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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This book is intended for adult readers only.
Any sexual activity portrayed in these pages occurs between consenting adults over the age of 18 who are not related by blood.
Contents
Story Description
1. Shay
2. Clint
3. Shay
4. Clint
5. Shay
6. Shay
7. Clint
8. Shay
9. Shay
10. Clint
11. Shay
12. Shay
13. Clint
14. Shay
15. Clint
16. Shay
17. Clint
18. Shay
19. Clint
20. Shay
21. Shay
22. Clint
23. Shay
24. Shay
25. Clint
26. Epilogue: Shay
From the Author
Other books from Candace Ayers…
The Moose Shifter’s Fake Wife
Rattlesnake Canyon
Candace Ayers
Lovestruck Romance Publishing, LLC
STORY DESCRIPTION
She’s on the run from the law. He is the law.
I’m Shay O’Brien.
My life is a hot mess, but I have a plan:
Adopt an alias—check
Hideout in Bumfuque—check
Marry the hot-but-grumpy local sheriff—oh, crap.
I didn’t know!
I didn’t know he was the sheriff.
He didn’t know I was a fugitive.
My hot mess just got hella hotter.
Welcome to Rattlesnake Canyon, a sleepy western town where nothing is as it seems. Bizarre, quirky, outlandish, and those are just the townsfolk!
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Chapter 1
Shay
It was the unwelcoming-est welcome sign in existence. Faded, peeling paint on cracked, weather-beaten pine.
Welcome to Rattlesnake Canyon
Population: 495
Only, the 5 was crossed out and 4 was scrawled next to it. Welcome was crossed out too.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The sign was the first indication of civilization I’d seen in over an hour of driving the long, lonely stretch of highway. I was in Nevada now.
Filled with anticipation and excitement, I tried to ignore the sliver of fear, but damn if the sucker didn’t make itself known by slithering down my spine and shooting tingles to my extremities.
I really hoped I could pull this off.
If not, I was looking at some serious prison time.
My fingers fiddled with the radio dial in the Chevy pickup I’d purchased two days ago. A middle-aged salesman with stale breath and a bad combover assured me that the engine still had life in it despite the fact that it was twenty years old, held together with autobody filler, and spray painted in a variety of colorful shades. As long as it got me where I was going and no one was able to trace it, I didn’t care what it looked like.
Rattlesnake Canyon wasn’t even on most maps. Not that I was complaining. A little town in the armpit of nowhere was the absolute, most perfect hideaway, and that was what I needed. A hideaway. A place where I could think, regroup, and formulate.
I finally tuned in a mix of static and twangy country-western crooner, which was apparently the best I was going to get out here—smack dab between nuthin’ and whole-lotta-nuthin’.
My phone wasn’t even working anymore. I’d lost cell service miles ago.
I was coming off a doozy of a six months, but lady luck had finally thrown me a bone. My longtime friend, Sam, inherited some land from a long-lost relative. A great-uncle she’d never met had recently passed away leaving her with some small cattle ranch in the middle of BFE. (Yes, it sounded like a plot from a Stephen King novel to me too.)
Since Sam had a busy life and career in DC, wasn’t hurting for money, and had absolutely no desire whatsoever to own a one-man ranching operation, she was happy to have me take it off her hands dirt cheap. Who knew, maybe this would pan out to be a new start for me. A do-over.
That was what I needed—a do-over.
A do-over of adulthood.
Or at least a breather. I planned to keep my head down and focus on fading into the background until the new and improved Shay was ready to emerge from her cocoon like a butterfly—righting wrongs, correcting injustices, and fighting for truth.
Right, Shay, who do you think you are, Wonder Woman?
Two miles later, I approached a dirt access road with a big sign hanging over the gate, spanning its width, and announcing I’d arrived at my destination—my new home.
Rattlesnake Ranch
The truck tires kicked up dirt clouds, and I squinted into the noonday sun trying to focus on the modest home I was approaching. According to the estate lawyer in Carson City, I’d find the door unlocked. Supposedly there was an almost zero percent crime rate out here.
The house was modest, alright. A one-story wood structure with a stone chimney and a wide front porch running its length.
“Well, Shay, time to start your next adventure.”
I grabbed my hastily packed duffle from the truck bed, and made my way toward the front door, steeling myself for what I might find inside.
My sneaker no sooner landed on the weathered porch floorboards when a lump of brown fur rose from the planks and let out a low, ominous growl. I leaped back, clutched my chest, screamed aloud, and almost fell down the three porch steps.
What in the everloving heck?
