Page 1 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

Wilder

The summer heat has arrived early, baking the fields surrounding Blue River Ranch.

I inhale the earthy aromas of soil and mowed grass, which hit my senses in the same way each time—dusty and familiar.

The main house—my house—is up on a ridge.

A high enough rise from the river that flows along the ranch and its borders, giving a full view of our land, and just about every main structure.

I swipe the sweat off my forehead and make a call I know will get loud—I wouldn’t want to wake sleeping beauty.

My older brother, Dallas, and I run the ranch as equal partners—or so we’re meant to.

But I’m the unofficial wrangler of every problem that crosses our gates, while he’s—hell, fuck knows what he’s doing these days.

Claims to be busy researching weather and planning for the off-season.

But everyone on this ranch knows he’s still hiding.

Still mourning.

We all miss Millie, but not the way he’ll miss the woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with.

Before her, we lived together in this main house.

Then when he started planning a future, he started building his own over by the riverbend.

The house is finished for the most part.

But not one of the Thorne men—Dallas included—thought he should be alone after Millie’s death.

So he’s been back here with me since the funeral two months ago.

Truthfully, I’d rather my brother hide out under my roof than anywhere else. He’s the oldest, the firmest, hell, the scariest out of the three of us Thorne brothers. But I’ve never seen him so lost. So broken.

I don’t bother him. I let him sleep in, let him get into trouble at the local bars, let him pretend he’s going to get his act together soon and come help me run this damn place.

But I’m no stranger to a broken heart. And I know it doesn’t heal overnight, which means I’m going to need help this summer. Lots of it.

Minutes into my phone call, I’m gripping the railing around my porch, my jaw tight as I listen to the supplier rattling excuses about why his shipment of hay is delayed—again.

“Maybe you should’ve thought about that before over-booking your trucks,” I snap into my phone, running a hand through my dark hair. “I’ve got thirty-seven horses counting on that feed.”

Kruper, or Kramer, whatever his name is, mutters something about placing an order earlier, and I nearly lose my shit before I remember I don’t have time to find—nor deal with—another supplier.

Patience and a deep breath. I’m not going to yell.

Not today.

The guys are still steering clear of me after last week’s mishap with the tractor that ended up in the creek. Still think it was the new kid I hired for the season.

After a few more tense minutes of Kramer reassuring me we’ll have the hay by Friday, and me reminding myself that my options are limited, I hang up and toss the phone onto the wooden bench behind me.

“Not enough fucking hours in the day.”

“You talkin’ to yourself now, cowboy?” Wesley’s voice cuts through my grumbling.

I turn to my best friend—and the ranch chef—as he climbs the steps with a crooked grin and a rag slung over one shoulder.

There’s the usual glint of mischief in Wes’s green eyes, but I can tell something’s off.

Something’s .?.?. weighing on him. Wes always looks too carefree for his own good, except when he isn’t.

“When the alternatives are you and Dallas, I’ll take talking to myself,” I say, crossing my arms like I’ve got everything under control and taking a seat on the bench.

Wes steps up and leans against the railing. “Rough morning?”

I snort. “What gave it away? The fact that I’ve been on the phone with vendors since I woke up or the fact that half the shit Dallas is supposed to do is slipping through the cracks, and there’s not a damn thing I can say about it?”

“Neither—it’s the scowl,” Wes says with a grin. “You could curdle milk with that face.”

I shake my head with a smirk. Wes has always had a way of cutting through my frustration.

That’s why we work so well together. Why we stayed friends since rooming together in college, even though we were from different worlds.

Two fresh-out-of-high-school boys looking for a room off campus, him studying culinary arts while I majored in business.

It was always understood that Dallas and I would take over the ranch.

Dad had a way of getting it into our blood, teaching us how to fix fences before we were tall enough to see over them.

I always imagined Dallas taking the lead more—he was the oldest, the one who’d follow Dad out into the rain at late hours to check on the cattle.

The natural leader of the Thorne brothers.

Our younger brother, Silas, didn’t follow any footsteps— unless they led him to the frozen lake with his skates.

He’s nine years younger than Dallas and six younger than me.

That kid was in no way born with hay in his hair.

He’s now in his fourth year with the Denver Kings hockey team after being drafted from Denver University.

