Текст книги "Change Rein"
Автор книги: Anne Jolin
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 9 страниц)
AUTHORITIES CAUGHT FRANCIS LATER THAT same day on a Greyhound bound for nowhere after Branson had offered a handsome reward for anyone with information on his whereabouts. They were able to issue a warrant for his arrest when the fingerprints lifted from the Tucker Farms lock used to chain the side door closed came back as a match to his.
Francis cooperated with the police for a lesser sentence and pled guilty to arson. The investigation and his statement informed us that he’d used rags soaked in gasoline to start the fire and positioned them around the barn where he’d suspected they’d do the most damage. The fire investigators said we were lucky. Francis knew very little about what he was doing and didn’t leave himself enough time to chain the front doors of the barn shut. They found a matching chain and lock in the driveway, but he’d had enough self-preservation instincts to flee before getting caught.
Are we lucky? I suppose so.
Two months later, in the chilly winter air, my family broke champagne over the front doors to our new barn. We built it in the exact same place as the old one, though it has some improvements. While it wasn’t easy for Daddy to let Branson pay, he understood why he had to. It was part of cleansing his soul of the wrongdoings he believed he was the cause of.
When I reach the place my feet always take me to, my thumb brushes over the name plaque nailed to the wood outside the last stall on the left of the barn.
Achilles War.
My mind wanders, as it often does, and I wonder if there’s anything I could have done differently that night. I fight the tears in my eyes as my finger traces each of the letters in gold.
Warm breath tickles my face, and I laugh.
“I know, buddy. Your mom’s a big, ol’ sap.” I reach up, rubbing the front of his muzzle with the palm of my hand. “I guess it’s not just you and me anymore, Chil,” I whisper to him like it’s a secret as we listen to my family’s laughter sound through the aisle.
He snorts and shoves me a little, his ears twitching back and forth as I whisper to him all of my secrets. He’s the only one who knows as much about me as Branson does.
“Should we go for a walk, handsome?”
As he nods his head in agreement, I unlatch the opening to his stall and slide the halter over his head.
It’s been a long recovery for both of us, but we’re managing. The fireman barely got him out in time before the building collapsed, and if the vet on standby, Ray Brookes, hadn’t been so attuned to his condition, Achilles wouldn’t have made it.
He’d ingested cholecalciferol—or, as most people know it, rat poison. Charlotte had split a bag in the feed room that day, which she later came clean about as she handed in her resignation, and it had accidently gotten mixed in with Achilles’ evening grain feeding.
It was a poor doubling-up of bad circumstances, and thankfully, he hadn’t ingested enough to cause him irreversible damage. For that, I considered us very lucky.
As I lead him outside, I can’t help but smile when the first drops start to fall.
I think people assume they’re only granted one extraordinary love in their lifetime, but I believe love pours full and heavy like the November rain. Plentiful and frequent as the coming days, each drop leaves its own unique impression on the varying parts of their hearts.
However, like all great loves, it does not come without sacrifice, hard work, or an abundance of pain by way of growth. I am blessed to have known three remarkable loves in my life—the selfless love of my mother, the passionate love of horses, and the love of a wonderful man.
No love is without struggle.
Like Momma always said: “Love is worth it. You just have to be willing to get a little rain on ya is all.”
THE END.
If It Ain’t Too Much To Ask—Jackson Young
Tennessee Whiskey—Chris Stapleton
My Heart Skips a Beat—Dwight Yoakam
Angels Fall Sometimes—Josh Turner
Love on Me—Brent Cobb
Ride (feat. Macy Maloy)—Chase Rice
Cowboys and Angels—Dustin Lynch
A Soft Place to Fall—Allison Moorer
Sober Me Up—Frankie Ballard
How ‘Bout Them Cowgirls—George Straight
Real Good Man—Tim McGraw
Why God Made Love Songs—Joel Crouse
On to Something Good—Ashley Monroe
Kiss by Kiss—Brett Young
Smoke—A Thousand Horses
Georgia Rain—Trisha Yearwood
Cowgirl—Tyler Farr
Shut Me Up—Old Dominion
Little Bitty Dreams—Will Hoge
She’s Got This Thing About Her—Chris Young
Forever and Ever, Amen—Randy Travis
To Marie Garner, I owe you the biggest bear hug ever! This book would not be where it is without you. You were my slave driver, my confidant and my cheerleader for this book. I love you to the moon and back and can’t thank you enough for everything!
For my beautiful beta readers, thank you for your honesty and excitement! Larni Phipps, Wendy Colby, Maggie Lugo, Alycia Sanchioni, Tracey-lee Mylchreest, Nikki Mccrae, Elizabeth Thiele, Lori Christensen, Ashley Jasper, Sam Shemeld and Kristi Webster.
