it. He hasn’t had time to dry himself, though thankfully, he’s managed to put on his pants, the button popped open.
God, what would I have done if he was naked? Handed myself to him on a platter? I’ve clearly lost my damn mind.
My gaze travels up the tapestry of muscles on his torso, the sight even more tantalizing up close. My mouth waters.
I’m the one who’s getting wetter.
“You need that bottle more than I do.”
His eyes go to the stain in front of my shirt, above my breasts, those turquoise irises gleaming.
I place my hand on my chest, well aware that clothes stick to me. Next to his body fresh from a bath, I’m a mess.
Still, he has no right to stare.
“What are you looking at?”
“You,” he answers simply, finger to his chin.
He’s not even trying to hide it. Despicable. And yet, I can’t help but blush.
“Who said you could look?”
“It’s only fair,” he says. “No, actually, I’m still on the poorer side of the bargain. After all, you were watching me earlier, weren’t you?”
My cheeks burn even more. Great. Now I’m Pervy McPerverson. What will dad say about this?
I break eye contact, spot my trowel hanging on the wall and swap the spray bottle for that.
“Get out of my tool shed.” I brandish my new weapon.
It’s not as good as a knife or the pitchfork but it’s still better than a spray bottle.
He takes a step back, hands up. “Whoa. Easy.”
“Out!” I repeat, stepping forward. “I want you off my property.”
He stops, thin eyebrows creased. “Your property?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “You’re trespassing.”
He pauses then nods. “I see, and you’re wrong. I’m not trespassing.”
I’m wrong? “Who the hell do you think you are?” I ask.
“Put down that tool and I’ll explain.”
“Like hell I will.” I shake my head. “I don’t trust you. Now get out!”
I lunge, but this time, he doesn’t step back. He steps to the side, avoiding the trowel, then knocks it out of my hand, grabs my wrist and turns me around. He holds me against him and wraps his other arm around my chest.
The moisture from his chest seeps into my back. His warm breath tickles my cheek. The smell of his skin, fresh from his bath, overwhelms me. His heart pounds behind me. Can he feel mine?
It’s terrifying having a man this close to me for the first time. And exciting.
The tool shed feels smaller, hotter. A fresh bead of sweat trickles down the side of my face.
“Let me go.” I struggle, afraid he’ll feel my nipples poking against the pads of my bra, but he holds me fast.
“Not until you listen,” he says, his lips close to my ear. “You’re Lauren Calver, aren’t you?”
I lose my breath and my fight. He knows my name?
“Who are you?” I ask him.
“Chase Donner,” he answers. “I work for your father, Isaac Calver.”
“Liar,” I spit. “My father hasn’t had a farmhand in months.”
“Which is why he needs one.”
“And he would never hire someone like you.”
“Someone like me?”
“Someone who doesn’t have any manners,” I say, struggling to free myself from his grip again.
He holds me tighter and I try to ignore the fact that his crotch is buried against my backside even as I try to push the memory of what it looks like aside. But in vain.
“You’re the one who attacked me,” he points out.
“You trespassed!”
He sighs. “Like I said, I work for your father. He’s in his late fifties with gray hair, a beard and…”
“Anyone who’s seen my father knows that,” I tell him. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Your father has a dog, a border collie named Smoke.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“And does everyone know Smoke hates the sound of wood being chopped? Or that your father likes to take his afternoon naps in the stable? Or that he can’t carry his alcohol and yet, he still drinks, even though he sometimes suffers from gout which gets so bad he can hardly walk?”
I relax. Only someone who’s spent a reasonable time on the ranch with my father would know those things.
“Fine.” I exhale. “I believe you. Now let me go.”
He does and I distance myself from him and slip out of the cramped shed.
He smiles as he offers his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lauren.”
What did he say his name was again? Chase?
I don’t care.
I don’t return the gesture. I grab my hat and march off. I may believe that he’s working for my father at the moment but I still can’t believe Dad hired him.
Embarrassment chases my steps. And desire. Too much for one simple glance, one touch. I don’t dare look back. I don’t dare find out if he’s watching me.
* * *
My father is fifty-four, his hair more the color of ash now than the chestnut brown it used to be. There’s less of it now. His hairline has receded so far that only a round patch remains above his forehead.
His thin beard hangs from his chin, forming a silver and brown curtain over his neck and stops above the base of his throat. His black eyes look paler, grayer now, lines beneath them stemming from the corners.
When did he get so old?
Indeed, staring at him beside me at the small, round table for four, it’s like he’s aged overnight. I knew he looked different when I arrived home yesterday and now, I realize what that difference is.
He looks older, more tired.
I wrap my fingers around the handle of the pitcher. “More water?”
“Sure.” Dad pushes his empty glass toward me and I stand up and pour. “It’s a hot day.”
“You don’t say. I took another shower.” That’s why I feel better.
My hair is still moist, cascading down my back, my shirt, now a white one with two buttons above my cleavage is fresh and smelling of soap instead of sweat.
“Maybe I’ll take another one later after my nap,” my father says and grabs the front of his own white shirt which is permanently stained with mud. He tugs it back and forth, fans his chest.
“You should.�
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The chair creaks under my weight as I sit down, and Smoke rests his head on my lap as soon as I do. I pat him on the sweet spot, right in the center of his forehead. He shuts his eyes and lets out a doggy sigh.
“How has Smoke been?” I stroke his soft fur.
“Good.” Dad takes a sip of cold water. “His appetite is bigger than ever.”
I grin. “Does he still hate the sound of wood being chopped?”
“You bet. He whines like an old lady.”
I chuckle. “Some things never change.”
The room here hasn’t changed either. The same black lamp hangs from the wooden ceiling above the center of the table, swaying slightly whenever a strong breeze makes it past the pale green curtains.
The same wood-carved figures that my father and I whittled when I was a child are lined up in a row on the table by the window. The same white porcelain plates and frosted glasses, given to my parents on their wedding day, stare out from the wooden dish cabinet behind me.
A few feet away, a blackened kettle sits on the silver stove beside the refrigerator that’s more than a decade old, the cupboard above it still with its broken lock.
Rusty pots and pans hang above the long, rectangular table across from it – my mother’s favorite table where she used to spend most of the day chopping and mincing vegetables or mixing and kneading dough.
I smile, imagining her there in her pink and yellow apron that still hangs on the wall, an untouched relic.
Yes, most things haven’t changed inside this house. But some have changed outside.
“You hired someone.”
“You met Chase?” Dad reaches for the small bottle of toothpicks in the middle of the table.
“Yes,” I answer, placing my hands on the table. “I saw him while I was picking vegetables.”
Naked and bathing in the creek before I went to Perv town, then attacked him with a spray bottle and a trowel to make up for it. Dad would have an aneurysm if he’s darling daughter told him any of that, though.
I’m his little girl. It doesn’t matter I’m twenty, only that I stay sweet and innocent until I meet the man I want to marry one day. Hell, even then dad will probably take issue with letting go.
He sticks the toothpick between his teeth like a cigarette and reserves comment. Dad’s not much of a talker.