Page 9 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

Rose

“How was your first day?” Ginger stretches the last word as I walk through the door.

I roll my stiff neck and hand her the invoices Wilder approved for payment today and the schedule for the rest of the week. I helped him re-work it after he mapped out the week’s events, tours, and the day-to-day staffing for every part of the ranch.

It took a considerable amount of time to figure it all out.

But I think I impressed him with how effectively I spaced out his staff.

I told him this was similar to what I did at the gallery.

We had various exhibits, events, and tours where staffing needed to be properly distributed.

With levels of talent and focus in mind, of course.

That’s where Wilder came in. But now that I have an idea of who does what—and a cheat sheet—I can help with scheduling each week.

Was it easy sitting shoulder to shoulder with him half the day?

No .?.?. no, it wasn’t. On several instances I had to remind myself to focus .

But he smelled so .?.?. manly. The scent of leather and cedar clinging to him.

Heat crept up my neck every time he shifted in his seat, making my breath catch.

God, I hope men are as oblivious to notice these things as Willow insists they are .

But what was a girl to do except grip her pen tighter and hold her breath because she could feel the vibration each time he hummed or spoke, that low rich voice entirely too close.

Thankfully, we won’t always work side by side the way we did today. We covered enough of my responsibilities, including timekeeping, ordering supplies, and checklists for deliveries.

I’m sure I can do more. He seems so overwhelmed. But I’ll take it one day at a time. Not to mention, I’m already on thin ice with the man.

“Not bad,” I tell her. “I overslept, so I suppose it could have been better.”

She perks a brow. “Heard there was a special guest at the bonfire last night. And that you were a real hoot.”

“A hoot?”

“Had everyone pretty entertained with all your stories about Wesley pre-Blue River, and city life, and somethin’ about how you’re pretty sure it’s illegal to force someone to live on a farm for six weeks with no way of getting to a Starbucks.”

I put my hand on my hips. “They all laughed, but I was damn serious.”

She chuckles. “I’ll put it in the suggestion box.”

Brett walks past Ginger, carrying a clipboard. “Could always try the shuttle that takes tourists to and from town. Don’t think one runs at night though.”

“Shuttle,” I repeat, unimpressed.

“I’ll pull up the schedule for you, dear,” Ginger offers.

I sigh, about to ask Brett if there are other options.

Before I have a chance to, a young man in overalls and with dimples peeks his head through an open window. “Hey, Brett, you want me to take the golf cart and run the Bransons over to the north pasture? They wanted to see the wildflower trail.”

Golf cart?

Brett sighs. “Yeah, all right. But stay with them and tell ’em we close in thirty minutes. I want those carts back in place before tomorrow’s tours. We’re short as it is without them being scattered all over the place.”

“Got it.” The young man disappears from the window, and I cock my head to see the direction he’s heading in.

“That’s cool, you give tours in golf carts?” I ask casually.

Brett sighs. “Yeah, we’ve got a couple smaller ones to get around the ranch quicker. The bigger ones, six- and eight-seaters, move tourists or staff when we need to run errands or carry equipment.”

And no one thought to tell me about this? I want to ask, but I simply shrug. “Good to know there are ways to get around if I need to.”

Brett holds up a hand, his expression a warning. “They’re limited, Rose. We only use them for specific jobs, not for just getting around. Plus, the land’s tough on the carts. They’re not exactly free-for-all vehicles.”

“Right.” I nod. “Makes sense. But if necessary, you do use them for purposes other than driving around tourists?”

“Limited,” Brett repeats, hitting every syllable. “Now where’s that inventory list?” he asks.

With her gaze pinned on me, Ginger hands it to him over her shoulder. He clips it onto his board and disappears into the back.

Ginger lowers her head, giving me a scan over the rim of her glasses. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?”

“Rose .?.?. he’ll have your head.”

I wave her off. “I’m not. Besides, Brett looks like he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

She starts working on the invoices. “Wasn’t talking about Brett.”

I ate dinner with Wesley back at The Shack. It was the first time I’d seen the kitchen where he’s worked for the last several years. And it was fun watching him run the place—even when he was supposed to be on break.

He offered to come to the cottage, but I still don’t want to tell him I’m staying in one of the cabins instead. He’ll only make a scene of it. Or call me out for being a brat.

We video-called our parents since they love when the two of us are together. Or at least that I’m not alone in the city without his “supervision.” Needless to say, they were ecstatic at the idea of me moving here. I had to remind them it’s just for the summer.

But the idea of staying a bit longer doesn’t feel as ridiculous to me now. It’s only my second night here but this whole open sky and easy silence thing is something I didn’t realize I missed.

I asked Wes if he could take me out on the town tonight, but he said he had to be up early to prep for tomorrow’s tours and events.

Last night, between the smokey air and crackle of the fire, the cowboys were telling me about a place called Bones located on the “it” strip here in Blue River Springs.

Curious, I asked a few questions like, “What makes it so special?” and “Has anyone had a drink named after them for doing something stupid?”

