Page 7 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

MESA

I squint, putting my car in park a few yards shy of the locked barrier.

Is this the entrance to the ranch or a high-security prison? It’s hard to tell considering the small cameras and intimidating gate. The wooden sign hanging above reads, “Prairie Rose Ranch,” which tells me I must be in the right place.

I’ve heard things about what happened here last winter. I haven’t lived here full-time for long, but I spent my fair share of weekends in Westridge before my official move. Small-town gossip is impossible to stop, and word travels to any newcomers pretty quickly.

I don’t make a habit of indulging in the juiciest local rumors exchanged at book club, but I’ll admit the story is intriguing. Four men and a shootout with an organized crime boss, allegedly. Is this where those guys live?

I huff out a laugh. That’s just ridiculous.

Surely, I was fed an exaggerated version of the story. I make a mental note to ask Savvy about it later as I dial her number on my phone. It only takes one ring for her to answer my call a moment later.

“Hey!”

“Sorry I’m so late. I’m here,” I say, scanning my surroundings. “I think. But I can’t get in. Is there a key or a code or something?”

“Oh, of course! I’ll text you the code.”

The line clicks, and a text from her comes through instantly. I roll down my window and reach out to type in the code, but it’s too far away. Unbuckling my seat belt and hanging my body halfway out of the car to reach it was an interesting choice, in hindsight.

I could have just opened the door. But it’s pitch black out here, and I was born and raised in Texas, where it’s common knowledge that critters run rampant at night. Better safe than sorry.

Before I wiggle my way back into the driver’s seat, a buzzing sound comes from overhead. I crane my neck toward the security camera rotating to fixate on me when the gate suddenly creaks loud enough to break glass.

“For fuck’s sake!” I squeal as it automatically swings away from my car.

It’s not possible to take in any real details of the land in the dark. I try to catch a glimpse of the infamous place anyway as I drive slowly up the lane lined by a long fence on either side.

My headlight beams catch several cows in the pasture as I pass, and I tamp down the urge to park and see if they’ll let me pet them.

Savannah would laugh at that, I’m sure. She’s used to this kind of stuff now since her boyfriend worked here at one point and is good friends with the guys who still do.

Out of the several barns and jumbo shed-like buildings, one looks more homey. The welcome mat and warm sconce lights on either side of the door are a good sign. Among several mismatched vehicles, a string of black SUVs are parked right out front.

“Nice,” I whisper with raised brows as I spot a vintage powder blue Bronco on the end.

I park next to it and then take off at a sprint toward the door like a spooked cat. Maybe they wouldn’t mind if I just walked inside like any other friendly visitor would, but I should probably catch my breath and knock instead.

Despite being on the other side of the door, faint murmurs carry through. Several people are inside, from what it sounds like. My closed fist raps just beneath a simple green wreath. It takes a minute, but Savannah finally opens the door and greets me with a welcoming smile.

“You don’t have to knock, silly!”

“Well, I didn’t want to get shot at.”

“Fair enough,” a familiar voice sounds from behind her. Warren quirks an eyebrow, and I offer a small wave. We’ve crossed paths several times since Savannah and I became friends.

He’s the same tall, dark blonde, and dimpled country boy that I remember. Country man , I should say. It’s anyone’s guess how many hay bales he’s thrown to get arms and shoulders like that.

He’s a little too boy next door for my personal taste, so nothing about his looks have ever affected me beyond simple appreciation. Plus, he’s perfect for Savannah. From what I’ve experienced, he treats her like she hung all nine hundred moons in the universe.

“Come on in,” Savannah urges. She grabs my hand, and I squeeze it a few times with a smile.

“I’m so glad you could come,” she whispers as we walk through the living room. “She may seem calm, but any minute now, B is going to start spiraling over the risk of her friend’s dress not fitting.”

I want to ask why the missing maid of honor couldn’t just get it fitted properly by having the dress shipped to her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned when dealing with weddings, it’s this: never, under any circumstances, question the bride’s process. Go along with it and nod enthusiastically.

My eyes twinkle seeing a picked-over platter of cake samples on the kitchen island. Between that and the endless amount of flowers and fabric swatches laid over every piece of furniture, I could have easily mistaken the space for an upscale, albeit rustic, bridal shop.

The wedding stuff looks a little out of place in contrast to the masculine interior. My jaw drops as I examine the extra high ceiling and exposed beams.

Some of the original decor might be questionable. The jukebox and pool table scream frat house , which makes my nose scrunch. And is that a beer vending machine?

Most amusing are the burly men in suits being measured against their will.

They look less than pleased about this little fitting party.

One of them, the tallest and most displeased from what I can tell, has to bend over for a tailor to measure around his neck.

Another, with a more cunning persona, smooths a hand down the front of the shirt under his suit jacket.

A completely open shirt, no less. I can’t help it when my eyes dart between the impossibly deep valleys of muscle. Maybe he’s wearing his shirt like that as a sign of protest. I bite the corner of my bottom lip and try to imagine what his thoughts might sound like.

You want me to stand around in a suit? Sure. No problem. But like hell am I wasting my time with any buttons.

