Page 88 of Burn the Wild

We’ll fool around for the summer, and when it’s over, I’ll go back to the city and leave this country boy alone. Because even though he’s a cowboy, my life isn’t a country song. There’s no hero. I have to save myself.

Every step on the ranch is me moving forward. Every heartbeat means I am alive.

Chicken squawks greet me when I reach the coop.

I smile. This is one of my favorite chores. The chickens are smelly and loud, but they’re free and curious, which I find fascinating. They squabble and cluck without a care in the world. We should all be so lucky to be chickens.

Humming, I step inside the coop, the two-way radio bouncing on the side of my hip. Instantly, a barrage of chickens peep and purr in my presence. I say hi to my favorites, giving them extra-long pets.

“I’m so sorry for stealing your babies,” I say as I collect their eggs. “I truly would not blame you if you pecked my eyes out.” With that, I loop the basket around my wrist and step outside.

I freeze.

Standing outside the chicken coop is a tall, broad-shouldered man with jet-black hair and a scar slicing down one cheek. He looks like a brutish Clark Kent.

The man steps into my space.

“Employees only, sir.”

He moves, blocking my path. “Reese Austin, right?”

“Sorry.” Anxiety bubbles in my stomach. Press or fan, I can’t tell. I keep my head down in case he tries to snap a photo. “You must have me confused with someone else.”

“No, I don’t,” he says simply. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Panic flares to life inside of me. I’ve had stalkers before, but they’ve never gotten this close. “I’m working. I can’t give autographs.”

“I don’t want an autograph. I want you.”

My heart races as I take a step back, boxed in by the chicken coop and the man. Thinking quickly, I drop a hand to my hip and bring the two-way radio to my mouth. “Help,” I say into the receiver. “Ford, help.”

There’s a crackle of static. Silence. Then, Ford.

Across the pasture, I watch him drop the hay bale and whip around, finding me instantly. He must see it all over my face because he leaps off the baler, and races toward me at a dead run.

A flash of gold tooth. “You don’t need help, Reese. What you need is me.”

His raspy voice makes me shiver.

When Ford reaches me, he grabs my arm and pushes me behind him.

“Ford…” My breath hitches.

He remains rigid, his hands fisting at his sides. “Who the fuck are you?”

The man chuckles. “I’m your fairy fucking godfather.”

It’s eerily quiet in the lodge. Mid-afternoon, most guests have already checked in and out on tours for the day.

At the dining table in the cantina, Bo Bosko, the private investigator Ford hired, sets up a makeshift office. Files and laptops spread out over the long surface. With his crisp three-piece suit, slicked back black hair, and gold tooth, he’s professional, if not slightly terrifying.

Now that I know he’s not a stalker or here to kill me, I’ve relaxed. The same can’t be said for Ford. His face is mutinous. He’s all clenched fists and gnashing jaw, prowling and protective, pacing behind me like an anxious wildcat.

“He’s here to help,” I remind him. “You hired him.”

Ford crosses his arms. “He should have called.”

“It ruins my entrance,” Bosko says blandly. He sets aside a stack of papers and closes his briefcase.

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