Page 7 of The Cowboy and the Stray

The woman slept on, oblivious to my hammering pulse and the questions multiplying in my head. Who was this woman? What was she running from? And why the hell did she make me feel like a randy teenager just by existing?

Cursing myself six ways from Sunday, I shifted quickly. Her scent almost overwhelmed me.

I whined low in my throat, horrified and electrified in equal measure. This stranger, this slip of a girl had burrowed under my skin like a tick. And I had no goddamn idea how to dig her out. Don’t even try. Just get through the night.

So I didn't. I just lowered myself to the floor beside her bed, my muzzle resting on my front paws. I'd stand guard tonight. Keep the demons at bay, both hers and mine. Tomorrow, well… tomorrow was a problem for my human self. And he’s welcome to it.

As her breathing deepened and evened, I let my eyes drift shut. Let the soft rattle of her lungs and the rhythmic thump of her heart lull me under. Just for a minute.

3. TESS

Awareness came back to me in pieces, like shards of a broken dream. Softness surrounded me first, unfamiliar and disorienting in its comfort. I flexed my fingers against smooth sheets, fighting the heaviness in my limbs. I felt like I’d been hit by a bus. Where was I? How long had I been asleep? Judging by the light outside, it was morning. Maybe early afternoon. How was it not still night?

The thoughts sharpened into a spike of anxiety, jolting me fully awake. My eyes snapped open to an unfamiliar ceiling, rough-hewn beams crisscrossing above me. Okay. That was… wood. Rustic. Not Lance's stark white walls. Not Vegas. Not him. Somewhere else entirely.

For one heart-stopping moment, I wondered if he had found me. If this was some new place he'd brought me to, another gilded cage masquerading as luxury. The bed was too soft, the room too finely furnished to be a cheap motel. No sounds of traffic leaked through the window, no din of city life. Just an eerie, pressing silence. And… was that a cow mooing? Fantastic. Either I was dead, or I’d been abducted by farmers.

I pushed myself up on my elbows, ignoring the answering throb in my temples. A quilt slipped off my shoulders, pooling at my waist. My t-shirt was filthy, spotted with dried blood and dirt. At the foot of the bed sat my duffle bag. Seeing it sent a flood of memories rushing back. The highway stretching endless before me, the deer, the screech and slam of impact. The barn. Right. Not dead. Just barely scraped together.

This wasn't Lance's doing. I remembered going into a barn and collapsing, barely. How’d I get in this bed?

I swung my legs off the side of the bed, wincing as my battered body protested. A braided rug over hardwood floors met my bare feet, worn smooth by years of use. A handmade quilt was draped across the back of a rocking chair in the corner, its colors faded but cheerful. Tentatively, I stood, legs watery and weak. Yep. Still alive. Still wrecked.

I spotted a door off to my right and stumbled towards it, one arm braced against the wall for balance. It opened into a small bathroom, all white tile and old-fashioned fixtures. A mirror hung above the pedestal sink, and I hobbled toward it, needing to take stock, to see myself.

The face in the reflection was barely recognizable. A deep purple bruise bloomed across my right temple, stark against paler-than-usual skin. My hair hung lank and tangled around my shoulders, still matted with flecks of dried blood near the roots. It looked like someone had cleaned my face last night, though. Streaks of dried blood looked like they’d been partially wiped away. It wasn’t mine, though. Ugh. Deer blood.

Dark half-moons shadowed my eyes, and I hadn't had mascara to wear since the morning of the incident in Vegas, so it wasn’t from that. I'd washed it off in a gas station bathroom somewhere along the way. Good God, I looked like I lost a bar fight in a wind tunnel.

It reminded me of countless other mornings in Vegas, carefully layering concealer over the marks Lance left behind. Hiding the physical traces of his temper, his cruelty, before pasting on a smile for the day. The facade I'd learned to wear. And I wore it like a damn professional.

