Page 4 of Daddy’s Firm Hands (Saddle Up)

After checking in, I get into bed. The scratching sheets are an assault on my skin, but if I stay still, it’s manageable. Tomorrow, I’ll work everything out. I have enough cash on me for a tent and some supplies. Might as well have one last hurrah camping before the mafia finds me.

Driving down the 1-80 in a stolen vehicle while listening to country music is the type of therapy I never knew I needed.

After I got some supplies and hotwired an SUV from an outdoor store parking lot about a week ago, I started my trip west. So far I slept under the stars in a national park, saw actual animals—not the NYC rats that practically outnumber people and steal people’s food right out of their hands on the subway–and visited a state fair, which was a surreal experience.

Fried Oreos are an artery clogging national treasure I can’t believe I lived without all this time.

I know this won’t last forever. Mr. Vettore will find me, and I’ll have to face the fucked up mess of a life I left behind. But for now, I’ll soak up every moment of this adventure.

Hour after hour passes me by as I cruise down a long stretch of open highway.

The sun is shining, and I almost feel normal, like I’m not a criminal on the run.

Maybe tonight I’ll spring for a motel so I can have a hot shower and watch some TV.

Sleeping outdoors is great, but a little luxury break would be appreciated.

I passed a billboard advertising one about ten miles away. Hopefully they have an open room.

A loud clang and sputtering knocks me out of my musings.

My car starts jerking forward, then a loud snap has me swerving into the right lane.

Thankfully the highway is empty, and I avoid hitting any other cars.

The car comes to a rolling stop as the engine dies.

Smoke rises from under the hood, and I internally curse.

Looks like my plans for a hotel won’t happen today.

I’ll be lucky if anyone stops for me. Nebraska’s part of the I-80 isn’t nearly as crowded as other states, and the travelers I have passed are usually semi-trucks. I’m a decent criminal, but I don’t think I can hot wire a sixteen wheeler and get away with it.

I take my bag and get out of the car, inspecting the damage while weighing my options. I can’t fix this car. Unfortunately, cars were never a hobby for me. Piero tinkered with them all the time, but he never let me help him.

I can walk until someone takes pity on me and picks me up. Then I can car-jack them. Or not. That would put me right on the police’s radar, which would make it much easier for Mr. Vettore to find me. He probably has Maximo combing arrest records all over the country.

Maybe I can hitch a ride and lift a car from a rest stop? It’s an easier, lower risk way to get a car than holding a gun to someone’s head. I can get some food while I’m there, too. A greasy cheeseburger and salty fries may not make my troubles go away, but it’d hit the spot right now.

Before I can make a decision, a large truck with a weird looking trailer pulls over next to me. I hear a loud neigh coming from a window on the side, then see a brown snout with a white patch poke out.

Oh, it’s a horse trailer.

The clicking of a car door catches my attention and I see a man get out of the truck.

No, not a man—he’s a fucking god on earth.

Holy shit. Mother Mary, Joseph, Mary Magdalene, and every saint Momma forced me to celebrate growing up.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone this attractive in my twenty four years of life.

Seriously, it’s like a wild west male revue out here.

He’s tall, thick, and muscular enough that he fills out a red flannel shirt and jeans perfectly.

His dark brown facial hair is flecked with strands of gray and trimmed to perfection.

He wears a cowboy hat that shadows part of his face, but the lips I do see are full, perfect for kissing.

His shirt has a couple of buttons undone at the top, showing off chest hair I want to bury my face in.

Fuck me, right now. In your truck. No, slow down, Milo. He’s a stranger, for fuck’s sake.

A stranger openly carrying a gun in a holster on his belt.

I put my hand in my pocket, palming the switch blade I always keep on me as a jolt of electricity creeps down my spine and settles in my gut.

Ugh, fuck me, him being armed shouldn’t turn me on even more .

The mafia seriously messed up my flight or fight response.

He walks toward me in measured steps. I can hear the heel of his cowboy boots against the asphalt, each step growing louder.

