Page 8 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

catalina

. . .

I drag my lifeless body inside this hellish wooden fortress. Every muscle screams at me like I just ran a marathon.

There’s dirt under what used to be perfectly manicured nails, sweat glued to my skin, and I swear I reek of horse shit like it’s my new signature scent. I collapse onto my bed, grabbing my phone off the nightstand with a dramatic groan.

Carter told me to be ready in ten minutes. Yeah… that’s gonna be a fuck no from me.

I unlock my phone, checking my notifications, not even a peep from my father. So nice of him to care.

Can you sense my sarcasm?

Rolling my eyes, I open the group chat with my girls and start typing. If anyone’s going to hear about my tragic, ranch-girl descent, it’s them.

Catalina

You guysss, I just finished my first day at the ranch and I want to die.

Amelia

Awww, my poor baby had to work. Sending you hugs and prayers. I, on the other hand, just finished a ten hour tattoo session, my best work yet.

Layla

You go gurlllll. I’m currently editing a video that will be uploaded tomorrow. But anyways, you never told us if he’s hot or not.

Layla

TELL USSS.

Catalina

Layla, calm down. He’s hot, okay? But it’s weird because he’s friends with my dad.

Amelia

So? Have some fun, ride that cowboy.

Layla

Yeah, ride him.

Catalina

Ladies, relax. Ugh, I have to shower and go into town and look for a job. He’s driving me.

Amelia

ooooo fun, text us later. Love you!

Layla

have fun babyyyy. Indulge in his hotness.

Amelia

Layla..

I don’t bother responding. I toss my phone into my purse and begin to rummage through my drawers until I find something stunning to wear and head straight for the shower.

Peeling off my dusty tank top, I wince, the ache in my shoulders feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. My leggings come off next, stiff with dried sweat and enough dirt to pot a houseplant. I fling them into the corner of the bathroom with more force than necessary.

I let out a loud groan as I take in this horrendous shower. Twisting the handle, the pipes sputter like they’re fifty years old, but to my relief, a steady stream comes rushing out.

I step in, and the second that hot water hits my skin, I let out a sigh so deep it probably reached Beverly Hills. The heat melts into me, softening the tight muscles in my shoulders, washing away the layers of grime, sweat, and all the leftover shame of spending my day knee-deep in horse shit.

I’ve never worked this hard in my fucking life.

Water droplets fall off my skin as I step out of the shower and roll my shoulders, wincing at the dull ache. Carter probably got a kick out of watching me suffer all day.

I wrap the towel tightly around my body and slide my lavender headband into place, pushing my damp hair back with a sigh. The mirror’s still foggy, but my skincare products gleam beneath the lights.

I take my time, dabbing on toner, patting in serum, and smoothing moisturizer over my cheeks with delicate precision. Because who the hell wants to age? Ew.

“Hurry up!” Carter calls from down the hall.

I don’t even flinch.

“Go away!” I shout back, tapping in my eye cream.

He’s so annoying, oh my God.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, I tighten the strap on my limited edition black Balmain belt, admiring the way it hugs my waist. My fitted white bodysuit is smooth and seamless, tucked perfectly into high-waisted designer jeans that make my legs look miles long, and cup my ass like a fucking dream.

And the shoes?

Oh, don’t even get me started. They’re a pair of black Louboutins, fucking stunning.

My hair is freshly blown out, soft dark brown waves falling perfectly past my shoulders. I spritz a touch of my signature perfume, the aroma of brown sugar and vanilla filling my nose.

A few Cartier love bracelets and rings, gold catching the dim ranch lighting just right. My eyes rake over my reflection in the dingy mirror.

Much better.

I snatch my LV Speedy Bandoulière off the bed and strut toward the front door, my Louboutins click against the old wooden floors. The second I step outside, I’m hit with a wave of dry, dusty air that wraps around me, and I have to will myself not to gag.

This isn’t air, this is punishment in particle form.

Drama much? I know.

I’m met with Carter leaning against his truck like he’s posing for the cover of some sexy ranch calendar.

His muscular arms are crossed over his annoyingly perfect chest. His white T-shirt stretches across those broad shoulders like it’s fighting for its life, and his faded jeans hang low on his hips.

The brown boots he wears are scuffed and dusty, like he does the work he barks at me about, and his dusty, black cowboy hat sits on his head.

My eyes trail over him before I can stop myself.

He looks hot, like ruin my fucking life hot .

He has to look like this AS I’m ovulating. Love this for me.

The second his eyes land on me, his entire body goes rigid. Like, I just offended his precious man truck with a stupid ovary logo or whatever the fuck that is, with my existence.