Thank you to my editors Mickey Reed and Kayla Robichaux!
To Ashley Martinez, my bestie, thank you for proofreading and loving this book as much as you did! I’m so blessed to have met you and I can’t wait to see what comes next in the adventures of Ashley and Anne.
For the cowboy, Jackson Young at Mini-Movies Trailers, thank you for bringing my words to life. It has been a pleasure watching your creative vision form into such a brilliant trailer.
My amazing formatter, the lovely Stacey Blake from Champagne Formats has done it again! This book is even more beautiful than the last, you are a creative genius and I am so thankful to be working with you on yet another project.
Thank you to Diego Durden and Carmen Delgado for collaborating on the stunning image for the cover of this book. I’m so lucky to have found you both. I am so excited for more of our upcoming covers together.
Big kisses on the cheek and a thank you to Sara Eirew for the fabulous design of this cover. I am completely in love with your work and look forward to more projects together.
Thank you to Lydia Quintana, my Book B from HEA Bookshelf and Nazarea Andrews at Ink Slinger PR for making sure this book was promoted everywhere! You are both amazing women and I am beyond grateful to have you in my corner.
For my angels, the best street team a girl could ask for, thank you for everything: the man candy posts, the pimping, the teasers, and all the love you’ve shown me.
For all the readers, these books are for you, so thank you for reading. I love you all more than you could possibly know.
To my friends and family, my life is richer and more beautiful because you’re in it. Thank you for everything.
MAD LOVE. x
Hey y’all,
I was born and raised in Ladner, a small farm town just outside Vancouver, Canada. I grew up riding horses, shooting guns, and driving in trucks.
I never expected to be an author. A massage therapist? Yes. Take over the family construction company? Yes. But an author? No. Writing was something that snuck up on me and rooted itself into my life. It was beautiful to discover that love, and I’m truly grateful to say I’ve found my passion.
Since I’ve always been a creative person, it feels amazing to harness all of that energy and use it to tell a story I love. I enjoy incorporating bits of my real life into the stories I write. What parts are true? Hah. I’ll never tell—what would be the fun in that?
If I could leave y’all with one thing, it’s that life’s far too short to not live it out loud. Drown in your passions, hold on tight to the things that inspire you, and chase your dreams relentlessly. I can promise you without a doubt that you won’t regret it. I know I don’t.
Mad love,
Anne Jolin
Y’all can follow me on,
Website – www.annejolin.com
Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/authorannejolin
Twitter – @authorannejolin
Instagram – @annejolin
Goodreads – https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8388273.Anne_Jolin
“SHIT.” SHIT. SHIT. Shit. “He’s having another stupid party,” I murmur under my breath as I pull into the driveway. I momentarily consider parking Clifford, my ’99 red Chevy truck, on the street so that he doesn’t end up with a bed full of beer cans, but it’s three thirty in the morning, and out of sheer laziness, I opt to leave him in the driveway. Sorry, buddy.
I try to keep my tight, little hostess dress from riding up while I hop down from the truck. I teeter in my nude pumps on the cobblestone but manage to catch myself on the doorframe before I can execute an embarrassing bum drop in the driveway. Crap. I really should have changed at the restaurant. Maybe I can sneak into Jackson’s room to change before anyone sees me. I look a little too hoochy in my work uniform for my liking. I say the term ‘work uniform’ loosely because it’s less clothing than I’d ever normally be caught dead in. It’s a tight, black, too-short, tube top dress that hugs all my curves and makes my legs look longer than they are when paired with my ‘must wear’ high heels. Instead of chancing another round of ‘kiss the cobblestone,’ I slip off my pumps, grab my overnight bag from the backseat, and make my way towards the front door, sidestepping cigarette butts on my way. Gross.
Every light in the two-story box house is on and the music booming. My boyfriend, Jackson, and his roommates, Jayden and Jamison, have been renting the top floor of this house for the last eight months. You’d think I was making this shit up, right? Three guys, all with first names starting with a J, all tattooed, and all sharing a house... It’s a little much but true nonetheless. We all get a kick out of teasing them and have dubbed them the J’s. They hate it, which makes it all the more fun for the rest of us. I’m as surprised as anyone that they haven’t been kicked out yet. Lucky for them, their landlord is a sweet old lady who likes to smoke more than her fair share of Mary Jane and doesn’t seem to mind the endless partying.
I pull the handle of the front door, and in typical J’s fashion, it’s unlocked. Martha, Jamison’s black pit bull, is waiting for me on the other side wagging her tail like I'm her favorite person in the world.
