Chasing The Wild (Crimson Ridge Book 1)

As I swing into the truck cab, the familiar beeps and static-filled white noise ring out. Slamming the door behind me, I grab the radio handset calling for my attention.

We’ve not been back long. Layla took charge of dealing with the horses and shooed me off to go feed out the cattle. I gave them extra yesterday to make sure they could handle a little delay in my usual routine this morning, but I know there will be a line of wet noses and twitchy ears all waiting at the fence for me when I get down to the paddocks.

Holding the radio in my fist, I bark at whoever is trying to get in contact. Inwardly grimacing that it might be Kayce.

I’m filled with guilt knowing that I just spent the most incredible night, with the girl of my goddamn dreams, in the one place that feels like home to me… and if my son finds out, he’s going to detest me for the rest of his life.

However, the voice on the other end, fortunately for my guilty fucking conscience, is Hayes.

“You must be busy up there, old man.” He chuckles, the line buzzing. “Been trying to get hold of your ass for the past hour.”

I pinch my brow. Do I outright lie? Or feed him half-truths? “Been up checking on the cabin at the ridge for damage.”

Half-truths it is today, apparently.

“All good there? No trees come down? No rockfall?”

No. Everything was perfect. Including the girl who I had moaning my name and coming on my tongue at four-thirty this morning.

Every ounce of her sweetness still coats me, and I don’t want to dare rid myself of any little thing related to Layla. Mostly because I’m terrified that it’ll suddenly be the last time I’ve gotten to have her, and I won’t have realized that would be it—that final finish line for the two of us.

“Can you hear me clearly, Colt? Is the connection cutting out?” Hayes jolts me back to earth.

“Yeah. Sorry. Everything was good.” Letting go of the speaker button, I cough into my fist to clear my throat for a moment before holding it down again. “No damage.”

“Shit, you had me worried there for a sec.”

“How’s the road looking?” I start the truck, put it into drive, and begin a slow crawl following the track, headed down toward the paddocks. Not really wanting to hear his update, but fuck, it’s obviously why he’s been trying to get hold of me.

“That’s why I was getting in touch.” Yup. There it is. “We’re making good time, still on schedule for the end of the week.”

My knuckles on the hand I’m steering with blanch around the wheel.

“Great.” Everything feels fucking hollow. It’s been almost forty-eight hours since he told me we had a week left.

“Best estimate, I’d say we’ll be cleared up to your ranch, oh, say another four days.”

I’ve never done mental math quicker than at this particular point in my life.

Another four days.

Three more nights.

At least seventy-two hours, maybe a little extra, if they run a day or so longer.

Jesus.

“Sorry we couldn’t get it done faster for you.” Hayes sounds so apologetic and I can’t help but puff out my cheeks, blowing a long fucking exhale. It feels shitty lying to him, he’s a friend, but honestly, there’s no one I can tell about any of this without the risk of blowing up Layla’s entire life and I’m not about to do that.

“Nah, you’re all good.” It’s the best I’ve got. Settling for an easy reply.

We keep it brief, getting off the channel as he heads back to work supervising the roading crew and their machinery part way down this mountain, and I pull up beside my tractor.

Sure enough, there are insistent, hungry bellows coming from the cattle who all look at me with curiosity and more than a little impatience.

I’m stuck going through the motions. Repeating the same goddamn process of feeding out that I’ve done every day for far too many years up here. Through wind, rain, hail, and fucking snow. This life is harsh and somehow rewarding all at the same time. I don’t know what else I would have wanted to do with myself if it hadn’t landed in my lap through misfortune that I ended up here on Devil’s Peak.

Something tells me I would’ve ended up working the land some way or somehow.

You just know when there’s a thing that sits right within your bones. Like you’ve done it a thousand times before. That part of you will go on into whatever comes next after your time in the sun runs its inevitable course, and you’ll end up using all those skills you’ve accumulated over lifetimes along the way in a similar fashion.