The stories I got were all widely different—and very intriguing. The kinds of memories you can only make in a small town like this one.

Which only convinced me of one thing: I need to stop by and make my own.

But how?

The idea of the golf carts has gnawed at me all night. Limited or not, one of those babies could get me out of here, even if just for an hour.

Or, you know .?.?. until something exciting happens.

The faint chirping of crickets is the only sound breaking the silence when I step out an hour later. I scurry behind the row of cabins, heading in the direction of the main office. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there.

I don’t even know if the carts will be accessible.

Like an idiot, I slipped on one of the few sundresses I brought with me. It’s light linen with blue flowers. Note to self: when sneaking around and borrowing without permission, always wear black—and a sweater.

It’s a nice night, but there’s the occasional chilly gust of wind. And I haven’t got much but my adrenaline to keep me warm.

When my cell phone rings, I jump, shushing it like a fool. I glance at the caller ID and swipe to answer.

“Hey, girl,” Willow says in that sweet, deep voice of hers I’ll always envy. She’s only two years older than me but has the maturity of a thirty-year-old.

“Shh.”

“Uh-oh, what are we doing?”

“I’m sneaking out, and you’re going to get me caught.”

“Why are you sneaking? Is there a curfew?”

“Um .?.?. not exactly.” I reach the main building and glance behind me, my paranoia getting the best of me.

“So, I’m just supposed to guess here?”

My heart thuds in my chest as I tiptoe around the building, ducking by a crooked security light.

I gasp when I reach the lot behind the building with all the carts. Sure doesn’t look like you don’t have any to spare. There must be twenty of them here.

“What’s going on?” Willow hisses.

“I’m going into town in one of these.” I snap a quick picture and send it to her.

She laughs at me. “That’s hardly grand theft auto, Rose. How far you taking it?”

“I don’t know. I’m not even sure how to drive one.”

“Oh, my mom’s boyfriend used to take us golfing. I can totally walk you through this. Do you see a key in the ignition?”

I reach the closest cart, which thankfully is the four- seater one. But I freeze when I see a shadow of a man move out from behind the building. With a gasp, I slide into the cart and dip down.

“What? Someone there?” Willow whispers.

I breathe into the phone.

“OK, stay hidden and don’t move.”

“Damn mosquitoes,” I hear the guy mutter as his footsteps slowly fade away. Lifting my head to peek, I see him walking deeper into the night, waving a hand in front of his face.

“All good?” Willow whispers.

“I think so,” I breathe, my pulse racing. Dipping my head, I gasp. “Wil, you’re not going to believe this. The keys are in the ignition.”

“Well, of course they are. Ranch security isn’t exactly Fort Knox.”

I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Then slowly turn the key. The engine hums to life. My eyes shoot open with a breath. “I am so getting busted.”

“All part of the fun, isn’t it?” Willow reminds me. “Now just like a car, put your foot on the brake and position the switch to forward .”

“There’s a lever,” I say.

“Yeah, try that.”

My heart rate kicks up as I pull it.

Willow’s right. Getting caught is part of the fun. But so is not . And I’m not getting caught tonight.

The tires crunch softly against the gravel as I make my way down the road. The gate at the edge of the property looms ahead. I’d have to push the button to get them open. I don’t know where—or who—that button calls. “I can’t get through the gate,” I tell Willow, panic starting to kick in.

“Oh well, you tried. Now head on back.”

“No,” I stammer. “I didn’t get this far to turn around.” I look one way across the ranch—nothing but a faint outline of fenceposts disappearing into the night. I turn in the other direction—same. Nothing but shadows stretching over dry grass. Beyond that, just darkness.

I turn the vehicle and drive along the fence.

“Where are you going now?”

“This cart isn’t that big. There must be a big enough gap somewhere, I’m sure of it. This can’t be the only way out.”

“Rose, you are out of your mind.”

“You just find directions for me to get to Bones in Blue River Springs. I’ll worry about an exit.”

She laughs. “Yes, ma’am.”

It takes a few minutes, with Willow on the phone for moral support, but I find a small opening between bushes.

It isn’t large enough for a golf cart. It almost looks like a discreet wildlife passage.

I wince as I push the pedal and move through the cluster of wild shrubs. Thick, twisted branches snap off as I power through, scraping against the vehicle. One somehow reaches my shoulder, grazing my skin painfully.

“Maybe I overestimated the size of that opening,” I whimper as I cut through to the other side.

Willow chuckles. “That’s what he said.”

Remember when I said she had the maturity of a thirty-year-old? Scratch that part.

“I’m out,” I breathe. Getting out was the end goal, but at what cost? It’s not like no one is going to notice the vandalism of the vehicle, what’s left of those bushes back there, and the scrapes along my upper arm.

The one time I didn’t wear sleeves.

“Turn right,” Willow directs in her best GPS automated accent.

I release a breath and push forward.

Worry about it later.

Exhilaration bubbles in my chest as the ranch lights fade behind me, replaced by the open night and distant town lights on the horizon.

One hour. Tops.