Page 40 of Burn the Wild

It feels like a bullet has torn through my chest.

I can hear her voice. See the tap of those impatient nails. Seven damn years now and Savannah still has the power to piss me off.

If this is Jim Donovan’s tactic to get me to take that job, fuck that guy.

“Hey, uh, man.”

My head snaps up, and I shove my phone back in my pocket.

Wyatt jabs a finger, and I glance over to where he’s pointing.

Reese stands near the barn, pitchfork stabbed into the earth, an iced coffee in her hand. Sam, our ranch hand, chats her up. Un-fucking-believable. One bat of her lashes and Sam’s already bringing her a gallon of Starbucks.

My hands curl into fists.

Like a flip switched, anger bubbles up inside of me. Maybe it’s the text, maybe it’s the way she’s laughing, tossing her hair and batting those lashes.

Women like Savannah think the world should be handed to them on a silver platter. That they get it for free. That the world owes them. If Reese wants some life lessons, she’s come to the right fucking place.

Iced coffee in hand, Reese storms by me and it pisses me off that I take a real long second to admire that perky ass of hers.

Wyatt laughs. “I got Tylenol in my pack because that woman’s gonna give you a headache.”

I hop off the fence. “Give me your rope.”

My brother arches an amused brow. “You sure?”

I grit my teeth. “Give it to me.”

Wyatt passes it over and I coil the rope up tightly, grabbing the smaller circle and threading it until I have a loop. Holding the coil in my left hand, I lift it overhead and swing it around and around until I find a smooth rhythm.

Then, with Reese in my sights, I release the loop.

Bullseye.

A good clean catch.

Wyatt cackles.

I grin. Then, I cinch the rope looped around her torso.

Reese screams.

“Ford, you’re a fuckface,” Fallon says.

Reese teeters in her heels, and one quick tug of the rope has her on her ass in the middle of the field. She’s barefoot now, her high heels plunged deep into the earth, and her iced coffee a milky puddle in the grass.

“You lassoed me!” Reese shrieks. Her chest heaves. “Like livestock.”

I stride toward her. She’s a filthy mess. Blonde hair sticks to her sweaty brow, and the dress she wears slides high over her tan thighs.

I look down at her. “Moo moo, baby.”

Her pillowy lower lip juts out.

“This is a ranch. We don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

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