Chasing the Wild (Crimson Ridge, #1)

by Elliott Rose

readers ready to wear the hat and get railed in the back seat until you forget your own name … Daddy Colt has a spot in his truck just for you.

Layla

Straight to voicemail. Again. I huff out a frustrated breath and drop my forehead against the steering wheel. For fuck’s sake, let my douchebag ex-boyfriend answer his phone for once in his goddamn charmed life. Keeping my head rested against the baking hot plastic, I put the phone to my ear, trying his number for the fifth time. My eyes squeeze tight, already knowing the outcome, but for whatever reason I persist anyway. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his non-personalized voicemail service.

Kayce Wilder was all blue eyes, dimples, and cowboy charm … until he wasn’t. I’m just thankful to every fucking star in the sky that it was a six-month fling. By the time we might have even considered ourselves to be dating, our relationship—if you could even call our situationship that—was already over.

And if anything, that was the foundation of our relationship. Sex. Not that it was anything to write home about, mind you. He was ok, and I was ok, and that seemed to be enough for me to tolerate some mediocre fucking. Now that I think about it, we didn’t exactly talk much at all.

when I rifled through them, I found his childhood photo albums, and school awards, and cute ribbons from junior horse events. All things from his time living in the Midwest with his mom. From what I know, she’s a pretty shitty parent, and I know all about those. But something tells me there might be a time in his life when he’ll want to have these memories.

The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place. I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side. Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs. This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute. Punching the Fill option, I start pumping the gas and take the chance to sort my hair out. Tugging on the tie, I shake the mess of pale copper curls around my shoulders before I pile it back up in a loose top knot again. It is way too fucking hot today to be bothered with wearing my hair down.

Behind me, an impressive black truck pulls in. One of those really big Dodge’s. Racehorse sleek, practical as an ox, absolutely enormous. As it pulls up on the other side of the pumps, it dwarfs me and my Honda runabout. Immediately, my stomach does a little swoon over how guys with trucks like that are just effortlessly hot.

All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls. The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up. Christ, Layla, get it together. Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.

I hold my card over it until it beeps, and am already walking away when he clears his throat with a little more aggression than is really necessary. “Says declined.” When I turn around, his glare is unnerving. Jesus. What would he do if I actually tried to steal something?

“Oh.” My cheeks heat, and I let out a little flustered laugh. I know there’s enough money in my account. But in scenarios like these, I can’t help but feel a tinge of shame. There’s nothing worse than feeling like I’ve been called out or have failed in some way. Which is stupid, I know, but it is what it is. “Let me try again.” Smiling through a grimace, I hold the card out again.

Again, it beeps. Lifting the card, words I absolutely do not want to see are stamped in bold black capitals across the screen. DECLINED. “You got another way to pay?” His tone is accusatory, and as he exhales sharply the guy slaps the counter. What a grade-A asshole. “Um. Just give me a second.” A tightness forms in my throat as I grab my purse and start making a show of rummaging through it for the alternative payment method that I know fully well doesn’t exist.

“You people are all the same. Turn up here from out of town and think you can rip off businesses like mine. If you can’t pay, lady, you’re going to have to siphon that fuel out of your tank.” I’m stammering in the face of his brash rudeness and feeling clammy from head to toe. If I can’t fuel up today, and get to my placement in time to start work tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly risk losing this job. My next three months of bills and expenses and Evaline’s payments start going up in smoke in my mind’s eye. “Please … if you can just give me a moment.”

“Silly air-headed girls like you have no idea how to be responsible. Always coming in here running up bills you can’t pay for. That’s you parked at pump three? The Honda?” He sneers at me and looks me up and down, before jabbing a finger in my direction. “Stand right there and don’t fucking move. I’ll deal with you in a second.”

As I’m spiraling in the middle of this shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere, a low, smooth voice cuts in. “Christ, Kurt. Take your heart pills already. I’ll cover it.”

A stranger just paid for my fuel, and he is absolutely someone who I had no idea could exist in real life. He’s a wall of rugged man, and I have to tilt my head a little in order to take all of him in. With a faded black t-shirt revealing a tanned neck, scruffy dark curls, and a short beard with a bit of salt and pepper gray in it.

When my eyes drop down, they catch on the jet-black cowboy hat in his big paw. Oh, god … and then his tightly fitted wranglers. This is the real danger out here in small towns like this. Cowboys with impeccable manners who look like they can sweep you off your feet one minute and rail you until you forget your own name in the back seat of their truck the next.

