Chasing The Wild (Crimson Ridge Book 1)

I flop down on my too-soft bed. Every limb cries out in agony from how hard I’ve been working lately. Soreness extends all over from how relentlessly I’ve thrown myself into each and every opportunity presenting itself to remain busy. I’ve spent the past fifteen minutes scalding myself under my hell-water shower in an effort to get rid of the smell of cow shit, or try to loosen the tension between my shoulders.

Yet my heart is officially the sorest muscle of them all.

Five months haven’t dulled the ache that sits like a solid mass inside my rib cage, reminding me every single damn day just how much I miss the rugged cowboy I left behind when I drove my Honda out of Crimson Ridge without looking back.

Colt occupies my waking thoughts more often than I care to admit. Then, at night, he fills my dreams. I wake up thinking he’s there with the mattress dipping beside me beneath his weight. I wake up turned on and moaning into my pillow because I’ve had the most vivid dreams of his hands and his tongue and his cock sliding into me. I wake up hearing his raspy voice whispering in my ear that I’m the best thing that ever happened to him.

Truth be told, I’m a fucking mess. Layla Birch is back in the season of life called surviving, and I’m barely managing that on a good day. Only, this time my survival mode is less Ramen and going to bed with a grumbling tummy, and more my tears have soaked through my pillow because I’m an emotional fucking wreck.

I mean, I’ve been blessed with job offers for all my work placements. Not only that, but every single location I’ve worked in during the past five months has paid handsomely for an apprenticeship, and they’ve paid overtime. Turns out having Devil’s Peak Ranch on my resume has opened up a whole world of connections, where I’ve had stables and ranches and all sorts of businesses emailing me asking if I’d be interested in working with them.

The cherry on top of that pretty pie: I haven’t had to pick up a single bar shift since I left Crimson Ridge. The income from my placements these past few months has been more than enough to meet all payments for Evaline’s care.

I’ve worked exceptionally hard to get to where I am, now being only one week out from graduation. There’s no denying that my resume speaks for itself, the difference now being that I’ve finally been able to have a reputable ranch stand behind me and give me a vote of confidence in my skills.

If I think about it too hard, I get all choked up. Each new opportunity that comes my way has Colt’s handiwork all over it, but the man himself has been a ghost since I left the mountain.

Did I expect anything different? Did I think my cowboy was going to ride in and sweep me off my feet? Of course not. We knew what our situation was right from the very beginning and I guess it was some sort of strange gift from the universe that I was given just enough time to properly fall in love with him.

There wasn’t any scenario where I drove away, and we kept in touch. He’s barely in contact with the outside world. Doesn’t have a cellphone that I know of. Doesn’t use social media. What were we going to do, become pen pals over email?

Christ. I dig the heels of my palms into my eye sockets.

I have to be fucking strong and do this for myself. I can’t be a silly girl with foolish daydreams who has no vision for her own future.

The only person I can depend on is me. I refuse to go through life reliant on someone else. As much as that fantasy—of life with Colt and the ranch—is appealing, it’s also just that.

A fantasy.

My phone pings with an incoming message. Now that I’m in civilization once more, Sage is back to texting me endlessly. Not that I particularly mind. It gives me something to take my mind off wondering what Colt is doing approximately five thousand times a day.

I don’t want anyone else, is what I want to text my best friend, while staring at the jet-black hat sitting on my nightstand. The one that I lie in bed with, sitting the brim over my chest as I soak up the scents of Colt still lingering in the fibers. All the while, wanting to spill everything to Sage. Would it be the end of the world if I admitted what went on between the two of us up on Devil’s Peak?

Probably once I’ve had a single sip of champagne on grad day, I’ll end up spilling everything anyway.

I guess that’s a problem for future Layla.

Before I set my phone aside, I do the one thing I know I really shouldn’t do.

I open the Devil’s Peak Ranch Instagram page.

Call it an addiction, call it pathetic, whatever… I can’t help myself from tapping on the account name perennially at the top of my search results.

