Page 4 of Wrecked for Love (Buffaloberry Hill #1)

CLAIRE

Somewhere in Montana

The past few days had blurred into one long, sleepless stretch. Driving through backroads I didn’t recognize, barely stopping, barely thinking.

Now, in the dead of this pitch-black night, I didn’t even know where I was anymore.

The radio signal had cut out miles ago, but the classics from New York’s own The Strokes still blasted from my CD player.

I’d scored a second-hand Sony Discman in a little shop in Cleveland, and along my travels, I picked up a few vintage albums—that was back when I still dared to wander among urban civilization.

With all sorts of adaptors, I’d managed to hook up the Discman with the car’s sound system.

Streaming was off the table; anything that involved setting up an account was a no-go.

I wiped at my face, unsure how much longer I could keep going.

Rick’s death still rested on my conscience.

He wasn’t the kind of man to have enemies.

I had brought the enemies to him. I was the threat, even if I hadn’t meant to be.

There were times when I wished that knife had ended me.

Maybe then I could be with Cody, back to causing harmless trouble—before The Revenants tore everything apart.

Exhaustion wrapped around me, pressing in from all sides. Dizziness clawed at my senses, making the world wobble and spin.

And as if the universe had one last cruel joke in store, the car sputtered before going silent.

Out of fuel.

I didn’t even have time to curse myself before a beam of light split the darkness. A flashlight. On instinct, my fingers reached for the gun at my side.

The figure in the distance came closer. The beam of light was harsh against the inky blackness, making it impossible to see anything else.

“Turn around! This is private property!” a commanding voice yells.

I staggered out of the car and gripped the door like a shield. My legs felt like jelly. How long had I been sitting? Too long. But I couldn’t let this guy get to me. Not when I had no idea what his intentions were.

“Not a step closer!” I warned, pulling my gun.

The headlights, still powered by the battery and a manual override, blazed on him.

And I saw it—the rifle in his hands held like an afterthought.

Why wasn’t he shooting already? This was Montana, after all—the kind of place where every man fended for himself, where they’d shoot first and ask questions later.

Beside him, a dog barked. Not the aggressive, snarling kind, but more like a friendly alert.

“Turn off that damn music!” he shouted again, louder this time.

I reached for my Discman, but I kept the gun steady, aimed right at him. My eyes adjusted to him now. He looked to be in his mid or late twenties, well-proportioned and solid.

“I’m not looking for trouble. I just need gas,” I said.

“You’re in the wrong place for that. Nearest gas station’s ten miles out.”

“This is a farm, right?” I could only guess. The property stretched into the kind of darkness that spoke of vast land. “You’ve got to have some gas stashed somewhere. Or at least a car I can siphon from. You could spare a little.”

“Sharing is caring, huh?” His dry humor flickered through the tense air. “All right, just put down the gun.”

“Rifle first,” I shot back, not budging an inch.

With a grunt, he lowered it to the ground, his movements slow.

“Happy now?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice as thunder rolled in the distance.

“Take off your jacket,” I demanded. That thing was bulky enough to hide anything.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he groaned, his eyes locked on mine as if waiting for me to back down.

I didn’t. With a sigh of defeat, his hands moved to the zipper, the irritation clear in his taut expression.

He shrugged off the jacket and tossed it beside the rifle, the motion sharp, almost defiant.

I bit the inside of my cheek, not sure if I regretted the order.

Not because I was second-guessing the caution—no, I was distracted by what the headlights illuminated next.

His thin white sweater clung to him just right, showing off a physique that didn’t belong to a guy caught up in this mess.

He looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of some cowboy magazine—if that was even a thing.

“Anything else, or are we done playing dress-up?” His voice persisted through my thoughts. “If you stop wasting my time, you might actually outrun the storm.”

Slowly, I lowered my gun. Not because of that infuriatingly confident expression—though the lack of a smile made it even more irritating—but because of something deeper. Maybe I hadn’t completely lost my humanity after all. I could still spot a decent person when I saw one. Like Rick Ashbourne.

For that, I gave this young rancher the barest sliver of trust.

“Get the gas then!” I snapped, trying to keep the upper hand.

“Wait here,” he said, spinning on his heel a little too fast, his hand sliding into his jeans pocket.

My instincts fired, and before I could stop myself, the gun was up again. I guess that trust didn’t last long.

“Jesus Christ!” He whipped back around, hands up, exasperation all over his face. “You gonna shoot the guy who’s trying to help you?”

“Move your ass!” I barked, barely concealing my frustration, or maybe it was surprise at my own hypervigilance. Had I completely lost it?

Anyway, he did move his ass, quite literally. I couldn’t help but notice how his jeans sat just right, hanging low enough to tempt a second look. Not exactly a detail I needed to be noticing right now.

As he walked away, his dog padding alongside him, I narrowed my eyes at the shadows beyond the headlights. I hoped he was heading for a shed or garage, but my gut wouldn’t let me relax. He could be fetching something far deadlier than gas.

Waiting for his return, I readied my gun again. After all, there were plenty of bad guys with nice asses.