“Thank you.” I blurt out. Regaining use of my tongue. “You didn’t have to do that.” I twist my purse in my hands. Gorgeous-cowboy drags a hand through his unruly hair, before putting his hat back on. As he does so, I catch a little glimpse of the lines around his eyes that don’t exactly tell me his age, but they place him somewhere in the older category.

“No sense arguing with Kurt over a tank of gas. He’ll take any opportunity to make up for having a small dick.” Something between a cough and a laugh bursts out of me. I was not expecting that the third thing to come out of this man’s mouth would include the word dick. But I’m certainly not mad about it. “It was very small dick energy, wasn’t it.”

“Even so, thank you, that was very gallant what you did in there.” He narrows his eyes on me. “Gallant?” “Uhh, you know …” I’m stuttering under his intensity. “Like, chivalrous.” “Sounds like you’re calling me old. Or old-fashioned.” My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, thinking I’ve offended him somehow, but then I spot the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He’s teasing me. Dear sweet Jesus. This man is hiding a sense of humor underneath that gruff exterior. This isn’t fair. “Let’s just say that girls like me don’t happen to come across men like you very often. I mean, especially not men offering to pay for a whole tank of gas out of the blue.”

“You’re hanging around the wrong men in that case.” Somehow, I feel like he just told me off and turned me on in the same breath. “Don’t I know it.” I offer a small smile.

I’ve got nothing more than a declined card and a tank full of fuel thanks to the charity of a stranger. All the while, God’s favorite cowboy watches me from where he leans casually against his truck. A vehicle that’s probably worth more than my entire annual take home pay. “I hope it didn’t ruin your visit to Crimson Ridge.” His hazel eyes are still fixed on me with a keen expression. Even though his gaze might be glued to my face, I can feel him taking in every inch of my appearance. My body heats under his perceptive stare. “How do you know I’m just visiting?” I tilt my head to one side. For some reason he’s still standing here talking to me in this grimy gas station, and I’m making no effort to move toward my car. Not only that, but I can’t help but feel like he’s definitely, absolutely flirting with me a little.

“We don’t have those kinds of plates here.” “I could be borrowing a friend’s car,” I tease. This time, his eyes most definitely drop down my body, and every inch of me comes alive. “A friend, hmm?” He mulls the word over. “Is that the kind of friend that comes with a dick, or without one?” Well, fuck. Is he asking if I have a boyfriend? “Uhh. No friend.” I chew my cheek a little. “Boys my age aren’t worth my time, I find.” That makes his eyes snap up to mine. Oh, holy hell, I might as well just wave a big sign that says please fuck me, I’m single, with that kind of statement. He rubs a thumb along his jaw, still leaning against the truck, and he looks so damn good I want to melt. As he shifts his arm, it drags up the hem of his t-shirt a little, revealing a sliver of tanned skin above his belted jeans. Am I having heart palpitations? My pulse thuds relentlessly in my ears.

“So, if you’re staying here in town … what are you doing on Friday night?” His voice is all rumbly, and I feel it right in my chest. But then I realize what he’s asking. Or maybe, is about to ask. And I fall back to earth with a jolt. “Oh, no.” I shake my head, and his expression hardens. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was saying … I really am just passing through.” Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot. It took me all of two seconds to lead this guy on, and now I feel like the world’s biggest cock-tease.

“Well.” He pushes away from the truck, and suddenly ice solidifies in the air between us. Those shoulders of his are now tense beneath the thin cotton of his tee. “Travel safe, then.” And as quick as a flash, he’s fishing his keys out of his back pocket and is on the move, opening the cab of his truck without so much as another look in my direction. I make a start toward him. “Wait, I need to pay you back for the gas.” God, I’ve fucked this all up. “Don’t worry about it.” He swings up into the driver’s side and slams the door. The giant black truck roars to life as he revs the accelerator, taking off out of the gas station.

Her lips curl into more of a sneer than a smile. “You wouldn’t be the first girl trying to find your way up to his place.” She hands me back my phone and leans on the counter. Putting her tits right in my face. Like she’s pissing all over her territory or something. Fucking hell. Kayce Wilder. Certified man whore. “I’m taking it you certainly know how to get there, then?” I’m about done with all of this and have half a mind to just toss this girl the boxes right here in the middle of the cafe and let him come and get them from his fuck buddy. She just gives me a coy smile and smacks her gum loudly. “Might have been there before. But you’re a bit young for him, ain’t you?” What? I can’t even with this level of weirdness going on. It’s hot as hell and I’m dying for a cold glass of water and feeling just about done with being the good girl. “Look, it isn’t like that. Can you just tell me if the address is correct? That’s all I need to know.”

