Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112850 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 564(@200wpm)___ 451(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
I guided him to the tank Slade had installed years ago when he did his best to run cattle on his land. We sauntered to the nice-size pond, I dismounted, holding the reins as Whiskey drank. My goal for this rest break was to check my phone and grab my water bottle to wash all this dirt out of my mouth. The water bottle took priority as I quick rinsed my mouth before taking long drinks.
Weirdly, my parents came to mind. They were all over me these days, suspecting more was happening than I shared in my maybe ten-word explanation about the sanctuary.
They weren’t wrong but I also wasn’t ready to tell them the full truth. But I might be seeing a path forward for all of us. Looking out into the future came with fear, so I tucked it away and focused on this minute only. My most current truth was that my thighs and ass quivered from exertion, my muscles not anywhere close to being ready to ride like I just had.
I took a seat on the ground, kept the reins in my lap, and worked my cell phone open. Seconds later, I was flipping through the incoming text messages. I only had five people who ever texted, and they were all there. Well, now I had seven people with Kitt and his architect adding to the mix.
My farm was in the direct center of our approved construction plans. Slade had helped develop and approved the designs. He shined at making me believe my place was in his house. My home was intended to be the new office of the sanctuary. No matter how I reacted or scoffed, I clung to his vision, praying that he continued saving my life.
Apparently, I had more friends than that, receiving message after message from the contractors beginning to do the hard work. I let those hang and also scanned past both my mother and father’s messages, Lori’s too.
It was Slade’s message that had me tapping the screen to open our R-rated text thread. Six missed messages. My genuine grin at seeing his name turned more to a smirk as I read through the heap of missed texts.
“What’s going on? How does it feel to be back on a horse? You good?”
The next one. “Why aren’t you responding? You good? You haven’t ridden in a long time.”
The next message came with a photo of Slade hanging drywall. He was damned good at taking selfies. This shot had him alone at my place, screw gun in hand. My smirk spread to a healthy smile. Slade had offered to add my house to the list of construction we needed. To his persistent dismay, I’d refused the help, which meant he and I were hanging drywall, then taping and bedding it before painting the place ourselves. Hand callouses were becoming a real thing for Slade. His white-collar palms were taking a beating; one I enjoyed thoroughly.
The fourth message: “Seriously, guy. Take me out of my misery. How are you?”
The fifth message. “I’m sending security out to make sure you’re okay. You never go so silent like this.”
The last message was a single question mark.
The sound of one of many security guard vehicles—this one diesel-powered if the noise were any indication—came closer. I tightened my grip on the reins, and I glanced over my shoulder to verify my prediction. Whiskey’s head made about the same movement, sparing a look at the arriving truck. Slade was behind the wheel as he barreled toward me. He didn’t look happy which made my smile bigger than before.
I questioned my response to Slade’s over-the-top protection of me. Only to remember, Slade’s time with me was coming to an end. He’d be leaving for Hollywood or NYC soon. He jaunted back and forth between the two large cities. I could tell he didn’t want to go when he became short and tense with everyone.
I didn’t argue or take offense. We were sickeningly in love, my body and mind craved Slade’s presence. If he needed to protect me, I let him do it. Well, until this afternoon if his angry glare meant anything. I didn’t rise but did reposition my ball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes.
“What the fuck, Sutton,” Slade called through the open driver’s window. His arm rested on the window’s frame, waiving a hand through the air in exasperation. He cut the loud engine as he stopped nearby. I heard him, of course I did, he can be loud, but I pointed a finger to my ear and shook my head.
Whiskey tugged at the reins, giving me the opportunity to say loudly to the horse, “He doesn’t mean it. I promise he’s a good guy.”
Slade shook his head incredulously. He was out of the truck, his stride eating up the distance between us and the truck. “It’s been years since you’ve been on the back of a horse. Why couldn’t you respond to my messages? I was getting things done and had to leave to check on you.”