Page 4 of The Wrong Ride Home (Wildflower Canyon #1)

elena

" Y ou heard him," I told Hunt as I packed my things.

The bunkhouse wasn’t much, but it had been home for a long while for me.

A long, low-slung building with weathered wood and a tin roof that rattled in the wind, it sat a good walk from the main house, closer to the barns and the cattle pens.

Inside, it smelled of sweat, leather, and old coffee, the kind of place where boots were always muddy and no one cared.

There were ten bunks total—five on each side—but only four of us lived here full-time.

The rest were left open for seasonal hands who drifted through during branding or roundups.

My space was at the far end, by the window, where I could catch the first light of morning and listen to the horses shift in their pens at night.

I didn’t have much—a trunk at the foot of my bed, a small shelf where I kept a few paperbacks, and an old picture of Mama.

My three pairs of boots stayed lined up beneath the cot, and my hat hung on a nail by the door.

It was tight quarters, with no privacy, but I’d gotten used to it. For me, a bunk and a roof were enough.

Hunt had often asked me to stay in one of the guest cabins or, at least, use the extra bedroom in the foreman’s cabin, but I’d refused.

Already, there were murmurs about my relationship with Hunt.

If I lived with him, it’d just feed that fire until it was a blazing inferno.

So, I’d chosen to stay in a bunkhouse, picking the one with the least amount of troublemakers.

There were three bunkhouses in total, spread out near the barns and main work areas.

Mine was the smallest, home to four full-time hands, including me.

The other two were larger, each packed with eight cowboys and ranch hands, not counting the part-timers who rolled in during branding and roundup season.

The living arrangement for the hands wasn’t fancy, but it worked.

The largest bunkhouse had a common room centered around a long wooden table, its surface scarred and worn from years of hard use. At night, hands gathered there to play poker and drink their fill after a long day’s work.

A small kitchen sat in the corner, but we didn’t use it much—Miss Ida took care of the cooking over at the mess hall that was next to the bunkhouse.

She’d been running the ranch kitchen for a few years now since she shacked up with one of the hands, feeding an army of hungry cowboys three times a day, and God help the fool who complained about her biscuits.

Cleaning was on us and a couple of the wives of the hands helped out as well. Nobody had time to live messy when you were up before dawn and dead on your feet by sunset. You kept your space clean, your boots outside, and if you stank too bad, you used the communal showers in the back.

So, it wasn’t the freaking Ritz, not by a long shot, but it was my home.

And now, I was being told to leave it behind like I was nothing.

Fuck, it hurt when he asked me to pack up and get out.

It hurt even more that he thought I was still staying at the ranch house.

I hadn’t been there since he left, since I found out what his father meant to my mother.

Duke could think all he wanted that I knew about our parents’ relationship, but I didn’t.

I’d always thought Mama was just the housekeeper and cook, and that as part of her salary, we got to live in the ranch house.

I never questioned it. I should’ve. I was old enough. But I didn’t. It was na?ve of me.

“I told him you’re not goin’ nowhere,” Hunt announced. He was sitting on a chair, his booted feet on my trunk, his Stetson on my bed.

I should’ve guessed something was up when Ben kept bothering me, not allowing me to pack, and right after Ben left, Hunt was on my ass.

“I don’t want to be here,” I murmured.

Hunt nodded somberly. “He’s selling the ranch, Elena.”

My heart crumbled at the thought, even though I’d known it was a distinct possibility, considering he blamed the ranch and me for what happened to his family.

Gloria had a history of suicide attempts.

She was frail and fragile, and Duke—the good son—had always taken care of her.

In her eyes, the ranch was an ugly place that consumed your soul.

Never mind that this so-called ugly place paid for her lavish lifestyle and ensured his mother never wanted for anything.

While people like Hunt and me worked ourselves to the bone, the Wilders lived comfortably, looking down their noses at both us and the very land that allowed them to do so.

“It’s his ranch, and he can do with it what he wants.” I sat next to his cowboy hat. “I can’t stay, Hunt.”

“You leave, we’re gonna struggle to sell the horses. Don’t you want to ensure they get to good places and not end up with someone like Bo Landry?”

Landry was an asshole who thought that because he had money, he could run a ranch.

He was one of them California transplants, a total tech bro who saw ranching as a hobby, not a way of life.

