Page 8 of Burn the Wild

I rub my brow, not liking where this is going. Trouble stays in those chalets. Rich, spoiled, pampered celebrities who’ve never been told no in their life.

High-maintenance drama is not up my alley. Never again.

“That’s what I’m getting? Some rich bitch?”

Grady sighs. “You can’t tell anyone she’s there.”

“I ain’t the one, kid.” I don’t need more bullshit in my life. I’ve barely been able to keep myself on a straight line as it is.

“It’s a favor, man. I’ll owe you.”

I consider it. “You’ll owe me double.”

“You got it. She should be there any day now.”

“Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah. Don’t let her have any whiskey.”

I chuckle. Someone shouts in the background.

“The bus is here,” Grady drawls. “I gotta go. Thanks for your help with Reese.”

I yawn. “Yeah. Right. Reese.”

“Go back to sleep.”

I snort. The good lord knows I need it.

After I hang up, I sit in the dark. Worry eats at me. What did Grady get himself into? He’s got a good head on his shoulders, sure, but he’s also the baby of the family. Davis and I were long gone before we had a chance to pummel useful common sense into him.

Shaking off my worry, I reach over to my nightstand, unearth a bottle of pills in the drawer and take my med. Might as well. Dawn’s on the horizon.

Flopping into bed, I will my mind to sleep, but it has other ideas. It returns to the dream. That blonde bombshell bouncing on my lap. The pouty part of her pink lips. Fuck. My cock thickens. I give it a quick stroke, then groan.

Christ. I gotta get laid. It’s been two damn years.

Not like it’s ever been a problem. I could have my pick of any woman in town, but I worked my way through them when I first landed here seven years ago. Resurrection girls are bad news. Old hat. These days, it’s all about out-of-town trysts. Getting laid when I’m away at auctions or rodeos. I never worry about the morning-after because I give them a number I don’t plan to answer. It’s easier that way. No strings. No commitments.

Because you’re fucked if you’re not free.

Warmth presses by my side, and sharp claws dig into my bicep.

“Cat,” I growl, but I pet Mouse’s glossy dark fur. “I’m rooting for the dogs, you know,” I tell her. “You lick your own ass. That’s disgusting. You need to be put out of your misery.”

Still, I don’t fight it when Mouse curls up next to me. Her purr is a soothing rumble, and soon I fall back into a restless sleep, cursing little brothers and black cats.

Opening day smells like sunshine and bullshit.

Sunshine because May’s going out with a bang—the best way to kick off the season.

Bullshit because I’m damn tired. After the phone call with Grady, I barely got two hours of sleep before the blast of my alarm hit me.

Coffee cup in hand, I snag my climbing bag from the garage, then head to the UTV parked outside. Mouse leaps onto my seat. She’s got our routine down pat. I fire it up, and as we roar across the field, I take it all in.

Crystal clear views. Snow-dusted mountain tops. Emerald-green pastures. A field of bright yellow sunflowers. Runaway Ranch vans shuttling loads of guests.

I fucking love the morning. I love opening day. Work is busier, chaotic. Our focus isn’t the tedious fixer-upper work we tackle in the winter. It’s putting together activities for tourists who make Runaway Ranch their home for a few weeks during the summer. I stay busy, sunup to sundown.

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