It wasn’t until the thing took a couple of steps forward that I even realized what I was looking at. A dog. A large-boned, droopy-jawed hound dog that was maybe a hundred in dog years. It slowly approached, wagging its tail, but the menacing growl continued.
Using the most saccharine-sweet voice I could muster, I attempted to soothe the savage beast.
“Nice…er…Rover…? Spot…? Scooby…? There’s a good…uh…”
I craned my neck to the side to examine its undercarriage.
“Boy. Yes, good boy.”
As the decrepit creature continued to approach, its growling increased. I wasn’t sure what the proper safety protocol was in this situation.
Look small and nonthreatening?
Look large and dominating?
Turn and run?
Just as I decided that turn and run was the best option, since Rover didn’t look like he could outrun a snail on Quaaludes, the dog stopped, let out a whistling sigh, and flopped to the floor in a puddle of bones. Apparently, the exertion of crossing from one end of the porch to the other was too much in the dry desert heat.
I remained rooted to the spot, unsure of what to
do. Less than a minute later, loud snores ruffled the dog’s jowls, so I tiptoed to the entrance and squeezed inside, being careful not to let the screen door slam shut behind me.
Once my eyes had adjusted to the bright sunlight, I scanned my surroundings. An old sofa, coffee table, and two armchairs were arranged around a beautiful stone fireplace. All the furniture was well worn and looked to be from the 1960s or 1970s. No knickknacks. A thick layer of dust coated every surface, and the faint scent of pipe tobacco hung in the air.
As my feet carried me from room to room through my new home, I took in every detail. Three bedrooms, none very big. A few books, mostly Westerns—Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour. In the corner of the main room sat an old-fashioned record player and a small collection of vinyl records. I couldn’t help but smile. I hadn’t seen one of those in years.
What I didn’t find was a single TV or computer.
I spotted an old rotary wall phone hanging on the kitchen wall, and was flooded with relief when I lifted the receiver to my ear and heard a dial tone. Electricity and a landline were perhaps the only comforts of the twenty-first century around here, but at least the place wasn’t completely off the grid.
I dropped my duffel on the bed in the largest bedroom and went looking for cleaning supplies. There wasn’t much, but I figured elbow grease and a few rags ought to do wonders for the place.
Shoring up my courage, I tiptoed out onto the porch where the old hound was still snoring, and headed to the barn.
The way I saw it, I had one glaring problem. Okay, I had many glaring problems, but one stood out above the rest in terms of immediacy.
I didn’t know the first thing about ranching.
I knew there were animals out in the barn that needed to be tended to, but what exactly “tending to” meant, I hadn’t a clue.
Show me a Sephora counter or a Fifth Avenue high-end boutique, and honey, I’d show you a level of prowess and mastery so fierce it bordered on brilliance. Dusty backwater ranches in the middle of Podunk? Not so much.
To top it off, my money was tight. Extremely. But I was nothing if not resourceful. I’d had to be lately. Fortunately, I’d had an over thirty-hour drive to come up with a plan.
And I had.
It was a pretty good plan too, if I did say so myself.
As I saw it, it was like that old saying—when in Rome, do as the Romans. Only in this case, it was more like when in Bumfuck, do as the Bumfuckers.
I had migrated west, just like the Forty-niners did during the California Gold Rush. So, I’d do what the early adventurers had done—mail order bride!
Well, groom rather than bride, but the idea was brilliant, nevertheless.
True, the last thing I actually wanted was a husband—or any man, for that matter—but I needed some help, and from someone who would be invested in the success of the ranch. Someone who would take pride in it. Someone who would work for the promise of future profits rather than a monthly paycheck. With no money to hire good help, a marriage of convenience was the best I had to offer.
My stomach knotted at the thought of tying myself to a stranger, but I knew that no man could be as bad as what I’d escaped.
Even if my future husband was cross-eyed, toothless, and had a potbelly that skimmed his knees, he’d be better than Robert. Heck, he could have three-inch toenails, chew tobacco, and pick his butt crack, and still be better than Robert.
I had a lot riding on my success.
If I could pull this off, Rattlesnake Canyon just might be a place where I could bury the ghosts of the past.
Start fresh.
Reinvent myself.
New name. New town. New life.
Chapter 2
Clint
Gomer Pyle and I ran in tandem, our hooves battering the sunbaked soil and shaking the earth. Although Sundays were my days off, I usually incorporated parts of my job into my Sunday runs. I checked on the Outliers, who preferred to live as animals rather than walk upright on two human legs, and the wolves, who lived up in the hills and preferred to stick to their own kind.
