Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 188(@200wpm)___ 151(@250wpm)___ 125(@300wpm)
She props herself up on one elbow, the sheet slipping down to reveal her perfect tits. “Be careful,” she says, and I can tell she means it. “He’s not worth getting hurt over.”
I walk back over, kneel down so we’re face to face. “You are,” I say, dead serious. “You’re worth everything and I’m going to make sure nothing ever hurts you.”
She reaches up and tugs me in for a kiss, slow and sweet this time. “Come back to me,” she murmurs.
“Always.” I stand, make for the door, then turn back. “Get a little more sleep before you go have breakfast with your mom and Casey.”
She grins, a little more herself. “You got it, boss.”
I blow her a kiss, then step out into the cold, new morning, every nerve on high alert. I have a job to do. And this time, I’m not fucking around.
I spend the entire drive out to the Silver Spoon Falls Ranch with one hand tight on the wheel, the other clenched tightly in my lap. The road curves up and I see the ranch spread out below, white fences slicing the land into geometric perfection, the paddocks all pristine and the horses standing in crisp little clusters.
I notice Cowboy Rickman's bike even before I catch sight of him. It's a polished black monster, parked with surgical precision next to the big red barn.
The man himself is slouched against it, arms crossed over his chest like he owns the world. And the billionaire nearly does. Cowboy’s got at least forty pounds on me, every ounce of it earned tossing hay bales and breaking in colts. The Silver Spoon MC vest stretches over his broad back, and the patches catch the sun like battle medals.
I pull up beside him, turn off the engine, and hop out. Cowboy doesn't flinch.
"You're late," he remarks, his voice as rough as a broken exhaust. "I had to sip on diner coffee waiting for your city slicker self."
I glance at the cup in his hand. "Did it do you in?"
"Almost. You owe me big time," he mutters and tosses out the rest of the coffee.
"I'll settle the score," I promise.
He lets out a low, gravelly grunt and tilts his head to the side, cracking his neck with a sound reminiscent of ice fracturing on a frozen lake. "So, are you gonna fill me in, or are we just winging it?" he asks, a hint of impatience in his voice.
I give him the bare bones version of the story. “Stellan Mintz is making a nuisance of himself. He's been stalking my girl’s little sister.”
“I heard the town water had another victim.” He smirks. “Welcome to the club.”
“I’ve never been happier.” I tell him honestly. “But I need to take care of Stellan so I can tie Naomi to me for life.”
Cowboy shakes his head slowly, a frown creasing his brow. “Looks like the little dipshit needs a lesson,” he remarks, his voice dripping with disdain.
“My thoughts exactly,” I concur.
“We’ll find him in the barn.” Cowboy points over to the massive red structure. “The little fucker’s been doing the shit work since he caused some problems. Why don’t we deal with your problem so I can get back to my warm willing woman.”
We walk in silence toward the barn, boots crunching gravel, the air filled with that sharp, sweet tang of hay and horse sweat.
As we walk by, the horses in their stalls begin to stir, their ears flicking and nostrils widening. Animals have an instinct for sensing impending trouble before humans do.
Inside, it’s cool and dim, dust floating in sunbeams like microscopic ghosts. There’s a radio playing country from somewhere in the rafters, but mostly you hear the steady thud of hooves and the occasional horse snort.
Cowboy leads the way, his steps loud and deliberate, announcing our presence .
We stop outside the last stall and the scraping shovel sound pauses. “We need to have a little talk.” Cowboy tells Stellan.
Stellan steps out, pitchfork in hand, face set in a mixture of defiance and hangover. He’s wiry, maybe one-eighty and a few inches shorter than me. Dirty and disheveled, he stands there in a dirty shirt and sagging jeans. He gives us both the once-over, then spits a glob of something brown onto the straw.
He jams the pitchfork in one last time, then turns. “Didn’t know it was bring-your-dad-to-work day,” he shoots back. He tries to smirk, but the twitch in his lip betrays the nerves.
I ignore the dig at my age. “You know who I am?” I ask.
He shrugs. “No shit, Sherlock.” The urge to pound the little fucker into the ground courses through me.
It’s hard but I manage to ignore the bait. “You’re going to stay the fuck away from the Bardot women.”
He snorts, glancing at Cowboy like maybe he’ll get backup. “This is between me and Casey.”