The familiar sight of the iron lettering set against the cedar wood planks above the barn doors fills the profile photo. Scattered across the page are shots of the Peak, pine trees dripping with golden hour sunlight, and images of all the horses who I can’t help but smile over when I zoom in on their sweet faces. As I do so, I can even hear them stamp and snort in their own unique patterns.

Unsurprisingly, the ranch social media page hasn’t been updated all summer.

In fact, the last post was added a year ago, and looks like it must have been Kayce who posted it based on the fact it’s taken from an elevated angle in the saddle, looking down on the arched neck and pointed ear tips of Peaches.

Blowing out a breath, my thumb hovers over the tab I definitely do not need to click into.

The place where I know there will be regular updates waiting for me to stalk. Not my proudest moment, but I’ve become more than a little obsessed with checking the tagged photos of the ranch. It’s usually cute group photos of the visitors who have booked summer trail rides. There are a couple of familiar spots around the ranch that I recognize—even though the scenery is no longer shrouded in a thick coat of snow—and that hook inside my stomach tugs as I gaze wistfully through the assortment of recently tagged photos.

The ranch has been busy this summer, judging by the volume of images being added. There are usually a handful of new still shots and videos each day.

But I’m not interested in all the strangers smiling and apparently having the time of their life.

Each time I open this tab, there is only one figure I’m scanning for, and yet I never see him. His presence is there, however, even if it is an invisible one. Almost certainly, Colt is the person responsible for taking the photos I’m scrolling through, which makes me bite my lip with a tiny smile, imagining how scowly he must be at the prospect of having to handle phones and cameras on behalf of these people coming to the ranch for their dose of the outdoors.

I imagine his calloused fingers jabbing at smartphone screens, and the thought seems so ridiculous. Colt is exceedingly capable at so many things, but technology and cell phones just seem totally alien to try and picture in his big hands.

Tonight though, there is a cluster of freshly uploaded tags, and my heart lurches as I take in the photos with eyes bouncing quickly across the array of thumbnails.

There’s a group of gorgeous, blonde, leggy girls who look like they’re similar to my age, and most certainly could all be models. Each of their photos shows them laughing and pulling peace signs at the camera with their tongues sticking out. They’ve all had their photo taken with their horse, which immediately makes me grow possessive at the sight of them planting kisses on their graceful, long necks.

Not only that, but I can see from the progression of the images, this group have been one of the trail rides to spend a night at the cabin.

Colt’s sweet spot.

Our cabin.

Fuck, tears prick the backs of my eyes, and my throat closes over.

I hadn’t contemplated what seeing young women at the ranch would do to me. So far, it has mostly been families, older retired couples, or honeymooners.

But this—seeing half a dozen lithe, tanned, stunning creatures flooding the ranch’s Instagram with their posts—is torture.

I’m a woman possessed. Scrolling and zooming in to examine every detail.

And that’s when I gasp.

Colt.

I see him. Well, I see his profile and unruly hair in one of the photos, and tears begin to well up. God, he looks so good. Beard a little longer than I remember. Tanned forearms. Wearing one of his blueish-green flannel shirts rolled at the elbows, he’s carrying a saddle as he crosses the background behind the two blonde bombshells who are laughing in the center of frame.

If my heart had ached before with missing him, catching this tiniest of glimpses is far worse than I could have ever anticipated.

He looks so fucking gorgeous, and now all I can think of is the fact these women have been staying up the mountain with him. They’ve been to the cabin where I watched him climb a ladder while hammering nails. Where we tangled together in the hot spring. The place where I left my heart bundled in those soft blankets in front of the fire.

It’s impossible to look away. Even though I sniffle back hot tears, I can’t stop myself from going down the rabbit hole. I’m clicking into their accounts one by one, discovering more photos that document the entirety of this group’s time spent at Devil’s Peak Ranch.

Then, the worst part of all. There’s a picture of all the girls—it must be taken in the evening—and they’re in the hot spring together, each wearing the tiniest of bikinis. The kicker…the real punch to my gut is the caption, which says, ‘Thank you for showing us all such a good time, Colt,’ followed by a string of heart-eye emojis.

That’s the point I crumble. Right then is the moment it becomes all too much for me, and I swipe out of the app with shaky fingers.

I feel nauseous. Colt was up there with this group of centerfold models.