"Hi, pretty girl," I say and give her a scratch behind the ear.
Martha is named after Martha Stewart. Jamison’s first love is making acoustic guitars, but his second love is cooking. The day he rescued her, she ate an entire slow-cooked pork roast. We all tried to tell him it was just a dog thing to do, but he was adamant it was because she had exquisite taste in food and thus named her Martha.
I finish saying goodbye to Martha and head for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Jackson’s room is the closest to the top of the stairs, and if I’m fast, I can get in there before any of the drunken party goers saw me. I hit the top step, make a sharp left turn, and scurry into Jackson’s room, slamming the door behind me. Success!
I drop my bag on the floor and reach for the hem of my dress. I can’t wait to get out of this thing and into a pair of jeans. I’ve begun to inch my dress up when I hear his voice. I freeze as the smooth, deep baritone rolls over me and my knees involuntarily clench together. Who the hell is behind me?
I spin slowly and nearly hit a fever pitch when I see him. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, but even then I can tell he would tower over me. Beautiful tattoos start at both wrists and disappear underneath the sleeves of his black White Chapel T-shirt. It is impossible not to notice that his shirt does little to hide the muscular chest underneath it. I lick my lips. His dirty-blond hair is buzzed shorter than his five-o’clock shadow, and his eyes are the palest color of blue I’ve ever seen in my life. Holy fucking shit! He looks just like Charlie Hunnam! I blink just to make sure that I’m not hallucinating, but he is still here, smirking smugly at me from the bed.
“Hi,” he says for the second time, shooting me a panty-dropping grin.
Oh God. I could do without the grinning Mr. Hunnam. It feels like my skin is on fire. If he grins again, I’m going to spontaneously combust. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You’re not allowed to be in here,” I stutter, tripping over my own words. Smooth. Really smooth. Wait, who cares if I am being smooth? I have a boyfriend.
“Jackson said I could borrow his computer.”
I look around the room, and to the left of him I see Jackson’s laptop lying on the bed, closed. “Well, it would seem as though you’re finished with it. So, do you think maybe you could get out now so I can change?”
He doesn’t answer me right away. Instead, I feel his eyes move up my bare legs and stop at the hem of my dress. I instantly curse myself for not pulling it back down before I turned around. I feel completely exposed. His eyes continue their lazy stroll up my body. My long auburn hair is falling in waves down my back, and he seems to appreciate the way my full chest is rapidly rising and falling. When his blue stare meets my green one, I feel like my entire body is buzzing with an electrical charge. This is what it must feel like to be on drugs, I thought.
He lets another slow, cocky grin spread across his face as he stands, engulfing the small room. “Sure thing, sweetheart.” He winks at me before closing the door behind him.
I stand against the wall, rooted in place as my chest continues to heave. Mary, mother of God, what in the name of all things holy just happened? My brain is working overtime trying to process the last few minutes when a loud laugh from the hallway startles me out of my daze and I quickly set about getting changed. Jackson will be wondering where I am by now, and I need to get my butt out there. I slide into a pair of old jeans and pull a white flowing tank top over my head. This will have to do, I think to myself and make my way out of the bedroom to find my boyfriend.
I round the corner to the kitchen and smile when I see Jackson. He is beautiful. Tall and lean with dark-brown hair just long enough to run your fingers through. He’s busy talking about the new Call of Duty with a group of guys I don’t recognize. He tosses me a goofy drunk grin as I get closer and pulls me to stand in front of him, wrapping his tattooed arms around my shoulders.
He leans down to kiss me on the cheek and whispers, “Missed you, baby,” before turning his attention back to the conversation.
As I pretend to listen to the boys talk about the most efficient ways to decapitate a zombie, I let my gaze drag across the living room. Before I even saw him, I could feel him. When his eyes meet mine, I shiver. I knew in my soul that this boy was as dangerous as a high-rise-building fire.
Mama said that you shouldn’t play with fire or you’ll get burnt, and I, Hannah Rhodes, have no intention of running into that fire. Ever.
Six Months Later
OH GOD. THIS is it. I’m dead. My tombstone is actually going to read ‘Te-kill-ya, it killed her.’ I never should have let the girls convince me that breakup drinking was a good idea. When is drinking ever a good idea? Ugh. I’m never drinking again. Lying on my side, I’m attempting to work up the courage to open my eyes and suffer the light of day. Okay, I can do this. I can open my eyes. I’m thirsty and I need to pee. This has to happen. Wake up, Hannah! Little mental pep talk over with, I decide to take the plunge. I start with squinting open my left eye and then slowly my right. I’m momentarily blinded by the sunlight streaming in from the window above the bed. Wait. What? I don’t have a window above my bed. My eyes fly open, much to the dismay of my pounding head and I start to take in my surroundings.
