Page 9 of Kentucky Nights (Dead Man’s Ranch #1)

The bites sting in the rushing water. Dirty river floods my mouth, choking me.

Every few seconds, the rough waves take me under as if hands are pushing down on my shoulders in hopes I’ll drown.

I struggle against the force, using my arms to bring me to the surface.

I inhale water and air, the river teasing me with its promise of death.

The wild current smashes me against a rock, my head taking the brunt of the impact, and it knocks me out. I’m face down in the water and have no more energy left to fight.

It’s sad that I’m waiting for a waterfall to put me out of my misery. The bites all over my body burn from the filth I’m submerged in. Just as I have given up, someone clutches my arm, dragging me out of the water.

There’s hope.

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here, fellas. All that pretty just for me.”

I scream myself awake, bolting up to see a man sitting on the edge of the mattress with a rag in his hand. I scream again, scurrying away from him until I’m at the edge of the bed. My mind is playing catch-up. I have no idea where I am, who this man is, or how I got here.

The bed dips from his weight as he stands, and he lifts his arms. “I don’t mean you no harm, ma’am.

” He takes off his hat, holding it against his chest. “I know you’re confused, and I’m happy to answer any questions to ease your mind.

” His smooth, velvet, classic southern accent wraps around me.

I could listen to him speak all day. “There’s no need to be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where am I?” I croak, my hand flying to my throat when I hear how hoarse it is. My stomach grumbles too, and I can’t remember the last time I ate

“You must be dyin’ of thirst. Here.” An antique white pitcher with painted blue and orange flowers along the sides seems a bit ridiculous in his large hand as he pours the water into a vintage blue glass.

“Before you go drinkin’ that, make sure you can keep this broth down first. You have to be hungry, but I want to see if you can handle this broth, okay?

Then, you can tackle the breakfast in the kitchen.

I made it myself,” he puffs out his chest with pride.

One hand holds a cup of water and the other holds a mug with broth. He holds out the glass with broth in it first and the amount of fear I felt eases.

There’s something about him that puts me at ease, and I’m not sure if I like how defenseless that makes me feel.

No one should have that kind of power, but he does.

The immediate safety is all too consuming, sitting here in this bed, wrapped in a warm blanket, and not faced with someone who wants to use me.

He waits for me to take the glass full of broth from him, but I cock my left brow, rearing back.

He smirks, my heart fluttering from the simple expression.

“You don’t trust me. I understand. Does this make you feel better?

” He presses the rim of the glass against his firm lips, gulping down half of the contents.

Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he holds it out towards me again. “See? It isn’t poisoned.”

It’s hard not to notice how handsome this stranger is.

He has thick black hair with the sides cut short, but the top is long with natural waves.

His beard is just as dark, reminding me of a starless night sky.

I lick my lips as I look him over, my interest locking on the width of his chest and broad shoulders.

Even under the beard, I can tell he has a strong, square jawline.

He has firm lips, not too thick, but also not too plump.

He has high, rounded cheeks and a strong, straight nose.

His skin is golden from being out in the sun so much.

Every part of him screams ‘hardworking man’ and there isn’t one soft thing about him that I can see—other than his eyes when he smiles.

And yes, while his body is sculpted, muscles tightening the cotton shirt, it’s his eyes that announce kindness. They remind me of burnt pools of honey with brown and golden hues joining together to create their own personal, unique color.

I could watch this man all day without saying a single word, and I’d consider it time well spent.

Snatching the broth from him when my stomach growls again, I take a giant gulp. I hold it in my mouth when the flavors burst across my tongue.

Oh, god.

This is terrible. It might be the worst thing I’ve ever tasted in my entire life.

The broth tastes like days-old sock water. It’s the only thing I can compare it to.

“Good, right?”

His thoughtfulness is too sweet to shoot down. Add in the little smile he has watching me drink the broth he made me, and all I can do is swallow.

I cough when the broth threatens to come back up. “So good. That was so nice of you to make it for me.”

“Drink the rest in the cup, and then I’ll give you some water. I’m sure you’re dehydrated.”

“Right. The rest. That’s important.” I peer up at him over the blue cup, watching him smile so big, I have to smile in return.

The broth even smells like socks.

Here we go.