College wasn’t something Dad talked much about, probably because he never went himself. Hell, I almost didn’t either, but Dallas insisted one of us had to. If only for the business skills to keep up with today’s world.

But I didn’t go far—and certainly not on a full scholarship like Silas. I went to a small college outside of Denver for business. Which, coincidently, was also on the list of the best culinary schools in the country.

Best move I ever made. Best friend I ever made.

A year after we graduated, when Wesley’s dreams of becoming a top chef in a big city became too stressful, I offered him a job here at the ranch.

Dad didn’t like the idea of a full-time chef for staff.

Back then, it was biscuits and anything hot and ready.

Usually cooked by “whoever lost the bet.” But with a growing business and opening our working ranch for tours, guests, and events, having a head chef run our kitchen and restaurant made the most sense.

Wes was reluctant at first, but he’s come to love it here. And hell, if he was starting to have regrets now, I don’t know if I could handle it.

“What’s on your mind?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You’ve got that look.”

Please don’t tell me you’re leaving.

Wes rubs the back of his neck, hesitating. “It’s Rose. Lost her job at the gallery, so she’s back at that bar in downtown Manhattan, workin’ the late shift.” He shakes his head, and I feel his pain.

Working late at a bar is bound to face some risk. I don’t know much about city crowds, but it can’t be all that different from our locals—especially when they’ve been drinking. If I had a kid sister, that wouldn’t sit well with me either.

I’ve only met Rose once. It was seven summers ago, when Wes’s family were visiting the ranch. After brief introductions, I wanted to give the family some space, so I hadn’t hung around. But later, as I rounded the corner of the stables, I found Rose lighting up a cigarette.

Straight dark hair, bright green eyes as mischievous as her brother’s. Pretty—and young. Too young for me to notice just how pretty she was.

Knowing how Wes felt about smoking, and looking out for his sixteen-or-somewhat-year-old sister, I reached over, gently knocking it out of her hand.

“Does Wes know you smoke?” I asked.

She didn’t seem the least phased by the implied threat. Instead, she gave me a once over, starting at my boots, where the dusty cigarette bud lay, to the brim of my hat, blowing the last of the white smoke out of her mouth as she did.

Then met my eyes. “Not unless you plan on telling him, and I don’t think you want to do that.”

“And why’s that?”

She reached for a new one and lit it without a care in the world, then stuck the pack in my shirt pocket. “Might just have to tell him you gave it to me.”

I smirked. “I do hope you have a plan B.”

Her emerald eyes dropped to my chest. “You’re wearing the proof, dude.”

I let her take a drag before lifting it from her fingers and bringing it to my mouth. I don’t know why I did it. I didn’t smoke, but I imagined it was because the less she did right then, the better I’d feel.

“You always this pleasant?” I asked.

She took back the cigarette, putting her lips on the spot where mine were seconds ago. “Only with people who threaten me.”

“Look, I’ll let you finish this one, but if I see you sneak another, at the very least, I’ll need to tell your brother.” I met her eyes with a smirk. “Then he can tell your parents.”

I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I didn’t plan on meddling in anyone’s private business. And I sure as hell didn’t plan on making a bad first impression on my best friend’s parents by ratting out their daughter.

Her eyes flashed with alarm, but she stood her ground. “I’m not afraid of you.”

I frowned. Crap. Maybe I’d taken it too far? I never intended on scaring her. Teasing, maybe. But not intimidating. “Am I giving you a reason to be?”

She glanced back at our three-story walk-up. “I don’t know, are you?” she asked cautiously, handing me the half-smoked cigarette and then popping a stick of gum.

I put it out and looked into her eyes. Seeing that behind her tough-girl exterior, she might be a little vulnerable, maybe even scared? At the very least, she didn’t want to disappoint her family. And that was something I could relate to.

“Never,” I assured her.

“Anyway,” Wes goes on now, “I told her I could help her find something else, similar to what she was doing at the gallery, but she doesn’t want it. Said the cash tips she makes bartending are keeping her from getting evicted. I fucking can’t with this girl.”

What I know about Rose now—and that’s plenty, going by the eyes of her older brother—is that she moved to New York for a bachelor’s in psychology at NYU, but dropped out mid-way through her senior year to become an artist.

A questionable choice that has too many holes, but not my business.