He threw money at bloodlines he didn’t understand, bought land he didn’t know how to care for, and hired idiots who wouldn’t know a colic twist from a head toss.

With a guy like Landry, the horses wouldn’t just end up in the wrong hands—they’d end up ruined.

He’d overfeed them, underwork them, or let some greenhorn cowboy yank their mouths to hell because he didn’t know a soft hand from a damn tree trunk.

And when they stopped being "fun" or got "too much attitude" he’d sell them off at auction to God-knows- who.

Maybe a ranch that worked them half to death. Maybe some kill pen in Mexico.

“Not my horses, not my business.” I wouldn’t be Duke’s whipping girl ‘cause his daddy fell in love with my mother. “I called Mav. He’s on his way to pick me up.”

Hunt sighed.

Maverick Kincaid, the owner of another large ranch in Wildflower Canyon, Kincaid Farms, had been trying to hire me for several years now.

He was also trying to get into my pants.

I’d resisted both. One, I couldn’t leave Wilder Ranch, and two, I wasn’t attracted to the man, no matter how good he looked.

I was friends with him and his sister Joy; in fact, they were my closest friends after Hunt.

“Maverick will understand that you’ll be staying.” Hunt rose. His stance said this wasn’t up for discussion. I wasn’t leaving because he didn’t want me to. “Let’s catch Maverick before he comes storming down to get you.”

I laughed. “Maverick wouldn’t do that.”

“He exactly would.” When I got up, Hunt put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay seein’ him again?”

We knew who he was talking about.

Was I? No. No, I wasn’t.

I didn’t lie to Hunt, so I only shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“Ain’t it always.” He squeezed my shoulder and walked out of the bunkhouse.

By the time we stepped outside, I could already hear Mav’s truck coming up the drive, the deep rumble of his black Ram 3500 Limited an announcement in itself.

The sound had alerted Duke because he came out still in his suit slacks, though he’d taken his jacket off. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. He’d had on cufflinks. On a ranch. Jesus!

Maverick climbed out of his truck like he owned the ground he walked on—tall, broad-shouldered, every inch a cowboy—dark jeans, scuffed boots, a black button-down rolled at the sleeves, and a hat that had seen real work. He looked like he was cut from the same land that ran under my feet.

“Duke.” Maverick raised his chin and walked up to him. They shook hands. “My condolences. Nash was a good man.”

“Thanks.” Duke looked at Hunt and me approaching and then at Maverick. “How come you’re here?”

Maverick stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned. For all his masculine attraction, he doled out the charm in spades. “I think I’ve finally convinced your horse trainer to become mine .”

Duke looked at Hunt and me. I didn’t say a word. Hunt merely grunted.

“Sorry, Maverick, she ain’t coming with you,” Duke snapped.

Mav’s eyes went straight to me, his expression shifting to irritation.

And then, just like that, he went from annoyed to possessive.

He stepped up beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

"You wanna tell me what’s goin’ on, Wildflower?

" His voice was smooth, easy, and intimate.

The son of a bitch was riling Duke up. I was petty enough to enjoy it.

I opened my mouth, but Duke beat me to it.

“She’s not comin’ with you.” His tone was hard, his jaw tighter than a rusted bolt.

Mav’s lips curled, more smirk than a smile. “That right, Wildflower?”

Duke bristled. Hunt groaned. The tension spiked, hot and sharp.

“Yeah, Mav. I’m sorry. I?—”

“I changed her mind,” Hunt supplied, his tone loaded with warnings. He knew Maverick well enough to know that the owner of Kincaid Farms had a mischievous streak, and if he saw that Duke was being an ass, he’d play with him.

Maverick knew about Duke and me, well, he had the highlights, which I’d spilled one drunken evening.

He had met Duke a few times in Dallas, so they knew each other.

The thing was that everyone knew everyone around ranch country, even if Duke hadn’t come to Wildflower Canyon for a decade.

However, that fact did make him an outsider.

And, when you compared the two men, it was clear one was a city boy in a tailored suit, a man who didn’t belong on a working ranch, and the other had stepped straight out of the television show Yellowstone and got his hands dirty, expecting women to follow him home, which they often did.

Maverick tilted his head, his focus on me. “ Wildflower?”

I shrugged. “It’s been a day, Mav.” My lips curled into a smile.

He chuckled. Duke snarled. Hunt sighed.

Maverick cupped my cheek as if he had a right to touch me. “You sure?”