There’s no denying when you’ve got a connection to the land that feels deeper than from solely this time around.

My hands recognized this soil and the correct fit of a saddle before I could spell or read or goddamn figure out how to count to a hundred without fucking it up.

I know it’s not that way for everyone, which is why I’ve always tried to help others. To right the wrongs committed by my piece of shit grandfather, even if those who I’ve tried to help refused the hand being extended their way.

Yet, I’ve persisted, to my own fucking detriment, countless times.

Not only that, but I’ve wound up putting Layla into harm’s way, all because I can’t bring myself to be the one to pull the metaphorical trigger. I don’t want to be responsible for protecting awful men like the Piersons, but my shit is so intertwined with theirs. And no one else in this community has ever come forward with anything concrete against those assholes, despite all the ways they’ve fucked over others time and time again.

So, why do I have to be the one to have to do it? To have it staining my conscience that I was the one to goddamn blow the whistle on their bullshit?

Hayes was the one who told me I need to let the guilt go. He’s been ready to take action if I ever wanted to lay a formal complaint against them, if I ever provided solid proof they have been the ones messing with the ranch over the years.

He’s looked me in the eye before now and told me that sometimes it doesn’t make sense why we have to be the ones to see something like this through, but maybe this is the way I can finally set things right after what my own flesh and blood did.

You’re not responsible for the sins of your grandfather.

Lost in my own thoughts, I’ve easily fed out and the cattle fall into a contented, munching rhythm in my wake. I’m back parking up the tractor and doing a quick visual check over the stock and the fencing before I know it.

They seem healthy. No injuries that I can see. Too many times mysterious things have happened to my herd, and I’ve only ever captured grainy night-time images on the cameras scattered around the ranch. Not enough concrete evidence of who was responsible, but with a gut knowing of who to lay the blame at the feet of, all the same.

Short of sitting down here every night with a shotgun, there’s not much to be done.

Lifting my ball cap off, I dig my fingers through my hair, then tug it back down, flexing the brim between my palms.

That small action immediately brings the memory from last night, of Layla wearing my hat, back into focus. Dragging me away from horrible memories—away from stomach-twisting guilt—and into a soft place that feels too good for the likes of me.

The way her green eyes lit up with a spark that I hope to fucking god meant that she understood even a tiny part of the reason why I gave it to her. Because I’m serious. It wasn’t just a stupid gesture that I’ll take back later, I meant it. It’s hers. I want her to take it with her when she leaves, and even if she never wears it again, knowing that she has my hat in her possession will somehow settle the raging unease that rushes to the surface any time I picture her not being here anymore.

I tried not to overthink it while riding up to the cabin yesterday. Ultimately, it sat right, and I’ve always trusted my instincts when something has felt like the correct kind of decision to make.

She didn’t seem to hate it, so there’s that.

As I slide into the front seat of my truck, the handset of the radio stares back at me, solemnly. It says one thing, and one thing only. Kayce.

The person who I really, really should be attempting to contact, even if he doesn’t answer, or even if he’s still off-grid and black-out drunk somewhere.

I’d be the world’s shittiest father if I didn’t at least try. If he does pick up, I don’t want to have this awkward conversation—well, awkward on my part at least—with Layla around. And if he doesn’t answer, well, then I can always try to shoot him a quick email when I get back to the house.

So, before I can talk myself out of it, I snatch up the radio and flick it to the channel that will connect up with the truck he’s got down in town. There’s a good chance he won’t answer.

Ironically, as I put out the call for him, I find myself wishing he won’t pick up.

Fuck. I really am the world’s worst father.

Every second that goes by, where I’m met with only static and no response, relief settles in my veins. Rather than being overly concerned about the reason why he’s not here on the ranch, or what he’s been doing in Crimson Ridge this whole time, I’m the fucking asshole who is breathing easier in knowing that I don’t have to face talking to my son.

My own fucking son.

The one who thinks of Layla as his.

