Page 32 of Burn the Wild

But first, I need my contract.

And I don’t even know how to get that.

Before I can slip into a full-blown panic spiral, a voice behind me says, “I love your hair.”

I whirl around. It’s the girl from the bar, the one who worked with Ford yesterday. She has an entire garden in her tousled strawberry blonde strands. In her violet sundress patterned with honeybees, she looks like summer come to life.

I touch my hair, suddenly self-conscious. “Thank you.”

“Don’t worry,” she says. Her blue eyes sparkle. “We won’t tell anyone you’re here.”

I attempt to smile.

“I’m Ruby.” With a bounce in her step, she crosses to me and sticks her hand out.

I lift my sunglasses and shake her hand tentatively. “Reese.”

She tosses me a curious look. “Do you need something?” she asks.

My gaze lights on the iced coffee machine. I’d kill for an iced coffee, heavy on the cream and sugar, but I think of the meager twenty in my wallet. “Oh, I…I don’t know.”

“Give me a list, and I’ll have it delivered to your room.” Her smile brightens. “With the biggest iced coffee you’ve ever seen.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Of course I do.”

Sudden tears prick the backs of my eyes. It’s been a long time since I’ve had kindness.

“Are you okay?” Ruby asks, looking concerned.

I shake my head, tamp down the dampness in my eyes. “I just think you’re my new favorite human.”

Ruby blushes and grins.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says when I reach for my wallet. “We’ll charge the groceries to your room. No rush.”

After scrawling a small list on the back of a receipt—mostly junk food and pasta—I hand it over.

Ruby pockets it, then tilts her head. “Do you need Ford?”

Ugh. No.

“Yes,” I say.

“He’s in the garage.” Ruby laughs. “He’s not so bad. Don’t let him scare you. He’s all bark.”

I flash her a grin. “Good thing I can bite.”

Within minutes, I’m at a building situated about fifty feet from the lodge.

As soon as I step inside, a strong gasoline odor hits my nostrils. A glittering blue Chevy pickup sits in the center of the garage. Along one wall, a low work bench overflows with a jumble of tools and cinnamon candies. Above it, a pegboard wall pinned with baseball cards. Music drifts from an old-school radio, and a baseball game plays on the wall-mounted TV. A cup of black coffee sits forgotten on a bright red toolbox.

Curious, I approach the baseball cards. Mickey Mantle. Babe Ruth. Joe DiMaggio. And—

I blink.

It’s Ford.

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