As he lifts the brim of his hat, I see his bright blue eyes and a straight nose, and something warm slides into the pit of my stomach and curls up, making me weak in the knees.

I’ve never seen such a handsome face in my life.

When he stops a couple feet from me, he leans against my car, his placid face betraying no emotion.

“Having care trouble?,” he asks in a deep, gravelly voice as his eyes swing to the smoke coming from under the hood.

“Y-yeah, my car won’t start.” I have to get my shit together. I’m not in the position to be crushing on a stranger.

But I can think of some positions I want to get in with him later, that’s for sure.

“Mind if I take a peek?” The stern look on his face makes me want to drop to my knees. I’ve never felt this way before and it’s freaking me out.

I don’t trust myself to open my mouth and not say something stupid like ‘ Forget the horse, ride me instead’, so I just nod. He makes his way to the hood of the car and lifts it, waving the smoke away. He spends the next few minutes tinkering around under there, before resurfacing.

“This car needs some parts. It’s fixable, but it’s going to take some time.”

“Oh,” I say, trying to figure out how I’ll lift a new car. Obviously, I can’t get this one fixed. They’ll realize it’s stolen.

“Do you want to tow it to a shop?” he asks, joining me at the trunk of the car.

A police car passes us on the opposite side of the highway, a firm reminder that I need to get rid of this car and find something new. My mind goes into overdrive thinking of what to do next.

“I don’t have the money to fix it. It’s a lemon, so I don’t think it’s worth saving.”

It’s not a lie. I only have so much cash on me, and I’m saving it for toilet paper. Wiping my ass with a leaf in the woods is not an experience I want to repeat.

No one said life on the run was going to be glamorous.

His mouth forms a thin line, his brows dipping in the center as he focuses on my face.

He slowly lifts his hand toward my cheek before gently running his rough fingers over the bruises and cuts taking inventory of each one.

I’m so distracted by this man I let him touch me without question.

The warmth from his fingers seeps into me, turning me into a horny pile of mush.

“Are you in trouble?” he asks, his voice low and soft. His thumb is below my chin, tilting my head as he clocks the bruises on my neck from the car crash. “Bruises and cuts like this don’t come out of nowhere...”

“Um…” I say, completely caught off guard. This moment feels so intimate, and I’m not used to someone caring about me. I have no clue how to answer his question. I can barely say a coherent sentence right now, let alone come up with a decent lie. So I just nod.

“How about you come back to my ranch in Montana with me? I’m looking to hire a ranch hand. You’ll get pay, room, board, and I can get someone to look at the car for you.”

Money, room, and board? Say less. Montana is rural as fuck, far from New York, and the perfect place to hide.

But I don’t know anything about ranches.

I caught part of an episode of this show with cowboys once, but that’s about as far as my knowledge base goes.

Being a cowboy isn’t the kind of job you can just fake until you make it—it’s a lifestyle.

I have to find another way to be valuable to him…

“I don’t know much about being a ranch hand,” I admit, “But I do know a lot about business.” It isn't a lie. I handled the paper trail for the majority of Mr. Vettore’s drug operations for the past year.

My dad let me do a lot of the back of house business for his butcher shop, too. “And I’m a great cook.”

Piero and Elio never cooked. I’m not a professional chef like Mr. Vettore’s fiance, Leo, but made all of our meals and did all of our meal prep. If he’s anything like the guy on the show I saw, I’m sure I can impress him with something super simple like a meat lasagna.

“I could use some help in the back of house with paperwork, and I can’t cook for shit. Looks like we have a deal,” he says, reaching his hand out to me.

“I don’t even know your name…”

“My name is Stone. Stone Hannigan.” He gives me a slight smile.

And even though this handsome, older man is a complete stranger, and I’m in no place to thirst after him, I take a chance. I don’t even give him a fake first name.

“I’m Milo Miller,” I grip his hand and we shake.

“Welcome to the staff of Ironhide Ranch, Milo.”