The worst part of all, is that he has absolutely no reason not to be with someone else. He’s not mine. Not my property. Not my cowboy.

Tears roll down my cheeks as I bring up the website for the ranch. Exactly as with the social media account, it hasn’t been updated in forever. The only new details to be seen are the availability and booking rates for the current summer season.

Sprawling across the top of the screen is a gorgeous panoramic photo taken on a summer’s evening, showcasing the ranch drenched in honeyed golden light, with a vista of horses grazing and a scattering of wildflowers. The same sight which greeted me that fateful day when I crested the final ridge and drove onto Devil’s Peak Ranch for the very first time, looking for Kayce.

It’s the exact view I stared at all winter from the kitchen window, only when I used to look at it, the place was covered in a snowy blanket. When I used to make coffee for the two of us as dawn crept over the mountain.

With the heel of my palm, I swipe the wetness off my cheek. Why am I bringing this webpage up? What am I even doing? Missing Colt like I didn’t know was even possible, and desperate to somehow get in contact with him, that’s what is going on. But what can a girl in my position hope to achieve by looking through the meager scatterings of information provided for the ranch?

There’s a business email address listed. An automated booking calendar.

No, Layla. There is nothing for you here.

After all this time, Colton Wilder is not interested in receiving a feeble little email from me, just because I’m heartbroken and have convinced myself that he’s been busy fucking his way through a bevy of ranch tourists for the past five months.

What I do have, is a job to get ready for tomorrow. Graduation in a week’s time. The prospect of looking for a permanent position somewhere once I’m qualified.

That is my life. That is my reality.

And I need to snap the fuck out of this pathetic spiral of being addicted to Colt.

So, instead of doing the one thing I so desperately want to do, I lock the screen on my phone and roll onto my side.

My fingers reach out to brush over Colt’s hat, sitting beside my pillow in the spot that allows me to cling onto the tiniest fragment of my cowboy. If it’s there, I can at least pretend he’s watching over me at night. Waking up and seeing it feels comforting somehow. Or maybe it’s just masochistic behavior, I don’t know and don’t really care anymore.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I stroke the brim.

“You don’t owe us anything, Miss.”

I blink furiously at the mechanic standing beside my car. It felt like the longest wait ever sitting outside in Kayce’s truck until the moment the workshop lights flickered on and they opened for the day. Then, when I walked in, hoping they wouldn’t question my puffy reddened eyes, they took one look at me and handed the keys over.

“But… the parts… the work you’ve had to do?” I stammer.

“All settled up already.”

“That’s not possible.” Rummaging in my purse, I grab my wallet. Surely this guy has got my account mixed up with someone else’s shitty little car they’ve been repairing.

“Nope, she’s all squared away.” He sips his coffee and gives the hood an affectionate thump with his fist. “Good as new. She’ll get you wherever you’re off to bright and early this morning.”

“There’s been a mistake. The car is registered to Layla Birch.” I continue to pull out my debit card. At least I know the state of my bank account is far healthier than when I first arrived here in Crimson Ridge. Whatever these repairs cost, they might drain every last dollar of savings I’ve accumulated while working at the ranch, but since I’ve had weeks without needing to pay for living expenses, I’ve got a bit of a cushion now—for the first time in forever—that I’m sure will cover the bill.

The mechanic shakes his head again. “That she is, Miss. I know you might not have had a chance to grab a coffee yet this morning, considering how early it is, but I promise the full account is all settled.”

I’m gaping like a trout.

“Colton had it all paid for a fair few weeks ago. Said it was ready for you to collect any time you were in town next.” He opens my driver’s door for me and ushers for me to get inside. “He did mention that you might try to pay for it, but wanted to remind you about something to do with your overtime clause and paying off vehicle repairs out of the extra hours worked up at the ranch.”

I run my fingertips across the flat of the brim once more, recalling the morning after I left Devil’s Peak Ranch and arrived to collect my car.

The way my capable cowboy had taken care of things, long before anything developed between us. Because that is just the type of man he is.

Allowing the tears to roll freely, I tuck my knees against my chest, once again softly crying myself to sleep.