Total pages in book: 142
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“What about me?”
“Well, fuck, you must be ready to, uh, catch up on lost years.” His eyebrows pop with meaning. “Found anyone yet?”
A burst of laughter escapes my lips, surprising all three of us, most of all me. “I got out a week ago. I’ve spent all day in the fields, surrounded by bison. I have to be home by ten p.m. every night and have a licensed adult sit in the passenger seat with me for the next year if I want to drive anywhere.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t make it easy,” Jack agrees, scratching his beard in thought. The guy must spend a lot of time in the mirror, grooming that thing. There isn’t a single hair out of place. I’ll admit, it’s impressive.
“What about that hot cop next door?” Jameson snaps his fingers. “Emma?”
“Emery?” I shake my head at the idiot. “Not only is she a cop, she runs the detachment. So no, that’s never gonna happen.” I haven’t seen her since that first night outside my barn. She’s rarely home. My gut tells me that’s at least partly intentional.
I’ve seen Isla plenty, though, early in the morning when I head to the stables, before the boys are down to do their chores. She’s always there, dragging her sleepy heels and wordlessly cleaning out Biscuit’s stall while he gallops around the corral, and then she heads home with not much more than a grunt for me and an odd question here or there. Too early for conversation, I gather, but I appreciate the silent company.
“Yeah, I guess that ship has sailed,” Jack agrees. “But there are plenty of options out there.”
“For a guy who just got released from prison?” I say doubtfully.
“Especially for you. They’ll wanna fix you.”
“Too late for that.”
“Yeah, but let ’em try. You’ve got”—Jameson checks his watch—“about two hours to find someone and seal the deal. Jack’s truck is roomy. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”
“Dude.” Jack glares at his brother.
“I think I’ll wait.” With my luck I’d get caught by the cops, and I’m sure good ol’ Glen would love getting that call.
“Yeah, he says that now. Wait till next spring when the bison birth calves with Logan’s pretty golden eyes.” Jameson snorts into his glass, earning his brother’s eye roll.
A drum percussion sounds, followed by the twang of an acoustic guitar.
Uncle Wyatt leans over to warn, “It’s about to get really loud in here,” and his grim expression says he’s not a fan of that prospect.
But it seems plenty of people are. For every table that clears out, two more groups come in. Some huddle around the hostess, others by the bar, resigning themselves to standing while they sip on a drink. The families are settling up and leaving.
“What do you got planned for tomorrow?” Jack asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Splitting wood.”
“’Kay, I’m coming to pick you up in the morning. We’ll take the boat and some rods and head down to Temagami for a few hours. You good with that?”
“Fuck, yeah.” A small thrill skitters through me. It was one of my favorite places growing up.
“What about me?” Jameson complains.
Jack shakes his head. “You talk too much. Every time we go out there, I want to throw you overboard.”
His brother punches him in the shoulder, but whatever he says to him is drowned out as the singer offers a quick greeting over the microphone and then jumps into a song that dials up the energy instantly.
And I lean back for a moment, letting it sink in. This is real. I’m actually back in Cold River, free of my cell bars.
A burly guy strolls through the door then, followed by a tall brunette and a gorgeous blond.
No, not blond.
Strawberry blond.
Fuck, that’s Emery.
My heart starts pounding in my chest. She looks different from our last run-in, her hair and makeup done for a night out. Gone are the rubber boots and pajamas. She’s dressed in a green silk blouse under a black leather jacket, with heeled black leather boots that reach three-quarters up her jean-clad calves.
An elbow jabs my arm. “That’s your neighbor, isn’t it?” Uncle Wyatt yells over the music, jerking his head toward Emery as she weaves through the crowd toward the bar.
I nod. “Who’s she with?”
“No idea.” He leans the other way—I assume, to ask Mak because the ranch hand seems to know everything about everyone—and comes back a moment later to confirm, “That’s her platoon sergeant, Mike Lynch, and his wife, Breanne.”
I wondered who Emery kept in her social circle these days. I guess now I know—other cops. Makes sense.
I track her every step as they head for the opposite corner. A server greets them and removes a Reserved sign from the table as the man behind the bar waves.
“Matt doesn’t reserve tables for anybody,” Jameson notes with a hint of bitterness, patting his brawny chest to add, “Not even his number one beer distributor.”