Page 3 of Christmas with Three Cowboys

“Of course, you won’t have access to it until you finish your sentence,” he bluntly reminds me. “Your living expenses will be covered by the ranch and this facility in equal measure. We’ll also cover your medical expenses, should you need it. Your earnings will be deposited into a bank account that you’ll be granted access to upon being discharged from the corrections system.”

Another deep breath. None of that matters. I’m getting out of here. That’s all that matters.

“Understood, sir.”

“Good. If you have things to pack, now’s your chance,” Jeffries replies.

I give him a confused frown. “Excuse me?”

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

Twenty-four hours later,I get out of Bucky’s prison-assigned black van. Before me, the truck stop stretches lazily against the November morning sky while rain drizzles over the metal roof and drips into dark puddles. The snows will come soon enough, but until then, everything is grey and drab—yet I love the view.

I love it because it’s not the courtyard of a prison. I love it because I’m not going back to my cell, to those grimy walls and that awful single bed. I’m not free yet, but this is as close as I’m going to get to real freedom for the next two years, and it’s better than the previous three.

“Are you going to be okay?” Bucky asks as he joins me outside, my paperwork stuck to a clipboard for my new bosses to sign as part of the process.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like you’re about to cry.”

I stare at Bucky for a long second. Indeed, tears are pricking my eyes, and I have a hard time describing the emotions behind them. “I’m not sad or anything,” I say. “It’s just that it’s been a while since I’ve worn anything other than a prison jumpsuit, so I’m a little choked up.” I chuckle dryly.

“And you’ve lost a little bit of weight,” he replies.

My grey hoodie and jeans do fit looser than the last time I wore them—the night I was arrested. I lost my appetite from the moment I heard the judge deliver my sentence. I remember looking around the courtroom. Jake was nowhere to be found. He testified against me. He lied. He let me take the fall for him and ran like the coward he is.

“Anyway, thanks for everything, Bucky. But I hope I never see you again.”

“I know what you mean,” he sighs deeply. “I hope I never see you again either, Mel.” He glances to our left. I follow his gaze and see a red pickup truck pull into a parking spot. “That’s your ride.”

A woman in her mid-sixties gets out of the truck, cursing under her breath when she notices the rain drizzling and causing her blonde hair to frizz. She looks pretty spry for her age, clad in denim and a plaid shirt underneath a camel-brown coat with woolen lapels. Her boots tap on the pavement as she walks toward us.

“That’s Darla Avery, the owners’ aunt,” Bucky tells me. “She’s going to take you to the ranch. Seemed like a nice lady over the phone.”

I keep my mouth shut until Darla reaches us. She gives me a curious, suspicious glare, her hazel eyes scanning every inch of my face, making me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass before it burns up.

“You’re Bucky?” she asks.

“Yes, ma’am. Robert Strickland, Ridgeboro Correctional Facility. Pleasure to meet you. And this is Melissa Carson.”

“Carson, eh?” Darla seems to have taken a dislike to me already or maybe I’m just being paranoid. “Are your folks from the area?”

“No, ma’am. Lincoln.”

“Alright. Get in. It’s not a long ride, but the weather is shit and traffic’s gonna be a bitch ‘til we get past mile marker twelve.”

Bucky gives her the clipboard along with a pen. “Just need you to sign here and here.”

“Sure,” Darla mutters, her gaze never leaving my face. She must’ve read my file. She knows why I’m doing time, so she has a right to be a little suspicious. I should be more understanding, at least until they get to know me enough to understand that I’m not a threat even though I’m a prison inmate.

“You got any luggage, Carson?”

“No, ma’am, just this bag,” I reply, turning so she can see the duffel hanging from my shoulder.

The rain starts to intensify. I enjoy the feel of it. I welcome the sensation—yet another testament to my semi-freedom.

“Got any sharp objects in there? Any weapons?”

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