Page 3 of Stay for Me

Like hell I’d be getting into a fucking car I wasn’t driving.

Reluctantly, the old man sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Head north up this road for about three miles, take a left on County Road, and then walk until you see sign.”

One hour later.

Itippedmyheadback, taking in the massive “H” on the barn in front of me. The entire structure was overdue for a fresh coat of red paint. I’d been on the property for all of ten minutes, bypassing a white house with a wraparound porch and heading straight down the hill to the barn. Even though the ground was covered in snow, I knew the ranch owner would be down here, tending to his animals. Twisting my neck, I took in the land around me, blanketed in crisp white snow, the rays of the sun peeking through the gray clouds above, causing the ground to sparkle.

I’d been all over the world. I’d seen and experienced all kinds of landscapes, but there was something about this piece of land that felt peaceful.

Peace was something I knew nothing about, and I was desperate to discover it.

“Yo!”

I looked over to the corral, finding a cowboy walking his horse towards the barn, a black hat perched on his head. He was tall—taller than me. A long, black beard hung on his face, his mouth set, and the bags under his eyes didn’t take away from his intimidation. As he drew closer, I held his gray eyes and lifted my chin.

“You Denver Langston?” I called, my breath drifting into frigid air.

He stopped just in front of the barn, his horse neighing in protest as he studied me. Like the man in the feed store, his eyes scanned me, taking in my appearance, lingering on my boots. The cowboy said nothing, just turning and walking his horse into the barn.

I remained were I was, jaw twitching and feet planted firmly on the gravel, waiting.

From inside the barn, I heard a stall door close, followed by the soft crunches of a horse eating. Seconds later, the cowboy reemerged from the shadows, his thick black work coat draped over one of his shoulders, thick gloves on his hands. As he walked to me, he shoved the gloves in the back pocket of his jeans and then stopped a few feet from me. I could see the heat from him floating up in the freezing air, but from the looks of it, he didn’t mind the cold.

“You the owner of this ranch?” I asked.

“Who’s asking?” the cowboy finally replied, his voice deep, his eyes holding mine.

“I am.”

A short chuckle left him, and he looked away from me for a moment. “Fucking Marines. Cocky sons of bitches,” he muttered.

“Guess it takes one to know one,” I replied coolly, assuming this was Denver.

The man looked back at me, his lips twitching. “You going to give me your name, or are should I let you keep playing the role of smart ass?”

“I’m too tired for games, Mr. Langston,” I said, holding my hand out. “Mags.”

He eyed my hand for half a second before taking it and giving it a firm shake. “You got a last name?”

I shook my head once. “Nope. Just Mags.”

As we dropped hands, he asked, “Man’s gotta have a last name.”

“Don’t have one to give you.”

He studied me, and behind him, I heard a voice coming from the building beside the barn. “Alright then, Mags. What do you want? I have a lot of work to do before this damn blizzard hits.”

“Work,” I informed him, flicking out the card the man from the feed store gave me. “He told me you’d have some for me.”

Langston’s eyes dropped down to the card and then flicked up to mine. “You want to work here?”

“Affirmative.”

His dark brows came together underneath his hat, his eyes flashing. “What makes you think you can cowboy?” he pressed.

“Can’t be much worse than war, Langston.”

He grunted and looked out into the field. “You’re right about that,” he muttered.

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