Page 2 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy (Brides of the Lonesome Creek Orcs #3)

“Be right back.” He raced to his small bedroom, his sneakers thudding on the hall carpet, and returned with a few more books and his worn, stuffed teddy, one of the few things left from before.

His cheeks pinkened as he stuffed it into his bag and zipped it closed again.

Straightening, his solemn gaze met mine. “I’m ready.”

I opened the front door enough to peek down the hall. Empty. The building was always quiet at this time of day, and I didn't hear anything from the stairwell.

We moved fast.

One floor up. We took the steps slowly and kept to the side so they wouldn’t creak.

At the top, we opened the door to the fire escape.

After making sure the alley was empty below, we started down.

Our sneakers clanged on the metal treads, though we did our best to remain silent.

At the bottom, we leaned against the brick wall and studied the area again, empty except for an overturned wooden crate and a pigeon pecking at something near the dumpster.

We hurried along the alley and half-jogged the seven blocks to the bus station. Windows smudged. The inside smelled of stale fries and bleach. The ticket booth didn’t accept cards, which was fine because I didn’t dare use one. I’d pay for everything with cash.

I passed over my fake ID with an even faker smile. The woman studied it before handing it and our tickets to me.

Boston to Hartford. Hartford to Philly. Overnight bus from Philly to Kansas City. Then a final stretch by train to a tiny township at the edge of nowhere, where a stagecoach, drawn by an orc cow, of all things, would take us the rest of the way to Lonesome Creek.

We boarded the bus, quietly taking seats in the rear, keeping our heads down, not peering out the window.

Max didn’t complain or say a word. Even when the bus jolted and someone's bag toppled from the overhead bin, landing on the floor with a thud by his foot, he only winced and went back to his reading.

Escaping into a world where people had honor and the bad things died.

Every transfer, I kept us moving. Max remained at my side. Whenever we rested, he slept curled in his hoodie, his head resting on my shoulder.

I stayed awake. Just in case.

Three days. Four bus stations. Two seedy motels that took cash.

I used my fake name every time in case anyone thought to check.

By the time we settled in our seats inside the stagecoach headed for Lonesome Creek, the one pulled by a beast the size of a minivan with curled horns, clawed hooves, and even fangs, I could barely keep my eyes open, let alone gape at the creature.

“Whoa,” Max said, staring at the sorhox. “It's big. Green. And those horns.” He almost sounded eager, and I'd bet if the orc—a real, freaking orc! --offered to let him pat the creature, ride it, even, my son would leap at the chance.

Its eyes were wide and too intelligent when it looked my way. Terrifying, yet somehow majestic.

“It won’t eat me, right?” Max asked in a half-whisper.

“No.” I watched it blink slowly and nudge the orc adjusting its harness. “Not unless you forget to say thank you.”

That earned me a grin.

The driver, an equally green, hulking, dark-eyed orc dressed in cowboy boots and a leather vest, had only given us a grunt and a nod when I identified myself.

We climbed aboard the creaky vehicle that looked like it had plunged out of the 1800s Wild West. But was too modern inside to be a restoration.

At least the seats were comfortable, and we were the only ones on board.

The orc lifted our bags onto the roof with ease, then gave Max a once-over. “You’ll like it in Lonesome Creek, youngling.”

“Youngling.” Max blinked, then nodded. “I hope so.”

I didn’t let myself breathe until the stagecoach started moving.

We rode in silence. The sky turned gold, outlining the mountains in the distance, blue-gray and jagged, the tallest with a touch of white at the peak. When we left the main road, stately trees lined the dirt trail and birds coasted on long, lazy thermals above.

Max pressed his cheek against the window, taking it all in. “This is so cool. Look at all the tall grass. The trees!”

It felt like we were stepping out of the world I knew and into a place that belonged only in stories.

When we rounded the last bend in the trail, I saw the town for the first time.

Lonesome Creek sat tucked in the center of a broad valley, with a main street with storefronts reminding me of an old Western movie.

False fronts, they were called. The saloon even had swinging red doors.

A water tower sat behind a big red barn, painted with an orc skull wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat.

Someone played a banjo off in the distance—or they'd piped in music, which could be the case since this was a tourist destination.

