Page 27 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

carter

. . .

I should be up by now. A thousand things are waiting for me—ropes to tie down, fences to check, animals to move before the storm sets in for real. But I can’t seem to tear myself away. I stay right where I am, propped on one elbow, watching her sleep.

She’s curled on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, the other stretched across the bed like she was reaching for me in her sleep. Her soft brown hair is spread across my pillow, and her long lashes flutter against her cheeks. She looks peaceful.

For a long, aching second, I just let myself admire her.

The sight of her in my bed, in my clothes, like she’s always been meant to be here—it hits somewhere deep in my chest.

I reach out, my fingers brushing a strand of hair from her face, slow and careful not to wake her. I just want to keep this moment untouched for a little longer.

This right here is something I didn’t think I’d ever get again .

But now? I want it more than I want the damn sun to come out.

God, she looks so fucking beautiful.

The kind of beauty that doesn’t fade under daylight or disappears with makeup wipes. It’s the kind that settles in your bones, the kind that makes you think, ‘Shit, maybe this is what love feels like again’—and you don’t even realize you’ve thought it.

Love? It can’t be, can it?

I drag in a slow breath, forcing myself to move, careful not to jostle the bed. Her hand curls slightly into the sheets, but she doesn’t wake. I pull on my flannel, grab my boots from the corner, and head out before I can change my mind.

The second I open the front door, the cold wind slaps me in the face. The clouds overhead are churning low and heavy, a deep gray blanket pressing down on the valley.

I move quickly, falling into routine like it’s second nature. The cattle need to be herded into the lower pasture, and the horses secured in the stalls before they start getting spooked. Equipment needs to be tied down, doors checked twice, and feed needs to be covered.

All this work doesn’t stop my mind from fucking wandering. It doesn’t stop her from showing up in every thought, in every heartbeat, in every glance toward the house as the storm edges closer.

She stayed .

After everything that spewed out of me last night—about my mom, my ex, the broken pieces of myself that I still carry—she didn’t get scared, and she didn’t flinch when I said I hadn’t touched anyone in fucking years. She just listened to me open up like a fucking idiot as I held her.

That matters more than I know how to say.

I’ve finished locking down the last gate, my hands are raw from rope burn, my knuckles scraped from fighting a rusted latch that refused to budge until I kicked it into place.

By the time I get back to the house, my shirt’s stuck to my back, and I’m half-wishing the storm would just hit already and be done with.

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and go through my mental checklist again—flashlights, batteries, water, backup chargers.

Everything’s plugged in and ready in case the power cuts out, which it most likely will.

The last thing I need is Catalina spiraling into a breakdown because her phone dies mid-Instagram scroll or she can’t finish her smutty fantasy book on that damn Kindle of hers.

I can already hear her dramatics echoing through the house, accusing me of being the reason she’s cut off from civilization, like we’re living in the Dark Ages.

When I hit the front steps, all that mental grumbling comes to a screeching halt.

She’s already up. Already dressed. And fuck me, she’s radiant.

No designer anything today. Just a worn-in pair of Levi’s hugging her hips a little too well, a soft lavender pullover, with the sleeves pushed to her elbows.

Her white sneakers are already scuffed with dirt, like she’s been outside poking around while I was hauling ass to keep the ranch intact.

Her brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, a few strands falling loosely framing her face, and that damn lavender bow is tied at the base like she’s completely unaware she looks like an angel standing on top of the stairs.

She looks fresh-faced, glowing, like she just splashed cold water on her cheeks and decided to casually ruin my entire life .

I drag a hand over my mouth, groaning internally. Of course she looks this fucking good without even trying.

She spots me and grins. “Wanna take me to town?”

Her voice is all sweet and sunshine, but there’s that gleam in her eyes again—the one that tells me she knows exactly how much of a menace she is.

“I need snacks. If I’m going to be trapped here during a storm, I’d like to be properly supplied.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank youuuu,” she says brightly, like I just paid her a compliment.

I shake my head, already halfway to the front door. “Come on, princess. Let’s get your emergency snacks.”

