Page 1 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy (Brides of the Lonesome Creek Orcs #3)

Holly

M orning light warmed the edge of the kitchen counter as I flipped the last pancake onto a plate.

The scent of butter and sweet batter hung in the air.

My twelve-year-old son, Max, sat at the kitchen island chewing his bottom lip as he read from his library book.

His legs swung back and forth, back and forth, his stockinged feet thumping against the structure.

“And then the mountain beast roared so loud,” he read in a hushed voice, “its cry shattered the glass in every window of the king’s castle.”

I slid the plate of pancakes in front of him. “Well, let’s hope sorhoxes don’t do that when we get to Lonesome Creek.”

He looked up. “Sorhoxes? What’s a sorhox?”

“Orc cattle. Horses. Maybe.” Returning to the counter, I poured coffee into my mug, adding a splash of milk before taking it to the island to sit beside him.

“I'm not quite sure what they are, but we’ll find out soon.

I read they're bigger than horses. Green. With tails that can knock down a tree if they get grumpy.”

Max gave me a thoughtful nod. “Like a dragon, then. Sounds awesome.”

Please, not a dragon. “They also sound like something that might gobble up a boy like you if he doesn’t eat his pancakes.”

That brought out his grin. Setting the book aside, he stabbed a bite and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

His shaggy brown hair curled at the tips, and I realized he needed a cut.

Again. My boy was growing big in every way and so fast, I was afraid I'd miss it if I blinked.

I reached out to smooth his hair, but he ducked and kept chewing.

At least he didn't flinch away any longer.

I still did from almost everyone but him, but that was to be expected.

“We’re really going to live near orcs?” he asked around a bite.

“I think so. If I accept the job.” I was still on the fence.

“I still can’t believe orcs are here. The only ones I know are in Lord of the Rings , and they’re mean.”

“I don’t think these orcs are.” Reality was often much different from fiction, though not always in a good way.

A few years ago, orcs emerged from the ground, and people freaked out.

Who wouldn't when they saw a nearly seven-foot orc strolling through town?

Thankfully, no one pulled weapons or attacked them.

It was anyone's guess who would've won a battle with a person like that. They were massive—musclebound, tusked, and terrifying at first glance. Even the females looked like they could carry a truck. Yet they hadn’t come to our world to fight.

From what I’d read online, an orc had gone exploring far beyond their subterranean caverns and emerged from a cave on the surface.

After spying on people and gaping around, he slunk back below ground and shared what he'd seen with the orc king. The king sent emissaries, then treaties were formed. Orcs now lived among us, taking jobs, shopping at the supermarket, and even dating humans. A few matches had been made and there were now orc-human children. So amazing. I’d yet to meet an orc in person, but it looked like I would soon if I accepted the job I’d been offered.

My phone buzzed on the counter, but I didn't pick it up. Let it go to voicemail. This time was for Max, who had to leave for school soon.

“Are you going to get that?” Max asked, his finger stilling on the page. He was eating, so I couldn’t protest him reading at the same time.

“Later.” I buttered my pancakes, eager to take my first bite.

He raised a brow. “If it’s Nancy, she’s going to think you’re ignoring her.” He grinned with syrup on his upper lip. “Maybe she's going to tell us she sent us more knitted socks.”

“Cruel threat,” I muttered. My best friend had met “the one” online a year ago and moved to California to join him, leaving a gaping hole in my heart.

I was happy for her, but living in an apartment and working long hours as a cook at a diner here in Boston didn't leave me a lot of time to find new friends.

Nancy had taken up knitting and after sending each of us a sweater, she'd started mailing socks.

Frankly, I thought they were great. Nice and warm.

My son wasn't as impressed.

Max stabbed another bite of pancake, lifting it to his mouth. He stuffed it in and spoke around the food. “Hey, uh… Would a place like Lonesome Creek have, you know…cowboys?”

I nodded. “Real ones. With hats and boots and spurs and everything.”

He dropped his voice. “Even orc cowboys?”

I grinned. “Especially orc cowboys.”

His eyes lit up. “Cool.”

It was a good thing he was excited, since we'd been talking about moving to Lonesome Creek since I was offered a job in the town's bakery. We’d need to run soon, and Lonesome Creek was as good a place as any. As long as we disappeared, nothing else mattered.

I sipped my coffee. “Eat up. The bus will be here soon.”