Humans dressed in Western clothing strolled along the wooden boardwalk spanning the front of the main street, some stopping to peer through gleaming windows, others entering buildings. A few opened the door to the building marked Jail and stepped inside.

This place was going to draw a crowd, and for a moment, that made my insides quiver.

What had I been thinking? I could’ve disappeared into a sleepy nowhere town, but instead, I’d taken a job in a place that must be talked about on social media.

Attention would draw the press. The press would take pictures.

And pictures would appear on TV and online.

Melvin might see them.

Which meant I needed to find a new way to hide. Maybe I could buy a hat in the general store and wear it all the time. I adored my long, strawberry-blonde hair, but it would wave in the air like a flag in some random person's picture. I’d keep it up at all times.

The coach rattled to a halt in front of the saloon, dust rising in curls around us before the wind caught it and swept it away. It was so hot today, a trickle of sweat pooled at my lower spine and across the backs of my knees.

Max opened the door and poked his head out. “Smells like sugar.”

I blinked, tasting it too, yeast and flour on the breeze. Any good chef had imprinted that smell in her bones, and I was an excellent chef.

The orc driver hopped onto the ground. While he removed our bags from the top, Max and I climbed out of the stagecoach, remaining in the shadows while we looked around.

Max didn’t say he was scared, so I didn’t say I was either.

But I scanned the buildings anyway. Windows, rooftops, a broad open plain with woods and mountains beyond.

If Melvin showed up here, it wouldn’t take much to strip this new life as bare as the last. Had I been foolish to pick Lonesome Creek to hide?

The orc gave us a grunt and tipped his head toward the building with a bakery sign marked Sweet on the Range.

“I’ll go tell Sel you’re here.” The orc turned and strode away, his boots thudding on the boardwalk.

His tusks caught the light as he disappeared inside the bakery.

Max remained close, craning his neck as he followed the orc with his eyes.

“He’s huge,” Max breathed. “Do you think all orcs are that big?”

“Probably.”

Heat lingered in the air as I tugged my bag higher on my shoulder. Max held his own.

A minute passed. Maybe two. Then the door to the bakery creaked open, and someone walked out behind the driver.

Another orc, but I’d known that already.

He kept his steps slow as he emerged, wiping flour from his hands onto a white apron.

His face appeared calm, almost unreadable, but his eyes aimed straight at me and held.

As big as the orc driver, Sel's muscular chest stretched his faded black shirt. I took in his broad shoulders. Skin a muted green, and dark eyes that didn’t, even for a second, look away. No part of him smiled, but something shifted in his jaw, tightening like he was clenching his teeth.

I couldn’t move.

He didn't look dangerous in any obvious way, but I didn’t know what his quiet meant. Silence had once been the calm before a punch landed. My heart remembered before my brain did. I didn’t reach for Max, but I clocked the steps between us and how fast I could close it if I had to.

While the driver walked over to the other side of the sorhox, doing something with the straps securing it to the stagecoach, Sel moved forward, stepping down off the boardwalk and striding right over to stand in front of us.

“You're Holly?” He had a deep voice. Low. Rough as gravel, but not unkind.

My mouth opened, but words didn't come out. It was my true name, but my brain still sifted through aliases, checking for which identity I was supposed to be while standing on this dirt road in a fake Western town for tourists. I had to remember if this was a name safe enough to say out loud.

He blinked. “I'm Sel. You accepted the baker job?” His cheeks darkening, he scratched across the back of his neck.

Max stepped close and elbowed my ribs.

My fingers twitched, and I nodded once. “Yeah. Holly Engle. That’s my name. This is my son, Max. Max Engle.” I’d given him my name, not Melvin’s.

Sel gave Max a short look, more curious than judging, before he took our bags from us.

I almost protested. It wasn’t that I didn’t want help. I did, from the right person. But him holding them made me feel unready. Like if someone snapped a hand toward me, I’d need to grab our things before we could bolt, but now they weren’t in my possession.

“Follow me,” he said. “I'll show you to the hotel.”

Max and I shared a look that was one part nervousness and two parts hope before we followed.

Let this be the place. Please. No more locks on bathroom doors or practiced stories for the school counselor. Just flour and sun and mornings that smelled like bread.

Let us vanish here the right way, into living instead of fear.