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I need to be alone.

I’m a few feet shy of the exit when I feel a hand on my arm. I glance over my shoulder to see Cash glowering at me.

It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes. I get why he doesn’t want me crossing any lines with Sally. The Powells are like family to him too—not to mention the fact that they’re essential to the operation of Lucky River Ranch.

“What were you doing with Sally over there?” Cash asks.

I shrug, like the two of us don’t know how down bad I am for her. “Before you get your panties in a wad, know that she’s the one who asked me to dance.”

Cash tilts his head, his eyes hard. “Y’all were awfully close.”

“We’re friends. We were talking. I’m allowed to talk to her, Cash.”

“Way you looked at her wasn’t exactly friendly.”

I’m not gonna deny that. Doesn’t mean I gotta confirm how I feel about her though.

“You know we’re both adults, right?” I say. “What we do or don’t do isn’t anyone’s business.”

“And you know I’m only looking out for you.” His expression softens. “I just don’t want anyone gettin’ hurt.”

Too late for that.

“You don’t have anything to worry about. She doesn’t want me like that. Look, she’s out there with Beck right now. We’re safe, all right? Everything is fine.”

I’m not fine though as I push out into the chilly November evening.

I don’t feel fine as I climb into my truck and immediately lunge for the glove compartment, shoving aside several packs of gum to find what I’m looking for.

The first drag on my Marlboro has me feeling lightheaded. Smoking is a gross habit, and I hate it. Except when I don’t. Rolling down my window, I fall back against the seat and close my eyes.

I don’t want Sally to leave Hartsville. But she sure as hell can’t stay. I might very well end up a dead man if she does. Wanting her this way—being around her—is killing me. It’s torture.

The worst, best, sweetest kind of torture there is.

CHAPTER 3

Sally

BONES

Livingwith your parents at the ripe old age of thirty, albeit temporarily, is not ideal.

It’s especially not ideal when your dad is a veterinarian who is basically on call twenty-four/seven, three sixty-five, and he knocks on your door in the dead of night.

“Hey, Sal? I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we have an emergency. A foal was kicked by her mama, and sounds like her leg might be broken.”

The sound of his voice yanks me out of my deliciously deep REM cycle. One of the many benefits of working on ranches: you sleep like the dead.

Prying open my eyes, I grab my phone off the bedside table. No wonder I feel like I was asleep for ten minutes—it’s three thirty in the morning. I went to bed a little after eleven, after I got home from The Rattler. Late for me.

I am exhausted. But baby horses with broken bones can’t wait.

“I’m awake, Dad.” I reach up to turn on the lamp.

I blink as my childhood bedroom comes into view. My parents have preserved it as a kind of museum exhibit, an odeto my teenage obsession with Peeta fromThe Hunger Gamesand the color periwinkle.

It’s sweet they haven’t touched it. And a little weird, but I guess that comes with the territory of being an only child. There’s comfort in knowing I’ll always have a home base. A place to land when I’m feeling lost or sad or alone. I’m lucky.