Page 4 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

F ive minutes was nearly not enough time to calm the fuck down before we pulled in. My anxiety is still tap dancing on my ribcage when the car rolls to a stop and the driver starts unloading my things like I’m some disgraced debutante.

He mutters a polite goodbye and drives off like he’s escaping a crime scene.

Just like that, I’m alone.

The only sound left is the slow crunching of tires fading down the gravel drive, and birds chirping like this is some peaceful slice of heaven instead of the hell I’ve just been sentenced to.

Blue Moon Ranch.

I stare at it from the edge of the drive. The place stretches out in front of me like some rustic postcard.

It smells like hay, fresh air, and freshly mowed grass. There isn’t a single trace of pollution or the heavy smell of smog that typically clings to LA air. It’s cleaner here. Softer. The kind of air you don’t know you miss until you breathe it in .

I force myself to take it all in, my eyes sweep across the pasture, trying to get a feel for this place.

The fence line is old, with white paint chipped and wood weathered from too many seasons.

It zigzags through rolling pastures like it’s holding the entire ranch together out of habit.

In the distance, cows graze without a care in the world, their lazy moos drifting through the warm breeze.

Horses are scattered throughout the fields, their coats glossy in the sun.

They move calmly, their tails swishing like they don’t have a single damn worry.

A few stand under towering oak trees, soaking up the shade, looking regal as hell for animals that shit standing up.

The sun casts everything in orange hues, draping the fields in light that’s almost too pretty to be real. Wild pansies and coneflowers bloom along the edge of the fence—soft purple petals swaying in the breeze like a fucking dream sequence.

For one weird second, my chest flutters.

Not in a bad way or the panic attack, screaming into my pillow way. It’s subtle. Gentle. Like a memory of something I lost but forgot I needed.

I fucking hate it. I shake it off, quickly, before it can root itself too deep.

Grabbing the handles of my bags, I start toward the house, my slides crunching across the gravel. Of course, there’s no one waiting. No, “Hey, are you emotionally stable enough to carry your own damn luggage?”

I scoff under my breath as I drag my life behind me, already sweating and cranky. I guess it’s easier to dump the fucked-up daughter at the front gate and hope she figures it out.

Seriously, why the fuck is his house so far from the road? I let out a dramatic groan, dragging my overpriced luggage through the dirt. The wheels aren’t even turning anymore—just grinding over rocks, flinging up dust like they’ve given up too.

An invasive smell comes across me.

Oh my God .

The scent of manure smacks me in the face so hard I nearly lose consciousness. It’s sharp, earthy, and offensive. My nose wrinkles as I quickly pinch my nostrils, gagging like my life is about to end on a ranch in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cow shit.

There’s no way in hell I can do this.

I stumble forward, my legs barely lifting as I drag my one hundred pound bags. I packed for a three-year exile, which, let’s be honest, this is. There was no way in fuck I was going to be stranded without every serum, shoe, and outfit I’ve ever loved.

This is actual bullshit.

Nope. I’m done. I’m doneeeee.

I drop onto my suitcase, letting out a dramatic groan as I rub my thighs, which are already screaming at me for daring to walk more than a hundred feet. I’m not built for this. My stomach growls loud enough to startle a bird in a nearby tree.

Perfect. I’m starving, sweating, and stranded in the middle of a ranch that smells like death.

Leaning back against the wooden fence, I inhale slowly—regretting it instantly—and grab my phone from my purse. I need a fucking lifeline, or at least to bitch for a little bit. My thumbs fly over the screen as I open the group chat.

Catalina

It smells like cow shit out here.

Amelia

Duh, you’re on a farm.

Catalina

No SHIT Amelia, come pick me up PLEASE. I beg of you.

Amelia

Bitch, you just got there. Suck it up.

Layla

Is he hot? Please tell me he’s hot.

Catalina

First of all, he’s my dad’s best friend. He’s probably an old prude. Second of all, he’s nowhere to be seen. I’m literally sitting in the dirt because who the fuck owns all this land and has their house miles away???

Layla

Get your steps in, bitch.

Catalina

Shut up, Layla, fine, I’ll start walking.

I’m about to shove my phone back in my bag when something yanks at my hair, tugging my head sideways, jerking me closer to the fence.

What the fuck?

I slightly crane my neck to get a glimpse, and I’m met with a baby cow chewing on my bow.

“OH MY GODDDDD!!!”

My scream echoes across the pasture. I scramble, flailing backwards off my suitcase in a complete dramatic collapse, landing flat on my back in the dirt.

This can’t be happening.

No. Fucking. Way.

I just got mauled by a cow in broad daylight, and now I’m lying in literal shit-soaked soil. My six-thousand-dollar outfit is destroyed. This is an absolute joke. I go limp, fully surrendering to the dirt, and close my eyes shut.