My head tilts to an embarrassing angle as I take in his bright eyes laden with mischief and his stance that implies he owns the room.

I sense his gaze might shift in my direction and snap my focus away instantly. Determined to appear unruffled, I keep my eyes ahead and follow behind Savannah as she leads us down a long hallway past the chaos.

There are several closed doors, and she finally opens one that leads to a bedroom I know instantly is hers. The meticulously organized rack of designer bags by her dresser is a dead giveaway. The door closes softly behind us, and Savvy lets out a huge breath.

“Whew. Okay, thank you so much again for coming and doing this for B. I’m not even the one getting married, and I can already tell you this stuff is stressful .”

“I can see that,” I reply with a laugh. “I probably made it seem like I didn’t want to do this when we talked about it yesterday, but the truth is that I’m happy to help. You know that.”

“Ugh,” she groans with relief, stepping toward me for a hug. “You’re the best.”

Over her shoulder, my eyes fixate on a ginormous white garment bag hanging in the closet doorway. There are hand-stitched gold initials in the middle, and I can barely make out the outlines of intricate beading on the gown inside.

“Is that her dress?” I whisper in awe.

Savannah breaks our hug, spinning around to track my line of sight. “That’s it. Wait until you see it, you’re going to die . We’re keeping it in here so Gage doesn’t see it by accident.”

I swoon for a moment, picturing when he’ll see her in it for the first time. I’ve dreamed of such things since I was a little girl, imagining myself in a lavish dress like that. As soon as the vision takes shape in my mind, I catch myself and shake my head.

I don’t fantasize about that sort of stuff anymore. It wasn’t twenty-four hours ago that I was lecturing myself about rewiring my brain when it comes to this crap.

Love, bad. Independence, good.

Savannah walks toward the side of the room where a free-standing clothing rack holds three blush satin dresses. After double-checking the tag, she holds one out in my direction.

It’s remarkably beautiful. I don’t actually know Blythe, but I’m glad I didn’t suggest she pack up and mail this delicate thing across the country. I’m afraid I might ruin it just by holding it.

“So, you live here,” I say, stating the obvious while very carefully draping the bridesmaid dress on the perfectly made bed so I can start shucking off my clothes.

I’m aware that this is where she lives and don’t technically need clarification. Now that I’m fully immersed in the place I’ve only ever heard vague ramblings about though, I want to know more.

“Yeah. It’s great, isn’t it?”

I nod, picking up on her fondness. I’ll admit, the bunkhouse is unexpectedly charming in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.

Stepping out of my cutoff jean overalls feels silly considering the dress that’s about to replace them. They’re on the frumpy side, and I probably should have thought to change after spending my afternoon finishing spring planting in my backyard.

“Warren and I aren’t going to live here forever, but we’re not in any rush to get our new house finished, either. The guys would probably cry if Warren moved out too soon, anyway,” she jokes.

“The guys?”

“Oh, Tripp and Heston. They live here, too.”

No judgment, but the living arrangements are a bit of a head-scratcher. Growing up in the city must have sheltered me from the concept of grown adults living together in a yeehaw commune. That, or it’s as unusual as I think it is.

“Gage moved out already,” she adds. “But Blythe’s and his house is just a hop away on the ranch. Most of the time, they’re still hanging out here with the rest of us.”

“That’s—kind of delightful, actually,” I say. Still slightly off if I think about the semantics too long. But she’s close with Warren and her friends. I’d probably do the same thing if I were in her shoes.

“So, the ones who you said aren’t my type—Tripp? And Heston? Just trying to learn all the new names.”

“That’s right! Oh.” She lifts a hand to her forehead. “I am so sorry, Mesa. I should have introduced you before we disappeared to my room.”

Her thumbnail meets the corner of her mouth. Sweet Savannah.

“Oh, stop. It’s fine .” I smile to reassure her. “You don’t have to apologize to me, silly. And I don’t need a formal introduction to them anyway.” I point to myself after pulling the dress over my thighs and slipping my arms through the thin straps. “Recovering romantiholic, remember?”

“Right! Love that for you. I should be extra supportive and join you in your love protest, but I’m tied up in that department.”

“More like tied down,” I say, pointing to the rope on the nightstand . “To the bed, no less.”

“That’s for cows.”

“Oh.”

“The one for the bed is in that drawer.” She points to the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed frame with a smirk.

“Lucky bitch.”

She bursts with infectious giggles, and I can’t stop myself from laughing along with her.

When we first met, Savannah wasn’t nearly this light.

Even though I didn’t press her for details at the time, I knew she carried a significant weight with her everywhere she went.

I’m happy to see her like this now, more free than the version of her I once knew.

“You’re positively jolly and in love. It’s fine . Every girl needs a spinster friend, and I’m jazzed to fill the role.”

“Your sarcasm could use some work.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I extend my arms and slowly turn in a circle. “Think this will work?”

Savannah claps with a satisfied smile. “That dress fits you like a dream! Let’s show Blythe.”

“Are you going to make me walk out there in this get-up alone or are you trying yours on, too?”