Chapter 1
Cotton Candy
SLADE
When I see the woman in the bubblegum-pink bunny costume on the side of the road, for a brief moment I wonder if I’m hallucinating.
It wouldn’t be the first time. There was that one occasion my hockey teammates and I took ayahuasca down in Mexico as part of a team building exercise. It didn’t go well for me back then and maybe now there’s a flashback coming to haunt me.
But no. As my truck approaches, the candy-colored vision doesn’t dissolve. Instead it becomes clearer, more distinct. When I pull over, I cut the engine, push my Stetson back on my head, and get a good picture of what I’m looking at.
It is indeed a real, live woman. She’s dressed in a tight pink satin corset with fluffy feathers around the neckline. Big bunny ears atop her hair, which is long and silky and just as pink as her costume.
My gaze snags on the curve of her waist, then the fluffy bunny tail perched on top of her lush, round butt, currently wrapped in hot pink tights. I sit there for a full three seconds with my hand on the door handle before I remember how to open it.
I approach slowly, hoping she won’t be scared off by a gruff 6’5 man approaching her.
“Uh, miss?” I offer. “Can I help you?”
She’s technically on my family land, but I can’t say I’m too threatened by her trespassing. She’s basically a tuft of cotton candy in the form of a beautiful woman.
And she is beautiful. A heart-shaped face. Flawless skin. Pillowy lips. Big eyes with irises a warm brown color that make me think of my favorite whiskey.
Those big brown eyes look up at me anxiously. “Do you know whose property this is?”
“Sure do. Why do you ask?”
She points at something beyond the fence line, partly hidden by the tall sweetgrass. “There’s an injured dog right there. It was limping across the road and I nearly hit it, but now it’s crossed over the fence line and I can’t reach it.”
I look where she’s pointing. Sure enough, there’s a dog laying in the grass, panting. Its fur is an indeterminate color somewhere between beige and grey, the coat matted and filthy. There’s blood on its hind left leg.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Hang on.”
I find the top rail of the fence and go over in one easy movement, the same way I’ve been clearing fences on this land since I was four years old and following my dad around like a shadow. My boots hit the ground on the other side, sending up a dust cloud.
I approach the dog. Big scared eyes peer up at me. I go slow. No sudden movements, no looming, just making myself smallerand less threatening, which isn’t easy when you’re built like I am.
Growing up on a ranch, you learn from an early age how to deal with frightened, injured creatures. It’s one of the first lessons my dad ever taught me: scared animals need to know you’re not the worst thing that’s happened to them today.
I kneel by the dog.
It whimpers as I slowly move to examine the injured leg.
“Easy there,” I murmur as soothingly as I can. “Just wanna see what happened. We’re gonna help you.”
I know the dog probably can’t understand a single word I just said, but my low, reassuring tone of voice seems to do the trick. It lets me touch it. The obvious injury is the mangled leg, but I need to check if there’s anything else wrong before I try to move it.
The dog doesn’t object to any other part of itself being touched, so I figure it’s probably safe to move.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell the dog. As if it understands.
I go back to the beautiful woman in the bunny costume, currently leaning over the fence and watching me anxiously.
“Leg’s in bad shape,” I tell her. “We gotta get it to a vet. I’ll drive over to the other side of the fence so I can lift it into my truck. Come on over and keep the dog company for a second. It’s scared, but it’s docile. I wouldn’t touch it though, just in case it bites.”
I hold out a hand to her. My hands are not pretty hands. Ranch work and hockey have seen to that, twenty years of both leaving their marks in scar tissue and calluses and fingers that have been broken and reset more times than I can count. She takes it anyway without hesitation.
Her small fingers disappear into mine and I’m suddenly very aware of how busted up my hands look next to hers, even if she doesn’t seem to mind the difference. Her handsare soft. Manicured with pink nail polish. Bejeweled with rings.
