Page 4 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

I look at my shredded dress, then at the man whose attention keeps finding its way back to me.

"Ready," I say.

We step out of the truck, and the mountain air hits me—cool, crisp, and smelling of freedom. I don't look back at the road. I don't look back at the life I left behind.

I just walk toward the house, my hand in his, ready to start the only masterpiece that ever really mattered.

2

CAG

Dust kicks up around the tires of my Ford as I pull into the gravel drive of Pine Ridge. The sun is dipping low, casting long, bloody shadows across the pastures. Usually, this is the time of day I breathe. The work is done. The horses are fed. The silence of the ridge is supposed to be mine. But tonight, the air inside this cab is thick enough to choke on. It smells like her. Magnolia. Sweet, expensive, and completely out of place against my saddle oil and old leather.

She’s sitting in my passenger seat, a disaster in white silk and lace. The dress is shredded at the hem, revealing glimpses of pale, strong legs. She looks like a bird that hit a window—stunned, beautiful, and not as broken as she ought to be after the day she’s had. My hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather groans. My jaw aches. The scar running down the side of my face is itching. It always does when my blood starts to boil.

I shouldn't have brought her here. I should have dropped her at the state line. I should have left her at the gas station in Pine Valley where she climbed into my truck like I was her personal savior. But I didn't. I kept driving. I saw those deep brown eyes, wide with a terror she was trying to hide behind a designer's spine, and my instinct took over.

Keep.

The word is a low hum in my skull. It doesn't make sense. I don’t know her. I only know her name. Juliette Marchand. The daughter of a man whose money and influence reach across the valley. Black Aspen is already coming after the water rights upstream, and bringing a Marchand onto Pine Ridge feels like inviting another threat through the gate. And here I am, pulling his daughter into the heart of our territory.

Andy is standing by the main house. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, his boots planted firm in the dirt. He looks like a mountain. Stable. Unmovable. He’s the ranch boss, my brother, and he doesn’t miss a goddamn thing. Beside him, the porch lights flicker on, casting a warm glow that looks too gentle for the trouble following her.

I kill the engine. The silence that follows is deafening.

Beside me, Juliette shifts. The silk of her gown rustles—a soft, expensive sound that has no business being on a working ranch. She bites the inside of her cheek. I watch the way her throat moves when she swallows. She’s terrified. She thinks I’m going to hand her back to the security detail she ran from. She thinks I’m just another man who sees her as a transaction.

She’s wrong.

My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Wait here.”

I don't wait for her to answer. I step out of the truck, the evening air hitting me with the scent of pine and horse musk. It’s supposed to ground me. It doesn't. My focus is entirely on the woman through the glass. I can see her freckles, even in the fading light. They’re like spilled sugar across her shoulders. I want to taste them. I want to bury my face in the curve of her neck and see if she tastes as sweet as she smells.

I walk toward Andy. Every step feels heavy.

"Cag," Andy says. His voice is a low warning. He’s looking past me, at the truck. "What the hell did you pick up in town?"

"A problem," I say. I stop six feet from him.

"She’s wearing a wedding dress, Cag. A torn one." Andy uncrosses his arms, his eyes narrowing. "That’s not just a problem. That’s a wildfire. Who is she?"

I look back at the truck. Juliette is watching us. Her hands are gripped tight in her lap. The ruined white dress fills the cab around her, but her shoulders remain square. "Juliette Marchand."

Andy’s face goes stone cold. The name hangs between us like a threat. We’ve been fighting Black Aspen for months. We’ve seen the way they operate—the legal threats, the surveyors creeping onto our land, the way they’re trying to choke the life out of the valley. And now, the heiress to the empire is sitting in my truck.

"You’re kidding," Andy says. His voice is dangerously quiet. "Tell me you’re kidding."

"She was running. She climbed into my truck at the Pine Valley gas station. Thought I was her getaway driver." I rub the back of my neck. "She didn't know who I was. Still doesn't really know what her father is doing out here."

"Drop her off," Andy says. It’s an order. Not from a brother, but from the boss. "Take her to the bus station in Pine Valley. Get her a ticket to anywhere that isn't here. We don't need this, Cag. We’re already on the edge. If Marchand thinks we kidnapped his daughter, he’ll burn this place to the ground before the sun comes up."

My heart hammers against my ribs. Logic says he’s right. Every rational part of my brain is screaming that this is a mistake. I’ve been burned before. I know what happens when you trust a woman who belongs to another world.

Three years ago, I stood at the altar of the Pine Valley chapel. I was wearing a suit that felt like a cage. I had a ring in my pocket that cost me three months' salary. I had a future planned out. A house I was building with my own two hands. And she never showed up. She sent a text. I can't do this, Cag. You're just a cowboy.

The town watched me walk out of that church. They saw the way my face went gray. I didn't finish the cabin. I didn't look at another woman. I spent three years whittling pieces of wood into shapes that didn't mean anything, trying to forget the hollow feeling in my chest. I became the foreman. I became the man who works until his bones ache just so I don't have to think.

And then Juliette Marchand climbed into my truck.