He scoffs. “You’re late, and please tell me you aren’t serious.”

I stop in front of him, adjusting my sunglasses. “I’m not late, and what’s wrong with your face?”

His gaze drops, dragging slowly down the length of my body, causing heat to creep up my cheeks.

“You do realize you’re going to find a job, not brunch at some overpriced rooftop bar, right?”

I tilt my head, letting my lips curve into a smirk. “And?”

His jaw flexes hard and I swear, I see a damn vein pop in his neck.

“And no one in town is gonna hire a high maintenance princess who looks like she just stepped out of a damn Vogue photoshoot.”

I step closer, patting his chest. “I’ll take that as a compliment, and, lucky for me, I’m very charming.”

He lets out a low, exasperated breath, closing his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re gonna last five minutes.”

I lift my chin, every ounce of my fiery attitude rising to the surface. “Watch me, cowboy.”

He mumbles something under his breath before pushing off the truck, opening the passenger door.

Such a gentleman.

“Get in, princess. Let’s get this over with.”

The second we pull onto the main road, I pull out my phone and immediately connect it to the truck’s aux, scrolling through my playlist until I find my favorite song, Where You Are by John Summit.

The tempo picks up slowly, buzzing through the speakers with a low, pulsing beat that vibrates through my soul.

“WOOOOO,” I shriek, wiggling in my seat. “THIS IS MY SONG.”

Carter groans so loudly that it nearly drowns out the music.

“Turn it off.”

No way in hell am I turning this banger off. My hand reaches for the nob, turning it the fuck up.

My head is thrown back, eyes closed, as my hands pound the dashboard in front of me.

When the beat builds, I start hyping it up, clapping dramatically.

“HERE IT COMES, HERE IT COMES?—”

The chorus hits, and I lose my goddamn mind. I’m bouncing in my seat, whipping my hair around, screaming the lyrics.

“I GET THIS FEELIN’, I WANNA BE WHERE YOU AREEEE.”

Carter, meanwhile, looks like he’s in hell.

His fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white, his jaw clenched so hard I’m pretty sure he’s about to crack a molar .

“Catalina.”

I ignore him.

“I WANNA BE WHERE YOU ARE.”

“Catalina.”

“I WANNA BE WHERE YOU AREEEEE.”

His hand lunges for the volume knob, twisting it off so abruptly the sudden silence nearly gives me whiplash.

I blink, panting slightly from my EDM-induced workout.

“Wow. You’re such a mood killer.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, staring at the road like if he looks at me for even one second, he’ll lose the last shred of sanity he has left. “What the fuck was that?”

I scoff. “Excuse you?”

He drags a hand down his face. “That wasn’t music, that was an actual migraine.”

I gasp, clutching my non-existent pearls. “You hate progressive house music?”

“With my entire soul.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him. Because whoever doesn’t like progressive house is the devil reincarnate.

I pull the visor down and reapply some lip gloss. “You’ve never even tried to enjoy it, have you?”

“I have ears.”

I dramatically sigh, shaking my head. “You’re so uncultured.”

“And you’re so damn loud.”

I smirk, flipping my hair. “Get used to it.”

He tightens his grip on the wheel, and I swear I see his eye twitch.

I smile to myself. This drive just got so much more fun.

Ruby Ridge is exactly what I expected—a tiny town frozen in time, like it was ripped straight off a vintage postcard. The main street is lined with faded red-brick storefronts, their windows framed by chipped white trim and sun-bleached awnings that flap lazily in the warm breeze.

Hand-painted signs swing above narrow doorways, advertising diners that smell like fried bacon and fresh pie. Dusty general stores stocked with everything you never knew you needed, and old-school boutiques with mannequins dressed in floral sundresses from a decade long gone.

An American flag ripples over the courthouse steps, and somewhere down the street, the low hum of a guitar floats out from a porch where an old man rocks back and forth like he’s got nothing but time. The air is thick with the scent of honeysuckle and the distant promise of rain.

That feeling comes back, squeezing in my chest.

Happiness.

Something I haven’t felt in a long time.

Grief took that away from me, masking it with alcohol, partying, and buying unnecessary things.

I’m still a bad bitch, but I’m depressed and lonely.

The nights consume me with my dark thoughts, my brain never shuts off, nagging at me, reminding me what a failure I am.

Being here, in this town, is sparking something within me.

The sidewalks are calm, only a handful of locals linger outside the shops, tipping their hats in quiet greeting as Carter and I make our way down the sun-warmed main street.