“That’s the one. Right at the top of the mountain. It’s a dead end, so you can’t miss it.” She picks up a dirty glass and runs it under the tap. “Hope you don’t get lost … if the beasts up there don’t eat you, the wildlife might.” And with that, she saunters out through the back with a flick of her hair. For fuck’s sake.

Just as I think this insanity will never end, with the gravel becoming chunkier beneath my tires and the road growing narrower, I crest the final bend and emerge into a clearing amongst the trees. It’s a small plateau, looking directly out at the view of Devil’s Peak.

My eyes are darting, bouncing, flitting everywhere at once as I pull up in front of what can only be described as a mountain-property wet dream. It’s wood and stone and has wide-span glass windows overlooking the view. A porch wraps around the entire length of the building, which sits low and elongated against a backdrop of pine trees rising steeply behind the roofline. This is no rundown old shack hidden away in the hills. What I’m seeing is a thing of beauty, designed to blend in with the landscape and not only that but it looks modern as all hell.

Lettering made of iron hangs above the double doors to the barn, spelling out the letters: D.P.R in bold black set against cedarwood planks. Devil’s Peak Ranch.

There’s no knocker or doorbell—I’m guessing you don’t need those way out here—so I raise my fist and bang on the wood. Before I can even drop my hand, the door is yanked open so hard I almost fall into the entranceway. What greets me on the other side is a wild tangle of curly dark hair, wetted locks that sit against tanned, damp skin, and fearsome hazel eyes. And the man before me is naked, except for a towel.

I don’t know how long I stare. But the gorgeous cowboy from town, the very person who paid for my tank of gas, clutches a towel low on his hips, pinning me with a murderous expression. Nothing makes sense in my mind. Why is he here? What the fuck is going on? He’s got the door gripped so tight in one hand that I can see white ridges on his knuckles, and he looks about one second from slamming it in my face. We both seem to be caught in some kind of limbo, staring at each other while our minds try to make sense of this situation. His forehead is creased in a way that tells me this is not a pleasant surprise. In fact, there’s so much fuck off energy rolling off his muscled torso that I’m surprised I haven’t been bowled backward down the steps. This must be his house. Holy fuck. Is this his ranch?

“Layla fucking Birch?!” A slurred shout cuts through the potent tension hanging between us. My ex-boyfriend, Kayce, barges past the man in the towel like he owns the place. Suddenly, I’m being lifted off the ground in a bear hug and twirled in the air like I’m five years old. “What are you doing here, princess?” All I want to do is demand to know the same thing. Oh, and this asshole has definitely been day-drinking. Kayce only ever called me that when he’d had a few. Probably me and every other girl riding his dick. I stiffen at the thought of the bitch from the cafe in town. “Kayce, put me down.”

I don’t want him to touch me so openly. Especially not in front of this other man. Kayce beams down at me with that blue-eyed charm turned up to megawatt status. Giving me a look that, for a brief moment in time, used to make me go all gooey inside, thinking that he was looking at me as if I was someone special. Only now, it does absolutely nothing for me. “Dad, this is my girlfriend, Layla.” My brain and body separate into different dimensions for a moment. Dad?

Wait. No. “Not girlfriend. Ex.” I correct Kayce, strongly emphasizing the word ex a little louder than necessary. Unwinding myself from beneath his arm, I take a step to the side and put some breathing room between me and the younger Wilder man. His father—holy shit, his father—stares at me with cold indifference. Gone is the charming cowboy from our brief interaction earlier. It’s like he murdered that version of the man I swooned over so easily, and dumped his corpse in the ravine I just drove past.

“Horses need packing. There’s a group arriving in an hour.” The stony-faced man barks after his son, still glaring at me. He seems angry at Kayce, and isn’t moving from the doorway either, effectively barring me from entering his house. I’m trapped right in the middle of something I don’t want to understand. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get to it later.” Kayce shrugs him off and I cringe. He’s a dick to his father too, how predictable. “Later won’t cut it. They should have been sorted out by now. Tonight’s group booked a twilight ride.” “I got busy.” Kayce wanders back over and attempts to press a beer into my hands, but I shake my head and turn it down. All I want to do is leave his boxes out here on the porch, and get the hell off this mountain. “Jesus, Kayce.” His father shakes his head and looks like he wants to chew him out but stops himself. I don’t blame the guy, I know the exact feeling.

“He seems nice.” I offer. Shuffling on my feet. Kayce snorts. “Colton Wilder? Nice? That man is the most miserable old bastard you’ll ever meet. He never leaves this shithole mountain, and it’s nothing but fucking work up here from dawn ’til dusk.” He tips his beer back. Ok, so maybe I am smarting more than a little at the way his father completely blanked me back there. He didn’t say a single word to me. Not even a polite acknowledgment that we’d only just met down in town? Maybe the guy is the exact kind of asshole Kayce says he is. It was kind of rude.

