Knotted (Trails of Sin 1)

I walk past my snoring, sprawled-on-the-couch, pathetic excuse of a father.

I slip out of the apartment and go home.

Sandbank

Population 415

As the welcome sign blurs by, I mentally subtract my family of three from the population. Then I add back one for my return. How many others have come and gone in the past two years? Births and deaths and…

Oh, forget all that.

Rising up on the speeding bike, I thrust an arm into the whipping wind and let out a squealing “Whoooo-hoo!” at the top of my lungs. A heady mix of relief and thrilling elation powers through me. God, it’s such an indescribable feeling to finally be home.

The sun is so much brighter here, the air fresher, more nourishing. I taste the warmth of life, hear the rolling peace of the land, and the views… Green pastures, red clay, and endless blue sky. The beauty explodes with color and life.

Bypassing Main Street, I hop onto a gravel road and take the most direct route to the ranch. Since I didn’t leave Chicago until after two in the morning, I ended up crashing for a few hours in a seedy motel outside St. Louis.

I also swung by a public library and used a computer to send Jake and Jarret an email. If, by some miracle, they still check those accounts, they’ll know I’m arriving around dinnertime.

A trickle of sweat itches my nape. I’m a filthy fucking mess, but nothing can be done about that. Despite the pit stops, thirteen hours on a motorcycle has taken its toll. My back aches from hunching over. The bruises on my abdomen protest every pock in the road. My legs throb from squeezing the vibrating steel frame, and the helmet feels like a thousand-pound oven on my head.

But holy sweet lord in heaven, I’m home!

By the time I zip beneath the stone archway of Julep Ranch, I’ve lost the ability to breathe.

Multiple cars and trucks sit in the lot between the house and the main stable. Some familiar. Some not. How many new ranch hands work here? Will they know who I am or what happened in the ravine?

Don’t think about that.

Craning my neck, I don’t see Ketchup in the surrounding meadows. She’s probably in the mare barn. Jake will know.

I search the lot for his beat-up old blue pickup, and the instant I spot it, my heart shoots to my throat.

He’s here.

I’m here.

Is this really happening?

I park behind his truck. The helmet comes off, and the sweat… Oh God, I wipe it from my face. Keeping my eyes on the house, I shake out my braids, finger comb my hair, and grab the gift box with his bracelet. Is that all I need? What am I missing? Christ, why I am so nervous?

I run to the front porch, palms slick and insides buzzing with a swarm of bees.

The heavy interior door hangs open, letting in the afternoon air.

“Hello?” I press my face to the screen on the storm door and pound on the metal frame. “Jake? Jarret?”

Inside, the masculine furniture, rustic decor, everything looks the same, except…darker. Colder. Barren. Where is everyone?

I knock again, raising my voice. “Jake!”

I’m shaking so badly I’m lightheaded. Please, don’t pass out.

Why am I just standing here? I’ve never knocked on this door. This is my home, and I’m making myself feel unwelcome for no damn reason.

Hand on the latch, I swing open the screen and walk in like I’ve done my entire life. “Is anyone here? Jake?”

Is that music? I tilt my head, moving through a fog of nervous energy as I follow the sound. Clutching the gift box, I enter the Holsten wing and fuss with my hair. My shirt. My bra. Shit, I can’t stop trembling.

Midway down the hall, the melody grows louder, coming from behind the door to Jake’s room. Is he in there? What song is that?

Then I hear it. Jake’s sexy-as-hell voice singing Beautiful War in perfect pitch with Kings Of Leon. I shiver and press a hand over the banging beat of my heart.

My gait speeds up, my pulse pounding harder, stronger, wild and giddy. I’m running by the time I reach his door, my clammy hand fumbling with the knob. Slipping. Turning. Pushing open. Tripping in.

I freeze.

He’s not alone.

Not alone in his bed.

Not alone and not with me.

Not alone with fingers stroking bare skin. Sheets tangling around joined bodies. Feminine blonde curls fanning his pillow.

He holds her with arms I ache to feel around me. Hips pressing between her thighs. Sara Gilly’s thighs. The girl who pined for him through high school.

The gift box falls from my hand. Two heads turn in my direction. Staring eyes. Parted lips.

I avert my gaze, unseeing, every heartbeat careening toward expiration. I can’t watch or hear or breathe. I don’t want to witness my demise. I don’t want to feel it.