I gripped the edge of the sink, forcing down the sudden swell of nausea. That life was behind me. I was somewhere new now. I might not get to stay, but for now nobody was hitting me. I catalogued the rest of my injuries with a strange detachment. An angry line of mottled blue and black stretched across my chest where the seatbelt had caught me. My right knee was swollen and hot to the touch but was already way better than it had been last night. I must have slammed it against the dash. Reddish scrapes marred the heels of my palms, my forearms, the side of my neck. Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been a body bag.

Gingerly, I reached up to adjust my bra strap, making sure the hard lump of my makeshift wallet still dug into my sideboob. My ID, my cash, one of Lance's credit cards he'd given me, but I'd only used to buy things for his apartment. Not that I could ever use that card again. All stuffed into an old coin purse and tucked away out of sight with the girls. Keep the important things close. Never let them out of reach. One of the rare pieces of advice my mother shared over a diner breakfast a lifetime ago. Best piece of wisdom she ever gave me besides never trust a man who wears cologne to bed.

A floorboard creaked somewhere nearby, the sound menacing in the unfamiliar stillness. Someone was out there. Someone who'd brought me to this place, put me in this room. Fear locked icy fingers around my throat. I needed to find a way to get out of here and keep moving. I couldn't stop now. Don’t freeze. Don’t panic. Think. Move.

On shaking legs, I crossed back to the bedroom door, pressing one palm against the solid wood. I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side. No idea if I was safe here, or if I'd just landed in even more danger. But I couldn't hide in this room forever.

I turned the knob slowly, easing the door open inch by precious inch. The smell of coffee and something warm, yeasty, wafted towards me. I peered around the frame and looked out into the hall. Now or never. If they kill me, at least I won’t die hungry, by the smell of it.

The stairs creaked under my tentative steps as I made my way down to the first floor. Faded family photos lined the walls, their subjects unfamiliar but their presence strangely comforting. There was history in this house, a sense of roots and permanence that almost made me ache. God, what must it be like to grow up in a house like this?

I paused at the base of the staircase, unsure which direction to go, until the low murmur of voices drew me towards the back of the house.

The kitchen was large and well-worn, with a sturdy wooden table at its center and copper pots hanging from a rack above the stone countertops. Two women turned to look at me as I hovered uncertainly in the doorway. The younger one was striking, with sharp features and piercing gray eyes. She had long, dark brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She looked me over coolly, her arms crossed over her chest. Yikes. Definitely the scary one.

"You're awake," she said, her tone as crisp as her tailored black shirt. It wasn't quite a question, but I felt compelled to nod anyway.

The other woman was older, with a wild braid of silver hair and a face lined by sun and laughter. She stepped forward, wiping her hands on a faded dish towel.

"Ignore Sloane's manners," she said wryly. "I'm Midge. Welcome to the Maddox Ranch. You hungry?" As if on cue, my stomach let out an embarrassingly loud rumble. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten a real meal. At least three days ago, before finding Lance doing an illegal gun deal. Perfect timing, stomach. Way to introduce yourself.

Midge chuckled and gestured for me to take a seat at the table. "Breakfast was a few hours ago, but I think we can rustle something up. Ranch life starts early, I'm afraid. I let you sleep in, seeing as you had quite the night. Take a seat at the table." She gestured to the large worn table in the center of the kitchen then moved to the fridge and pulled out Tupperware. She dumped it all in a skillet. "Just reheating you some eggs and bacon from this morning’s breakfast." The smell of the bacon quickly filled the kitchen. That smell alone could make me weep. Carefully I lowered myself into the chair closest to the door.

Sloane remained where she was, studying me with undisguised suspicion. "What's your story?" she asked bluntly. "What were you doing in our barn in the middle of the night?"

I shifted in my seat, fingers twisting together under the table. "I had an accident," I said carefully. "A deer ran out in front of my car, and my car was totaled. I started walking and this was the first place I came to. I must have passed out afterwards. I'm sorry for trespassing. I wasn't trying to cause trouble." It was the truth, as far as it went. I just left out the parts about running from my ex and the guns. Yeah, let’s not open that can of trauma soup just yet.