Page 5 of Running to the Cowboy

Now, why would there be seven middle-aged men and no women or children in sight?

When I posed that question to my brothers and Curly, they reminded me that our ranch has no children and only two of our ranch hands are women out of the 12 we employ. But our neighbors ain’t ranchers. That’s for damn sure.

And today is proof that my instincts were correct.

We never get trouble out here. Nothing like this. Not before the compound went up. And now, here we are.

I’ve got a whole heap of trouble lying asleep in my horse stable.

I kneel down and brush aside the matted hair. I’m not ready for the face behind it: a strong chin, long lashes, and pretty, pouty lips. Sickly pale, she sleeps like the dead.

I brush away the straw she’s using as a blanket. I try to avert my gaze because she’s naked from the waist up. And that’s when I see the blood.

Double shit.

Chapter Three

Olivia

I dream about a clammy hand holding me down.

When I wake up, a warm towel covers my forehead.

I peel away the cloth and try to get my bearings.

This is not the barn I passed out in late last night.

I’m in a bed. An actual bed. A big, warm, comfortable one, at that. Not a thin, sagging mattress with broken springs on the bottom of a metal bunk.

This is unexpected. I blink my eyes and take in my surroundings. A bookshelf is crammed full of books, photos, and little hand-carved hunks of wood. The walls are made of honey-colored timber logs, and on them hang paintings of wild horses. A tall dresser stands at the far wall, opposite the bed, and there are two matching nightstands on either side of the bed with lamps made out of antlers. I smile at this, assuming that it must be two married people who share this room.

The space smells like wood and leather and clean linen. Is this what a vacation feels like?

Who could have brought me here?

The last thing I remember was covering myself with straw, ignoring the cuts on my skin, and passing out in an empty horse stall.

Carefully, I push the heavy quilt away and sit up. I’m still groggy from exhaustion, and my fuzzy brain is a little dizzy as I sit up.

Scanning the room, my eyes land on an open door leading to a bathroom with clean white tile and a modern toilet. A private bathroom? Gosh, what is that like?

I’m about to find out. Someone must have been getting fluids into me somehow while I was passed out. I gotta go. Bad.

Shuffling slowly to the bathroom, my hand goes to my ribs, where the barbed wire had dug into my side. A large bandage covers that area. My feet are covered in thick, woolen socks. A man’s socks.

My heart rate immediately jumps. I hadn’t thought about a man taking care of me while I was unconscious and mostly naked.

I’m either the stupidest or luckiest woman on the planet.

After I finish in the bathroom, I wrap the bed quilt loosely around my shoulders and sit on the bed, feeling still very weak and tired.

On the night table to my left stands a framed photo of a woman with a little boy. I pick it up and run my fingers over the grain of the wood frame. The woman in the picture is smiling and holding the hand of a little boy. They seem to be at a paradesomewhere. The child is holding up a piece of candy and wears a stocking cap. The street behind them is decorated with festive garland and bells…

Christmas.

They celebrate holidays. Whoever this photo belongs to can’t be all bad. They’ve looked after my wounds, and they celebrate Christmas.

The door facing me opens. As if I’ve been caught snooping, I set the picture frame back on the nightstand and shrink back, clutching the quilt tight around my bare skin.

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