Page 3 of My Cowboy Salvation
Grabbing my bag that I left on the floor, I run to the bathroom and lift the window open until it’s wide enough for me to climb out of. I drop to the ground, and then creep through the darkness, trying not to make any sound as I work my way to the lights of the highway. Once I’ve reached the shoulder, I raise my hand up to the coming cars and semis.
This feels reckless. Stupid. Dangerous. It’s like a horror story and the girl is too dumb to know she’s about to put herself at the mercy of a killer. But right now, I’m willing to play the odds. Because behind me, back at that motel, Iknowfor a fact I’ll be at the mercy of a killer.
Out here, even a fifty-fifty chance is far better odds.
The bright lights are almost blinding as they flash at me, and a few seconds later, the loud sound of engine brakes tells me, either way, I’m about to meet my fate.
Chapter 2
The small townof Castle Falls seems like something you’d see in some old movie like It’s a Wonderful Life with the addition of a soaring mountain range in the background—a range I understand is part of the Glacier National Park. I guess as hideouts go, I couldn’t do better than this.
I watch the bus that brought me here turn the corner and disappear from sight, and I swallow down a moment of panic that maybe coming here was a mistake, and that I should have stayed on that bus until I got some place bigger, more crowded, somewhere I’ll be more likely to disappear. But it’s too late now.
I pull the piece of paper from my pocket and stare at the address I’ve looked at so many times in the past six days I should have it memorized. A lifetime ago, I would have pulled out my smartphone and punched the address into an app. But I left my phone in San Francisco, along with most of my belongings, when I realized whatever life I had before was over. If I wanted to live at all, I needed to leave everything behind.
An older, stately two-story building with the wordsCastle Falls Public Librarystands behind me, but according to the sign on the door, it closed at six, leaving the option of going in for a map or directions out of the question. Across the way is a narrow street with adorable shops on either side. The one on the corner seems to have the most traffic coming and going, and I head in that direction. The sign above it identifies it asCarol’s Bakery and Cafe, which seems as good of a place to start as anywhere.
A black pickup truck pulls into a spot just ahead of me, and a second later, a tall figure climbs out. I recognize something in his bearing—especially the six-foot five-inch frame that lumbers out. The guy emanates strength, confidence, and authority as he stands next to the truck and looks around as if he’s searching for something or someone.
Someone like me.
But instead of the terror and hopelessness I would feel if this were anyone else, I’m filled with a sense of tentative hope and relief… as well as a hefty familiar dose of lust that I’ve nurtured since I was sixteen years old.
I know this man.
Not only that, this man is the reason I’ve come here seeking refuge.
In the four-hour ride from St. George to Salt Lake, I had plenty of time to consider my options. There was really only one that gave me any hope. So, after paying cash for another motel room, I walked the few blocks to a Walmart and bought a new burner phone I used to call my ex-boyfriend, Parker McCall.
Parker was my high school boyfriend for two and a half years until I left the study at the San Francisco Conservatory of Music and he left for UCLA. It had made sense to make a clean break, even if doing so crushed him. I knew the passion I felt for my music was more than the passion I felt for him, making staying with him unfair.
A couple of years later, we rekindled our friendship, chatting through text messages or email every few months, keeping each other up to date with any big news going on in our lives. So it wasn’t a surprise this past Christmas, when Parker hadn’t heard anything from me, he came to see me. By then, I’d been living with Simon for three months, subject to the full breadth of Simon’s emotional and physical abuse. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to talk about it. Not yet. I was too ashamed for not seeing Simon’s true colors earlier.
Parker knew something was off, just as he knew something was off when I called him six days ago. But he didn’t push, just assured me that his dad, a former Army Ranger and newly appointed chief of police in some small town in Montana, would help me, whatever way he can. With that assurance, I ended the call with a promise I would email him—courtesy of new Gmail addresses we just set up—my itinerary.
Okay, so maybe there’s a tiny bit more to it.
Because Logan McCall, Parker’s dad, isn’t a father figure to me and never has been. As much as I loved Parker’s goofy, fun spirit and the intensity of our kisses when we were dating, I also harbored something of a crush on his super hot dad.
I mean, other kids’ parents were just… old. But at a towering six-foot-five and the carved face of a sex god, Logan McCall was anything but old.
And even now, as his gaze sweeps the area before stopping on me, I’m reminded of how this former Army Ranger with thick sandy brown hair, inescapably alert blue eyes, and hard chiseled jawline could take my breath away with one intense look.
He’s definitely embraced the whole sexy cowboy vibe in those dark blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a black short-sleeved polo that offers a tantalizing glimpse of muscled forearms. The only thing that identifies Logan as law enforcement is the patch on his right sleeve.
Understated yet sexy.
Even though I made some changes to my appearance while I holed up in the motel in Salt Lake, he seems to recognize me as he steps forward. Self-consciously, I raise my hand to pull on the ends of my shortened hair, cut into a bob that hovers above my shoulders thanks to the kind lady at Supercuts. The red hair that Simon prized? It’s now tinted a dark, somewhat unflattering shade of brownish black. Unflattering, yes, but perfect for allowing me to disappear into a crowd.
“Dylan?” he asks as he reaches me, as if unsure I’m the same young girl he last saw four years ago.
“Yes. It’s me,” I say, at a loss for anything wittier to say.
His gaze wanders over me as if checking for any injuries. When he gets to my neck where there are still some faint bruise marks from when Simon choked me, his blue eyes darken.
I clear my throat. “I didn’t expect you to meet me here.”
“Figured you were going to need a ride. Is that all you have with you?” He gestures to my backpack.
