Page 11 of Total Jane Wreck

Heat gathers behind my cheeks. “Sorry about that. Whenever a horse gets hurt, I feel their pain so acutely that, well, I barf. And Copper Cash and I are just about besties. So, if you could give me a chance to—”

“Stop,” Chet says. “No need to beg. I was just messing with you.”

His face, illuminated by firelight, projects extreme self-satisfaction. Jeezle-Pete, he’s a smug bastard.

“Beg your pardon?”

He sighs. “Axel Rose did mention hiring you. And when I said, ‘Hell no, I won’t permit some strange girl to live and work here without at least checking her references,’ she threatened to quit if I didn’t let you stay. So your job here is safe. For now.”

“Oh.” Sparks fly as a log that’s practically burnt all the way through collapses. “Thank you?” I don’t mean it to come out as a question, but somehow it does.

“You’re welcome,” Chet says tightly. “By the way, I knew who you were the moment I saw you on the trail. Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

I reel back. “Can you blame me? I didn’t exactly make a strong impression.”

“Hmm.” He narrows his eyes. “I disagree. A good impression? Not at all. But you sure as hell made a strong one.”

“Right.” I force out a small laugh. “How’s your ankle?”

Chet tips his glass as if toasting its medicinal properties. “Bruised. But more bruised is my pride.”

“Does that happen a lot? The bruised pride thing?”

“No comment,” he says.

“Understood.” I gesture toward his book. “Want to hear something crazy? I was reading Escape from the Springs right before I decided to leave Kentucky for Colorado. It’s such a good book, don’t you think?”

“Sure.” He pats the cover. “Just a shame that Marigold Sanders takes credit for writing it.”

I blink and tilt my head. It’s like I’ve been presented with a puzzle that ought to have a solution but doesn’t. “You think James wrote it.”

“Not think. Know.” He waves a hand, maybe at the dying stars overhead, or maybe at James’s unresolved ghost, out there somewhere on the mountain.

“But how do you know?” I ask. “Have you met Marigold? Did you pour whiskey down her throat and force a confession?”

“I have met her,” Chet answers. “But I didn’t get her drunk or interrogate her. It wasn’t necessary. Everyone knows that she didn’t write that book. I’m not saying that her romances aren’t weirdly addictive. But Escape is a whole different animal. Different voice.”

“Maybe she’s more versatile than you think,” I say, feeling my hackles go up.

Chet must sense my irritation. “Why,” he asks, “does it matter whether or not she wrote it?”

“Because,” I explain, “that book means a lot to me. Its depiction of freedom and escape is so authentic. So if its author is a fake, then, well, the book isn’t what I dreamt it was.”

“I see.” Chet takes another sip of his drink. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “What did you need to escape, Jane?”

“That’s an awfully personal question.”

“Don’t answer it then.”

I force a grin. “Guess I’ve just always had a wanderlust. I long for a big adventure under an even bigger sky.”

Chet stares at the ice cube in his glass, swirling it. “Hate to break it to you, but the sky is the exact same size, no matter where you are in the world. I know it looks bigger out here. Problem is, that only makes you realize how small you are. You know, in the grand scheme of things.”

Thanks for the man-splanation, I want to say. “That’s very profound,” I say instead. “Thank you.” It comes out sarcastically.

Chet chuckles. “Any time.”

“How often do you ride?” I ask. “Are you a genuine cowboy, or just a dilettante?”