Max shoved another bite into his mouth. “Pancakes are magical food. I bet even sorhoxes like them.”

He had no idea how close we were to needing magic.

Once he’d finished and went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, I reached for the phone, finding a message. Frowning, I pressed play. A robotic voice crackled from the speaker. “This message is from the Department of Corrections Inmate Notification System.”

My hand clenched around the phone as I stared at the coffee steam rising from my mug.

“Melvin Carver has been released on early parole effective this morning, based on institutional good behavior.”

The world narrowed. He was free. I stopped breathing.

The voice went silent. That was it? Wreck my entire life with just a few lines and don’t even say goodbye? Damn them.

My knees quivered, and it was all I could do to keep from falling out of my chair. I wanted to curl into a ball behind the counter and sob quietly, something I'd done too many times in the past.

When Melvin got out, he'd promised he’d find us. Promised he’d finish what he started.

Eyes stinging, I forced myself to take slow breaths. Let them ease out. It wasn't like I hadn't known this was coming. I just thought I'd have a little more time.

Good behavior, huh? Like I believed that. If nothing else, Melvin was a phenomenal actor. He’d sure fooled me.

We had to move. Now.

I dumped the rest of my coffee down the sink, inanely rinsing the mug—as if that would matter.

I'd be abandoning it like almost everything else inside this apartment.

Being ready to run taught you to hold on to few possessions.

The only things of value were my getaway bag, our fake IDs, and money.

Things that could be grabbed in a flash and carried into a new life.

The kitchen window creaked as I shoved it open. My corner apartment, in an old brick building across from a laundromat and a tea shop, faced the street.

People strode past on the sidewalk a few stories below, most wearing business clothing, their shoes clicking on the pavement as they talked on their phones, hurrying to work.

A few kids waited for the bus, and usually, Max would join them, me hovering (not too close, Mom!) until the bus arrived, and he was safely seated inside.

I was about to close the window when I saw him . Leaning against the streetlamp outside the tea shop. His hands in his pockets. Cigarette smoke curling around his head like fog.

He remained still. Watching this very building.

Seeing me?

Sucking in air, I ducked to the side, making sure my head was behind the curtain.

My stomach turned over. I couldn’t make out his features, but my body remembered before my brain did—how he held himself, the way his chin tilted up like a warning before he snapped.

I ducked down and closed the window with shaking hands. It was past time to move fast.

I sent a quick text, accepting the job in Lonesome Creek, telling the owner of the bakery, Sel Bronish, that I'd be there within a few days.

Rushing to my room across from Max's, I dragged our bags out from under the bed, already packed since the latest hearing. Clothes. Max’s favorite books.

Spare glasses. Old birthday cards and drawings from when he first started school.

Precious things like the emergency folder with papers.

Shot records. Birth certificates. Social security cards. Passports.

Fake IDs.

In the kitchen, I lowered the bags by the door and rushed around the island to open the flour tin. I pulled out the cash I’d saved for years and tucked it into my pocket.

Max came out of the bathroom, reading from his book as he stumbled down the hall. His glasses sat crooked on his nose. “Almost ready to go.”

“You’re not going to school today.” I snagged his hoodie off the peg by the door and handed it to him.

He blinked, frowning at the bags, before his eyes searched mine, sudden fear blooming in the depths. “He's out?”

He remembered too much. My poor boy, who should only be thinking of the good things in life.

The yelling. The thud of my body hitting the floor. Melvin's guttural snarls.

Max’s shoulders squared, his feet rooted on the linoleum floor. “We're leaving now? We're running?” No panic in his voice. Just calm. Ready. Like we’d practiced.

I reached out and fixed his glasses, nodding once. “Yup. Today’s the day.”

He inhaled, held it a second, then let it go. I wanted to cry. Not because he was panicking, but because he wasn’t. My twelve-year-old son had been waiting, dreading this moment as long as I had.

His gaze shot to the door. “Back staircase?”

“Yeah.”

I lifted the bags.

He took one. “I'll take them.”

Oh. Yes. He wasn't a child any longer. As tall as me at five-seven already, I still sometimes forgot he wasn't the little boy with haunted eyes who didn't laugh anywhere near enough. The sadness had fled his gaze a few years ago, and I hated to see it thriving there again.

Soon. We'd escape to a place where Melvin would never find us, and this time, our new start would stick forever.