Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
I climb up into the saddle, fish out a black bandanna from my pocket to cover my face, and press my heels to Milly’s flank to let her know I’m ready. Like the loyal companion she’s been for years, she takes off at a gallop. The wind whips against my body, cooling down the sweat and drying the splattered blood on my skin. Apart from violence, riding is another thing that helps me calm down. The nights I can’t sleep because either words are too loud in my head or the anger is too hot, I go on a ride around the ranch. I spend hours just riding, nothing but wind beating against my body and the night at my back. It’s relaxing.
I spend the next hour or so checking on things, talking to the hands on the night shift about the work on the fence on the northern side of the property; the power line that came down last week due to a freed bull running into the pole; the security camera that got busted a couple of days ago. I also stop by the security building. It’s located in the middle of the property and is manned by a rotating shift of two ranch hands at all times of the day. I check through the feeds, make sure everything is as it should be, all perimeters clear, before calling it a night.
The work of a cowboy never stops, though. At least that’s what my daddy used to say. Everything I know about ranching, the land, how to take care of it, how to respect it and the animals that land nurtures, comes from my father. He had a passion for it that he tried to instill in me. He didn’t fail, not really. I do have the passion for land, for working with my hands, or I did. Now I mostly do it because this is all I know. Any passion or love I had for it, for anything, died the day my parents did.
I can’t sleep.
So I find myself riding to the main house. I guide Milly around the corner and pull the reins to stop her at the farthest window on the south wing. Standing shadowed behind the tree line, I look into the room that belongs to me. Or it would if I lived here instead of in the barn. But Haven insists on keeping it ready and stocked for me in case I ever need it. And I finally did. Today.
The room is spacious with a custom-made bed, a sitting nook with leather couches and a bookcase, a large walk-in closet, and an en suite bathroom. The walls used to be off-white, just some generic color that’s not too hard on the eyes. But I recently had it painted: light blue. Haven was over the moon about it; thought I’d finally given up on the crazy idea of “hiding out in my cave.” Why she would think that when I’ve lived out there for the last decade is beyond me, but I didn’t burst her bubble. Anyway, I also fitted the room with anything and everything blue: from covers, sheets, blankets, and fucking drapes to motherfucking pillows. There’s so much blue in this room that it hurts my damaged brain.
Or it would. If I was looking at it.
Instead, I’m looking at the girl on the massive blue bed. The lamp on the bedside table casts her golden as she sits with her knees bent and up to her chest. Her back is resting against the light blue cloud of pillows and her long sunshine hair’s draped over her delicate shoulder. Her small fingers are busy working the thick mass into a braid. She usually leaves her hair loose during the day, sliding down her spine. Teasing the nape of her neck and swishing along the small of her back. But at night when she’s alone in her room, she likes to sit in her bed and take her sweet time to tame those wild waves and twist them into a long braid.
Mars wasn’t lying. As much as I hate it, I know I watch her. My eyes land on her whenever she’s close, and if she’s not, I go out of my way to track her down. Like now. Maybe it’s just force of habit, given that I’ve been watching her, following her around, and tracking her every move for months. To help out my best friend, Arsen.
When Arsen asked me to look into the Turner girl during one of our visits at the prison, I wanted to say no. Not because I didn’t want to be involved in the Turner business, but because I wanted to be. So very badly. I wanted to get “tangled up in it,” as Mars put it, despite my long-ago promise. But I agreed. I told myself I’d stay objective and do this as a favor for my best friend who needed me and nothing more.