A voice drifts into earshot. Deep, rough, and slow as molasses, laced with a Southern drawl that rolls over me like thunder wrapped in velvet. It’s the kind of voice that doesn’t ask questions; it gives orders. I hate how it instantly makes my stomach flip.

“Did your daddy send you here to lay on your ass or help me work.”

I bolt upright, scrambling like a psycho, my hand flying to my bow like I can somehow make myself look presentable. I open my eyes, the sharp sunlight blinding me for a moment before my vision adjusts, then—there he is.

My dad’s best friend.

I look up, and yeah, no one warned me about THIS.

I take him in slowly, my eyes trailing from the brim of his worn black cowboy hat down to his dust-covered boots.

He’s sitting on a brown horse, but he looks tall.

His frame fills out the sleeves of his shirt with effortless strength, no flexing required, like the land itself carved his body.

His skin is sun-warmed and tanned, kissed by too many summers under open skies, and the tattoos inked down his arms catch the light in a way that makes it impossible to look away.

There’s one on his neck, a dark rose etched onto his skin, and it holds my gaze longer than it should.

His hair is dark brown, messy in that unintentional kind of way, like he rolled out of bed looking like sin and didn’t bother fixing it because he didn’t have to. The thick, well-groomed beard framing his jaw only adds to the roughness. Then there are his eyes—icy blue.

My god, this man is gorgeous.

For just one stupid second, I forget where the hell I am. Long enough to lose myself in him, long enough to hate myself for it.

His voice cuts through the silence, dripping in that thick southern drawl.

“Are you done starin’, darlin’?”

My mouth falls open, hanging there like I’ve never seen a man. I snap it shut so fast my teeth click. Heat rises in my throat, spreading across my cheeks, and I swear even the cows are judging me.

How fucking embarrassing.

I cross my arms, quickly standing as I dust the dirt off my sweats. “Where have you been?”

I point to my luggage strewn in the dirt. “I need help carrying my stuff to your house, since it’s three hundred miles away.”

He scowls, unimpressed with my tantrum. “Darlin’, I’m not your chauffeur.”

With that, he turns his horse and rides off toward the house like he didn’t just abandon me in the middle of nowhere with a hundred pound of luggage and a half-ruined blowout.

No offer to help. No apology. Not even a backward glance.

Lovely. So I guess I’m walking.

Welcome to hell. Population: Me.

It took me a solid thirty minutes—thirty fucking minutes—to drag my overpacked and overpriced luggage across his godforsaken ranch.

I’m drenched in sweat, dirt clings to my clothes like glitter at Coachella, and cow saliva is marinating in my hair like some sick, twisted hair mask.

I’m one cracked nail away from a complete mental breakdown.

Finally, I reach his house. It’s nothing like the cold, glass-walled mansion I grew up in.

This place is old. Sturdy. The white paint is faded and peeling in places, weathered soft by years of sun and wind.

The porch stretches wide across the front, the wooden boards creaking beneath every angry step of mine.

An old rocking chair sits near the railing, and honestly? It looks like it’s seen some shit.

So have I.

I throw myself into it with a dramatic sigh, the chair groaning beneath my weight as it starts to sway. My head drops back, resting against the wood, and I let my eyes roam across the land.

There’s a giant oak tree off to the left, its branches thick and tangled, casting just enough shade to sit and read a book.

A red barn sits a little ways out, sun-bleached and solid.

Further back, there’s a shed with a dented tin roof and a busted door that somehow still feels put together—like everything here is rough around the edges but still standing. It feels peaceful and calm, in a sense.

Which pisses me off even more.

Just as the knots in my back start to loosen, I hear the front door click shut, heavy boots on the old wood, the creak of the porch boarding under his weight.

“Restin’ already, darlin’?” He grumbles, shoving his hands in the front pocket of his jeans.

I don’t even bother hiding the glare I shoot him. “Well, considering I just hiked Mt. Everest to get to your front door, yeah. I’m taking a fucking seat.” I kick my legs off the ground, swaying back and forth .

His eyes narrow. “Listen here, you brat,” he snaps, “you’re in my house under your daddy’s orders. So grab your shit and come inside before I drag it in myself and toss it in the damn barn.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, fuck you.”

He spins on his heel like I didn’t even speak, stomping towards the front door like he’s above the conversation.

“Oh, that’s it?” I shout after him, dragging my suitcase across the weathered floor. “You just get to bark orders and fuck off without even helping? What, are you allergic to decency?”

He doesn’t spare me a glance as he shouts. “I’m allergic to whiny-ass princesses who think hard work is a death sentence.”

“Call me princess and I will flatten your truck tires with my bare hands!”

He stops at the door, looking over his shoulder, smirking like he lives to piss me off. “Try me, darlin’. I’ve got four spares.”

My jaw practically vibrates with tension. “You’re a fucking asshole.”

“And you’re a pain in mine.”

He disappears inside, letting the screen door slam behind him.

I yank my suitcase harder, muttering every curse I know under my breath.

Like I said, bullshit.