Christ. What the fuck I’m supposed to do about this mess of emotion I’m feeling when it comes to this girl? Because it isn’t just sex. It isn’t just about getting her under me. There are layers and layers of depth to how I feel about her, and if our circumstances were different… Jesus… I don’t know. I’d probably be thinking about all the ways I could guarantee that she understood I’d follow her around for the rest of my goddamn life, if she allowed me to.

Scrunching my eyes closed, I give the radio one final attempt. Still nothing.

The tightness in my chest eases, knowing that I don’t have to hear Kayce’s voice and get hit with wave after wave of guilt at lying to him.

Absently rubbing over my sternum with the heel of my hand, there’s an ache there, entirely connected to the beautiful girl with copper hair and green eyes.

Sticking the truck in drive, I’m pulled back toward the barn. Back toward the person who I only have all of seventy-two hours left with. Everything else feels like it stands fucking still around me. The mountains, the grass, the pine trees watching over this entire ranch.

Right now, none of that matters, and all I want to do is be within arm’s reach of her. Even if all I do for the rest of the day is muck stalls and cart horse shit around while listening to those bastards stomp and whinny and beg for Layla’s attention. I’ll gladly spend the day with her.

“So… you built this place.”

She hits me with those mossy green eyes, glinting in the light of the fire as we eat dinner. Sharing out of the same bowl, settled side by side on the floor.

“I did.” Scooping up a mouthful of reheated stew, I see the wheels turning in her mind.

“All on your own?”

I nod. Finishing chewing and letting her keep giving me those eyes. One part wonder held in them, one part disbelief. I’ve never had anyone share that kind of expression with me… I think it’s something that could be described as pride, but I don’t know for certain. My selfish fucking heart wants to believe she’s proud of this tiny, ultimately meaningless thing that I did so many years ago.

It’s only a cabin. Just bits of wood and nails and tin.

Even so, I feel a swelling in my chest that she seems to understand it does represent so much more than that to me, at least.

“Feels like a lifetime since then.” Shrugging, I stab at another piece of tender meat. Coming up here on my own, I usually pack pretty simple things. The kind of meals that you can throw in a pot over the fire, not having to worry about cooking or anything like that. I’m usually so fucked after a day of splitting logs and maintenance, hammering and checking the roof for leaks or damage, that it’s a struggle to do much more than chuck something over the hot plate on top of the firebox and inevitably fall asleep on this very couch.

“This is your sweet spot,” she murmurs. Eyes soft and holding my gaze. Everything about her is so fucking soft.

Reaching out with my knuckle, I swipe a bit of rogue sauce from the corner of her mouth, bringing it to my own to lick off.

“What do you mean, angel?” My eyes fixate on that plump curve of her lower lip. The way her cupid’s bow sits elegantly below her nose. Every little detail of this girl feels like a constant reminder that I should be paying more attention. Committing these unique little features to memory, while I still have the chance.

“Your sweet spot.” Layla tilts her head to one side with a tiny smile. One that settles in the fine lines around the corners of her eyes. How I know when she’s truly smiling. “You said it that day, and it’s stuck with me ever since… You’ve got to find your sweet spot, and take your aim.”

My own words from that day with her, lying in the snow, teaching her how to fire a gun come rushing back.

“Sounds pretty wise. Don’t know what kind of asshole would be saying shit like that.”

“Well, you can be pretty damn wise when you want to be, cowboy.” Layla shakes her head, outright smirking at me now. “And for the record, this place is incredible. I’m glad you took your aim and found your sweet spot up here.”

Her words, and our conversation from last night echo in my mind as I reach the yard, gravel crunching beneath the truck’s tires when I pull to a stop.

It’s the cruelest fucking irony that I’ve found more than one sweet spot in life. One that I’d gladly spend all my time hidden away in, away from the world, where everything feels calm and simple and so easy to be at peace.

The other is with the girl walking through the double doors to the barn toward me, leading one of the horses outside.