Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Diesel and I cross to the window at the same time. I yank the blinds back and see Dusty standin' with one foot braced wide, AR-15 trained on a cloud of dust that's resolvin' into the unmistakable shape of a fuckin' army rollin' toward us. Bikes, three wide, kickin' up Montana clay like the second comin'.
"What in the actual fuck?" Diesel whispers.
I'm already movin', grabbin' a shotgun off the bar and headin' for the side door. Diesel follows, keepin' pace. Behind us I hear men scramblin', the slam of storage doors bein' thrown open, the metallic slide-clicks of guns bein' loaded, the hammer of boot heels.
But I don't turn or give orders. I just move forward, faster than thought can keep up.
Outside, the sun hits my eyes and I squint against it, feet carryin' me toward the gate automatically. Dusty's still there, not movin’.
"Hold," I call out to him.
The dust is clearin' now, and I can make out the patches on the lead bikes—black and red on dirty leather.
"Who the fuck is this?" I mumble. I'm not talking to anyone in particular, but Diesel answers anyway.
"Sons of Dust."
"Who?" I swear. This fuckin' day.
I feel like sometime in the last twenty-four hours reality slipped sideways and took me with it.
Because nothin' makes sense right now.
First the fuckin' State Patrol ambush, then Mike. Now this.
"They're out of Custer," Diesel adds.
"South Dakota? What the fuck are they doin' here?"
And then I see her. A woman near the front. Small frame, army surplus jacket, olive riding pants tucked into scuffed brown harness boots.
In my mind, I understand this outfit. I know what's goin' on here before I can actually articulate it. But the cat-eye sunglasses are what trigger the name in my head.
"It's June."
CHAPTER 2
The angle of the sun is wrong when I finally pry my eyes open and squint into the bright beams of light pouring through my bedroom window.
I slept in.
Not a little, but a lot. Because I've lived in this bedroom since I was born and I know every angle of sunlight, and these ones here are tellin' me it's well past ten.
Obviously, no one on this ranch noticed my absence.
Which reveals something that I'm a little uncomfortable with.
If Eleanor were still alive, and discovered I was tryin' to have a sleep in, she'd have stormed in here at seven-thirty sharp demandin' that I get my lazy ass up and contribute.
She said that word a lot. "Everyone must contribute, Savannah," she'd snap when I would posture and pout about photoshoots and fittings.
I hate that word.
Because if I wasn't the main contribution to this fuckin' family dynasty, then who the hell was?
It certainly wasn't Wyatt.
Though I don't envy him. He was always a lazy child and there's nothing Eleanor hated more than torpidity.
I snicker unexpectedly at my word choice. The fact that I can use torpidity in a sentence is a testament to just how much Eleanor Ashby despised idleness. She was a thesaurus filled with obscure words to describe slothfulness and every single one of them was aimed at Wyatt like a weapon at some point or another during his childhood.
In Eleanor's defense, Wyatt is an unusually lazy human being. He has no drive. And I can imagine this drove my mother crazy.
Cash is the opposite of Wyatt. Overachiever doesn't even begin to describe my oldest brother. Cash was riding fences with the ranch hands when he was seven and plowin' the driveway with a tractor when he was eight. Up at five am every day, even in the winter. Chores before school was how Cash grew up.
Wyatt did those chores too—all three boys did. But laziness doesn't earn you a well-bred cutting horse and the responsibility that comes with cowboyin'. And cowboyin' is really the only fun thing about growin' up on a ranch. So Wyatt got stuck with stall mucking and hay stacking, while Cash was earning belt buckles at the fair every summer.
Wyatt never did figure out that ambition gets you further than lassitude.
Colt lands somewhere in between lazy and driven. The perfect combination, if you ask me. He did the cowboyin' but didn't care about belt buckles. He did the barn chores too, but he likes the horses. It was an act of care, not obligation.
I sigh and throw the covers off, missin' my brother so much, it hurts.
But it's not gonna be this way for long.
I slip into my dress—blush-pink, floral-printed cotton with a flounce hem and ruffled yoke—and stand back to examine the result in my full-length mirror. The reflection looking back at me isn't me. Not really. It's the Instagram Ashby Princess, the one with the perfect prairie life who poses with wildflowers in mason jars and freshly baked bread that someone else's hands actually kneaded.
But the thing is… I like this dress. I like the cowboy boots that go with it too. I like the chunky turquoise necklace and the vintage gold bangle bracelets, mixed with hand-tooled leather straps, that pull it all together into something more than an outfit. Something more akin to a costume.