“Don’t be sucked in. Summer is all soft and warm and flirty right now, but winter is an icy-hearted bitch who wants nothing more than to steal your soul.” Kayce rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “It’s months and months up here with no cell reception, Wi-Fi that drops out every five fucking minutes, and nothing to do but feel like you’re going to go insane in the dark before they reopen the roads in between storms.”

“Yeah, and Dad’s piece of shit Wi-Fi hardly works. He doesn’t use technology because he’s such a grumpy dickhead, and can’t see the benefit in joining the real world. This place is like a fucking jail or some shit.” I wrap my arms around myself. “Then why are you here, Kayce?” Why stay if he hates it so much? I want to kick him in the balls for being such a spoiled bitch about it. What I would give to land a job in a place as incredible as this … “Because I fucked up, princess. I didn’t get a sponsor this season. While I figure out my next move, Dad is cool with me staying here for the rest of summer. If I’m really desperate for money, I figure I’ll stick around and work the winter for him, too.” “Sounds awesome. Good for you.” He snorts. “What isn’t so awesome is how he rides my ass all the time, trying to make up for being a shitty father when I was a kid. We’ve never gotten along. So it’s real fucking peachy, let me tell you.”

I’m also about done with his shit … and this whole confusing, gorgeous-father-I’m-still-flustered-over situation. I need to get moving, and when I haul-ass out of here in a cloud of dust, I’ll never have to see either of the Wilder men, ever again.

Layla FIVE MONTHS LATER

“Your resume looks great, Layla. It would be a pleasure to have you join us at Shipton Stables for the rest of the winter.” I close my eyes and mouth a silent thank you toward the roof of my car while clutching the phone against my ear. “Are you sure starting at this time of year isn’t a problem for you? Many people your age are still on holiday this side of the new year, and we really can’t hold the position if there are any delays. We need to fill it urgently.” The lady on the other end of the phone is firm, but kind. I get it, I really do.

The few belongings I’ve been carting around since last summer are neatly crammed in the trunk of my car, ready to roll out of this shitty little motel parking lot.

So when Shipton Stables put out an urgent ‘help-wanted’ request online, I couldn’t care less about the three hour drive to get there. I just needed them to give me the green light that they’d be happy to take me on. “Great. Well, in that case, we’ll have paperwork ready for you to fill out when you arrive, and the first shift we’ll roster you for starts at eight a.m. the day after tomorrow.”

The financial weight of supporting not only myself, but taking care of the woman who was a better mother to me than my own, is drowning me slowly day by day. The home Evaline is in has been the only place able to meet her needs, but it comes with a price.

Without looking at the screen, I answer the call—expecting it to be Shipton Stables ringing back about some other detail for my impending arrival. “Hello.” “Am I speaking with Miss Birch?” A clipped voice appears on the other end of the line. My stomach sinks. This isn’t the woman I was speaking to moments before. “Yes, I’m Layla Birch.” As I reply, I angle the phone so I can see the number on the screen. Restricted caller ID. Fucking brilliant. I mentally chide myself for picking up. Calls like this terrify me, and I usually send them straight to my voicemail graveyard.

“This is Bonnie Wilton from Gratitude Finance.” My nose wrinkles like I’ve just stepped in pig shit.

“I’m sorry. I think you must have the wrong number.” I can’t be fucked being polite. I’m freezing and want to get on the road to my new job, ASAP. “Is your last known address 3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Miss Birch?” Why does that sound familiar? “In the town of Crimson Ridge?” The woman persists. My stomach hits the floor. “Uhh. No.” My insides flop like a fish on dry land as I picture Kayce and the ranch and him sitting on the porch with a beer when I last saw him over the summer. “Well, the information I have on file here says you have an outstanding amount of two thousand, five hundred and eighty with us. And you’ve missed your last three repayments.”

“That’s not me. I haven’t taken out any finance, I promise.” “Can you provide me with proof of your permanent address?” She taps at a keyboard in the background. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Unfortunately, I can’t, you see I’ve been—” “We would need copies of utility bills covering the past six months, or something to indicate where you have been residing to prove that isn’t your address.”

“Without being able to provide us with that proof, we need to settle the amount in full, otherwise our team will have to move to the next stage of enforcement action.” I think I’m going to be sick. Kayce Wilder is a dead man. “Can I ask how long ago this finance was taken out?” I mumble. There’s no way I can pay that, and I shouldn’t have to, but these assholes don’t care about who or what or where.