Page 12 of Chasing the Wild
My only option is to march onto that ranch and demand every dollar is paid while I watch him do it.
Thank god I was more or less having to drive in this direction to reach Shipton Stables. It’s not exactly enroute, but close enough that a minor detour into the mountains won’t set me back too much.
Get in, get this shit sorted, and get out.
Maybe after I pluck his eyeballs, I’ll leave my handprint across Kayce’s jaw while I’m there for good measure. Or run him over.
“Ok. Bye. I’ll text you when I’m done, but I’ll probably be out of service when you pick this message up. Wish me luck,Sergeant. Love you. If I get taken in for grievous bodily harm please front my bail for me, we both know I just can’t pull off orange with my hair color.” I stab the red button to end the call and let out a frustrated exhale.
As I drive through the wide boulevard of the town I last visited in the height of late summer, I can see that the winter season has certainly taken a firm hold. Lights are on in all the storefronts open at this time of year, and even though it is currently midday, the sky feels somber and dark, like someone forgot to remind the sun to get out of bed.
The trees that hung lush with green leaves five months ago are now bare. Thousands of spindly fingers form twisted patterns against the ominous-looking sky. Hardly any vehicles line the streets, and there are certainly no cute girls lounging in the park working on their tans. Only piles of grit lie mounded up on either side of the road, and an eerie quiet hangs over the place.
My phone has the address pulled up on screen, but I remember the drive towards Devil’s Peak like it was yesterday.
I also remember the last time I was here as if it were yesterday, too.
Colton Wilder.
Over the course of the past five months, I’ve replayed our conversation at the gas station a hundred times. In quiet moments, especially while lying in bed, always oh-so-fucking-alone, my mind can’t help but keep returning to that day and raking over every detail with a fine-tooth comb. Did I completely misread his signals?
Maybe. Possibly.Ugh.
Why is it so hard to get that man out of my mind? Usually, by the time I’m done overthinking everything, I’ve convinced myself that I threw myself at the poor guy, demanded his money,and then came onto him so strong that he took off speeding down the main street to escape my assault.
Oh, and I then proceeded to follow him to his home, like a stalker.
Yup. That would absolutely account for his ice-king demeanor and death glare when I knocked on the door.
I should count myself lucky he didn’t march me off his property with a shotgun between my shoulder blades.
But then again, when I’m not being so hard on myself, I remember the warmth of his hazel eyes as they held mine. I can still hear the rumble in his voice when we joked together. Can clearly picture the veins on his hands as he raked his fingers through his hair, right before putting his sexy-as-hell cowboy hat back on.
My heart does a little flutter when I recall the way he told me not to hang around the wrong type of men, and asked if I was free for an evening.
Quickly followed by the cold indifference he showed me as he blocked me from entering his house.
My nose wrinkles at the memory of how uncomfortable that felt.
Prick.
As the road winds its way like a snake up the incline, I can see thick drifts of snow coating the embankments, and the temperature outside plummets the higher I climb. The drive up the mountain is vastly more treacherous this time around.
My little car isn’t made for these conditions, nor are the tires I currently have, but I am a woman possessed.
When I finally make it to the entrance to Devil’s Peak Ranch, I feel like I can exhale again. Thick purple clouds billow on the horizon and the peak is painted in a solid lacquer of white. Most of the trees up this high are covered in a sugary dusting of snow,but the house and yard are clear. For now, at least. Judging by the clouds, it looks like there’s more snow heading this way.
Hurling myself out of the vehicle, I slam the door, feeling fired up and ready to serve both barrels to my asshole ex. Those last few miles were filled with giving myself a pep talk about all the creative techniques I intend on using while skinning Kayce alive.
Only, I’m crossing the yard, and it feels a lot emptier than before. Last time I was here, there were a couple of vehicles, and now there is only the sight of the big stallion of a truck that presumably belongs to Colton Wilder.
What if Kayce isn’t even here? My shoulders deflate a little and I immediately start debating whether to turn around with my tail between my legs.
“You lost or something?” A gruff voice shouts from over by the entrance to the barn, and I’m halfway toward the steps leading up to the front door when a familiar figure strides in my direction.
My ex-boyfriend's father is kitted out in a rugged weatherproof jacket, with a faded ball cap on backward. His hands and side of his face are smeared in blood, and those hazel eyes of his are burning. But that’s not what makes my heart stop in my throat. It’s the sight of the bloodied carcass slung across his shoulders.
A headless deer is slit open right along where the creature’s stomach should have been, and the smell of copper burns straight up my nose.