The first thing I notice is a large framed poster of Parkway Drive, the Australian metal-core band, hanging on the wall. Next to it, a tall, black dresser with an array of colognes strewn across the top and in the corner is what seems to be an old acoustic guitar. I don’t know this room. Fuck, I think I’ve officially screwed up something fierce. I groan out loud, and my mental ass-whooping comes to an abrupt halt when the arm underneath my head moves. Oh my God. An arm! A muscular, tattooed arm is under my head. I take a deep breath and begin a quick inventory of my clothing—or, in this case, my lack thereof. I’m naked. Great! Good job, Hannah. You’ve been single for barely a month and you’ve already landed your first one-night stand.
Operation Get Out of Dodge starts now! I slowly roll onto my stomach, and by slow, I mean a turtle could do this faster, shell and all, but I do not by any means want to wake up the owner of that arm anytime soon. Once I’m on my stomach, I steal a quick glance at him. He’s lying on his back, head facing away from me and the sheets are lying dangerously low on his hips. Well, looks like he’s naked too! I’m giving myself another mental chastising for my naughty shenanigans when he shifts in his sleep and the sheet inches lower. My mouth goes dry. I’ve lost all train of thought and I can’t help but stare. His body is stunning. A beautiful red-haired siren sitting on a rock in the water is artfully covering the left side of his torso and across the entire width of his chest, a menacing lion stakes its claim. I move my way down his body, his chest rising and falling slowly, and take in his chiseled abdomen. He looks powerful, even in his sleep, much like I imagine the predator tattooed on his chest would look like in real life. I take one last look at the sexy V leading beneath the sheets and sigh. He has the V... I smile at myself and dish out a mental high five. The owner of the arm is incredibly good-looking.
All right, ogling time is over. Plus, ogling someone while they sleep seems kind of creepy, even if you have already slept with them (but don’t remember). I ease off the bed and decide that locating my phone seems like step number one because I have no idea where I am and I’m sure I didn’t drive here. I find my iPhone lying on the floor, half underneath the bed. Ignoring the missed messages lighting up the screen, I type out a quick text to my older sister, Beth.
Me: I need a ride. Can you pick me up? I’ll call you in ten minutes and let you know where to meet me.
Second step, clothing. Of course I couldn’t have worn a sundress or something so that I only had to locate one item. I have to be a lover of layers, although most Canadians are given that the weather changes every five minutes. After searching high and low, I’ve found my jeans, boots, left sock, bra, sweater and jacket. Still at large is my right sock and my shirt—whatever, I could do without those. Another two minutes and I’m dressed. I don’t think I’ve ever dressed myself that fast in my life. I’m more of a ‘rip everything out of the closet until my room looks like a bomb went off’ kind of girl. Step three, find Michael. There’s no way Michael is going to be collateral of my one-night stand with the owner of the arm, whether he’s delicious or not. I know what you’re thinking... No, Michael’s not a person; he’s my handbag. I’m actually not a very preppy girl, for lack of a better word, but since my cousin, Wyatt, came out of the closet a few years back, I’ve taken a major liking to designer handbags. The one currently evading me was my green Michael Kors hobo, and come hell or high water, I am not leaving this place without it.
I am checking behind a large, leather chair in the opposite corner when I hear shuffling across the room. Oh God, please don’t let the owner of the arm be awake, I think as I turn back towards the bed. My one-night stand shifted in his sleep, again, and is now lying on his side facing me. FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuckidty, fuck! Screw Michael. I’m out of here. Right fucking now! I turn swiftly on the heel of my boot, ready to make a run for it, when I trip, sending my iPhone flying across the carpeted room. I send a panicked glance towards the bed. Still asleep. Whew! Man, someone’s looking out for me today, I think as I crawl towards my phone. Well, I thought wrong... I am no more than three feet from my phone when it starts to ring, loudly. Curse me and my stupid need to have everything at maximum volume all the time! I lunge for it, but in my haste, I only manage to send it flying farther away from me as my sister’s ringtone, “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye begins blaring from the tiny speakers. I’m going to kill Beth when I see her! Kill her right on the spot for choosing that terrible ringtone. I reach the phone and silence it. Still on my hands and knees, I look towards the bed, hoping the owner of the arm is a heavy sleeper. It was a false hope.
Looking back at me is a pair of pale-blue eyes I’ve only seen once before. Shit. I just had a one-night stand with the Charlie Hunnam lookalike.