Holding my breath, I chug the warm liquid down, forcing myself to swallow. While it does taste horrible, I already feel better with having something in my stomach.

“Good girl,” he praises me.

That causes my stomach to flip with excitement. I want him to say it again.

“Here. I can drink the water myself too, to prove it isn’t poisoned,” he offers.

I trust him. Plus, I need to wash this sock-water down with something.

Wrapping my fingers around the glass, I finally take it from him. I guzzle the cool, refreshing liquid down until I’m lifting the glass in the air, sticking out my tongue to get the last few drops.

“Whoa, now. No need to scrape the bottom of the barrel. There’s plenty more where that came from. May I?” he questions, instead of just removing the glass from my hands.

He is leaving the choice up to me.

I lick my lips, gathering the few droplets of water remaining. “Thank you,” I whisper.

He fills the glass without taking it from me. I’m focused on that. He is showing me I can trust him. After the nightmares I’ve been through, the simple kind gesture is something I have missed.

“I’d like to introduce myself to put you more at ease.” He sits down on the edge of the mattress again, and the entire bed dips from his weight. He seems too large of a man to fit in this room. “I’m Kentucky Jones.” He holds out his hand.

“Kentucky? I’m sure there is a story behind that. I like it. I’m Druscilla Whitley.” I eye his hand, wondering if he is someone I can trust to touch.

“Druscilla. I like that too. It’s pretty.” The way he stares at me has me wondering if I’m the only woman he has ever seen.

Flattery gets him a handshake. I slip my palm into his, a warm buzz awakening every nerve ending.

I pinch my lips together to swallow the gasp.

Kentucky’s calloused thumb drifts over my knuckles.

A slow back-and-forth rub. His black eyebrows pinch together in thought, and even though he is a stranger, I am curious what is going through his head.

Lifting my hand to his lips, he presses a soft kiss across my fingers. “It’s very nice to meet you, Dru.”

The answer is no. I cannot trust myself to touch him.

I clear my throat, tugging my hand away when the connection between us becomes stronger.

The silence is awkward. I don’t know what to say, and I’m not sure I want to speak. I can’t tell if this is reality or not, and I’m too tired to know.

Clearing his throat, he stands, snagging his hat off the top of the dresser. “You’re safe here, at Dead Man’s Ranch. You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you or coming to get you.”

“Dead Man’s Ranch?” The high-pitched break in my question should be embarrassing. My palms begin to sweat and slip across the glass filled with water. It tumbles right out of my hand, bumping the bed before heading to the floor.

Water spills all over the sheets, but before the loud crash of the glass shattering, Kentucky is there.

Quicker than I can blink, he catches it before it hits the ground. He freezes, his shoulders rising and falling in a way that lets me know he didn’t mean to reveal his secret. He peers at me from the corner of his eye, waiting to see if I’ve reacted.

Oh, he hasn’t seen nothin’ yet!

“It’s an inside joke considering I’m a dead man.” He straightens, setting the cup on the dresser, continuing to give me my space.

“You’re one of them.” I slip from the bed, my feet landing in a puddle of water on the wooden floor.

Naturally, I take a step back from him. My eyes are round in shock, and I can’t catch my breath.

“Please,” I beg as terror begins to take hold and memories of being bound naked to a chair assault me in every corner of my mind.

“Please, don’t hurt me. Just let me go. Please, just let me go.

I don’t know what you want, but I don’t have it, okay?

I can’t give you anything.” I snatch the vase sitting on the table closest to me and launch it at him.

He ducks, the vase shatters against the wall, and a shard lands in his cheek. A big white chunk of pottery sticks out from his face. Meeting my eyes, he tugs it free and drops it on the dresser.

Before my eyes, his skin heals, the blood sinking back into his body.

Not once does he lose his temper. I expect him to charge, for his eyes to change, for his fangs to flash, but he remains calm and collected.

That only confuses me more. There’s nothing else I can throw at him unless I try to pick up this chair nestled in the corner.

I’m trapped.

I peer around the room for another exit, spotting a window to my left. I hold my breath, plastering my body against the wall as I scoot closer to my only route to freedom.

His gaze drifts from me to the window. “You’re upstairs, Dru. If you fall, you’ll hurt yourself. It’s best if you don’t do that.” His eyes morph red, reminding me of a ruby gem catching the sunlight.