The drive into town is quiet at first, the sky heavy with clouds and the tension between us still soft from last night. She hums along to the music on the radio, her leg pulled up into the seat, as her arms are crossed loosely around her knees.

I steal glances when I can’t help it, needing to look at the soft profile of hers. She’s tapping her fingers aimlessly against her knee to the beat of the song, and I can’t help notice the way her nose scrunches when she’s silently singing to herself. It’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Okay, idiot, focus on the road before you kill us both.

I throw the truck in park, the tires skidding on the asphalt. Before I can grab my key fob, she throws the door open and bolts towards the grocery store without sparing me a glance .

I smirk to myself, fuck, this woman.

The grocery store is packed. Typical last-minute panic—carts overflowing, and people shoulder-checking each other in the bread aisle. I keep it simple: water, eggs, bread, and canned soup.

Shit we’ll eat.

Catalina, naturally, is nowhere to be found.

I make a slow loop through the store, maneuvering my cart around frantic shoppers and aisles of picked-over shelves.

It’s not until I hit the chip section that I find her crouched down in front of the shelves like she’s solving a goddamn algebra equation.

She’s dead serious, her head tilted, and brows furrowed.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

She glances over her shoulder like I just said the dumbest thing she’s ever heard.

“I’m deciding.”

“Deciding what? It’s chips.”

“My mood decides my snack vibe,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I need something salty, maybe spicy. I’m leaning towards Hot Cheetos, but jalapeno kettle chips are whispering to me right now.”

I stare at her for a beat. “You realize there’s a category four tornado headed our way, and you’re over here having a spiritual crisis over chips.”

She stands up and shrugs, tossing two bags into the cart without shame.

“Snacks are sacred. You’ll thank me when you’re stress-eating during a power outage because you’re trapped in a house with a woman who never shuts up.”

“I’m already doing that,” I mutter, pushing the cart.

She smirks, falling into step beside me. “And yet, you haven’t thrown me into the river. So deep down, you must really like me.”

God help me, I really fucking do.

I pinch the bridge of my nose, inhaling patience like I’m about to battle with the devil herself.

“Just pick whatever snacks your little heart desires so we can get out of here before the shelves are bare and someone tries to fight me over a can of beans.”

Without missing a beat, she grabs five bags of chips off the shelf—five, like she’s stocking up for the apocalypse, or planning to emotionally eat her way through a reading marathon.

My jaw ticks, but I don’t say a word. I just stand there while she piles them into the cart like she’s building a crunchy, sodium-packed fortress between us. I’m learning something about Catalina; she finds joy in chaos. She chooses chaos. And maybe—I kind of like watching her do it.

We head to the checkout, and I’m halfway through handing the cashier a crumpled twenty when I hear her squeal beside me.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, tugging on my arm like I’m not trying to pay. “Look at that romance bookstore! I have to go in there. It’s so damn cute!”

I glance down at her, then over at the storefront just outside the window—Bells Books, owned by Linda Harrison. I haven’t stepped in there since my breakup, but for Catalina, I’ll go.

Catalina is practically vibrating beside me, bouncing on her toes like she’s about to spontaneously combust from pure serotonin.

“Do I look like the kind of man who reads romance?” I mutter, handing over the cash to the cashier .

She sighs deeply. “No. Definitely not. You look like the kind of man who thinks reading instructions is fun.”

The cashier snorts behind the counter, and I shoot her a warning look that only makes Catalina grin harder. I collect the change, stuffing it in my pocket, resisting the urge to groan as she’s already halfway out the door, as her ponytail sways and lavender bow bouncing with every step.

“Catalina,” I call, exasperated as I catch up to her, “what kind of romance books are we even talking about here?”

She stops in her tracks, spinning around with wide, innocent eyes that are anything but. Her fingers wrap around mine without hesitation and squeezes.

Just one quick, impulsive squeeze. And it guts me. It’s not a big gesture. Not something anyone else would even notice, but it’s everything.

For all her mouth, sass, and attitude, I’m learning she doesn’t let people in easily. She talks like she’s bulletproof, but she touches like she’s terrified to be left behind. And in that second—her hand in mine, and her eyes locked on mine—I know I’m fucked.

Utterly, completely, and undeniably fucked.