The hot Nevada sunshine beat down on us, but neither of us cared. We were too busy pushing our big bodies, both silently challenging one another in our typical sibling rivalry sort of way.
I nodded at an Outlier, a big grizzly, who simply lifted his head when he saw us.
As we ascended the next hill, my brother and I slowed our pace out of reverence, until we finally came to a halt in front of a grave marker.
The lone tombstone had been recently erected. It stood tall and proud, much like the man it commemorated.
My brother changed back first. Reaching out, he braced his slumped form with one hand and leaned gently against the stone. Tears filled his eyes as he stroked a finger along the words chiseled in the marble.
In Loving Memory
Cornelius Bartholomew Jackson
aka “Pappy”
Teacher, Confidante, Friend
A man sorely missed
After a few seconds, I changed forms as well, giving in to the momentarily painful twisting and breaking of bones. I reshaped, reformed, stretched in some parts, and shrank in others until I stood naked and still panting from the exertion of the run and the sharp, stinging pain of the change.
But the ache in my chest had nothing to do with exertion. That pain was all sorrow—the ache of mourning.
Pappy had been the only father many of us, my brother and I included, had ever known.
Gomer sniffled. “I wasn’t ready.”
Squeezing my brother’s shoulder, I wiped my own damp eyes. “None of us were.” I started to chuckle. “What do you think he’d say if he knew we were standing over his grave blubbering like a couple of whiny billy goats?”
Gomer snorted. “He’d laugh his droopy drawers right off his scrawny backside.”
I grinned and nodded in agreement. “I can almost hear the old geezer’s toothless cackle.”
With a heavy sigh, my brother traced the stone’s lettering once more and then furrowed his brow and cocked his head. “You hear something?”
I sniffed the air. “Frida?”
Sure enough, Frida appeared a few minutes later and changed forms to stand in front of us. “Thought I might find you two bozos here. Clint, you’re needed in town ASAP.”
Before I could protest, she held up both her hands. “I’m just the messenger. The townsfolk are blowin’ their stacks over some gossipy thing or other again. You got a crowd gatherin’ at the Chuckwagon.”
I closed my eyes, rolled my head back, and sighed up at the clouds.
“What is it this time?” But Frida had already transformed into her animal and was tearing across the dry earth, chasing after a jackrabbit.
Gomer and I turned and stared each other down.
Eye to eye.
Without a word spoken.
With only the barest hint of a smile.
Another sibling challenge was delivered—and accepted.
It was on.
Like a flash of lightning, we both morphed into our animals and took off running. We raced as fast as our legs could move, pushing each other, headed toward the center of town.
I burst through the door of the Chuckwagon Diner two paces ahead of my brother.
Haha, sucker!
Frida wasn’t kidding when she said there was a crowd. The place was standing room only. Looked like half the town was jammed into Gladys’s place, and the gathering was working itself into a frenzy of mob proportions.
I stuck my pointer fingers in my mouth and let loose an earsplitting whistle that momentarily silenced the room.
“Would someone mind telling me what’s so goddamn important y’all had to interrupt my Sunday run, the one day of the week I have to myself?” I held up a hand. “And before anyone answers, I’m warning you, you best make it a good one.”
“Oh, it’s good, Sheriff.” Gladys nodded from behind the lunch counter.
“Mm-hmm, shore is.” Shouts and murmurs of
agreement swept through the crowd in a wave.
“G’won, then.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m listening.”
J.R. stepped up. He was around ten years older than I was, a severe man with tiny, wide-spaced eyes and pinched features indicative of the latent weasel DNA he harbored. “Something’s happening out at Pappy’s place. I seen the lights on.”
I frowned. “Are you sure?”
“I think I know what a light looks like, Sheriff.” J.R. ran his hand over his hair to smooth it down before resting his ten-gallon cowboy hat back on his head. “A bunch of us saw it.”
A twinge of emotion squeezed my chest. I’d be damned. “Well, we knew it was coming. The old man had no will. The place goes to his closest kin.”
“That’s us!”
“Now, now, we ain’t kin, and you know it. Not according to Norm laws, and since Pappy was a Norm, his worldly possessions, including the ranch, go to…whoever his closest blood relative is.”
“Guy’s name is Sam Jackson.”
“Okay. Samuel Jackson. There. What the hell did y’all need to interrupt my run for?”
“Well, ain’t you gonna check him out!?”
“Check out who for what? Ain’t nothing to check out. The guy’ll come into town eventually, and you will all get to gawk to your hearts’ content. Until then, let the man have some peace. I think he deserves it.” I looked around the room pointedly. “Am I right?”
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