Page 5 of Sunrise & Serenity

My shirt was half-open. My hat was gone. And the button on my jeans was undone for reasons I’d rather not think about.

I didn’t read much of the article. Didn’t need to.

Career-ending injury.

Spiraling.

Off the rails.

The photos said the rest.

My shoulder twinges, and I ease my grip on the wheel.

That was almost a year ago. I’ve been back at Wild Ember for nearly six months now. These days, life mostly consists of fixing fences, arguing with my siblings, and trying not to think too hard about what comes next.

I figured I’d left photographers behind with bull riding.

Apparently not. Here I am, on my way to rescue one who’s already shaping up to be a pain in my ass.

Forty minutes later, I’m scanning the side of the road, my high beams cutting through the darkness and the falling rain. A flash up ahead catches my eye—faint orange hazard lights blinking through the rain. I ease off the accelerator and pull over near a small white SUV sitting nose-down in a shallow ditch.

I let out a low curse. A car like that, one that’s probably spent its life commuting between coffee shops and parking garages, doesn’t belong in the mountains. Or on a ranch.

I climb out and move toward it, searching for movement and finding none. The front wheels are in the ditch, the rear ones half-sunken. I eye the tires. Highway tread too.

“City girl,” I mutter, shaking my head.

I make my way to the driver’s side, where I spot a small figure huddled in the seat. Keeping my distance, I pause, giving her a chance to notice me. But she doesn’t. In fact… I lean in. She’s taking a damn nap. Irritation flares, and I rap my knuckles a little harder than necessary on the glass.

She shoots straight up with an audible shriek. It’s difficult to make out much of her features except that her hair is dark and her eyes and mouth are wide open in shock.

Despite myself, guilt over scaring her snakes through me. So I step back, gesturing for her to roll her window down. After a brief hesitation, she cracks it an inch.

“Sage Emerson?” I ask, as if there might be another damsel in distress stuck in a ditch up here.

“Yes.” Her breathless voice reaches me through the gap in the window. “Are you from Wild Ember?”

“Yep. Name’s Holden. Sterling asked me to come get you.”

She hesitates for another moment before rolling her window back up. As she pushes her door open, I take another step back and give her space to climb out.

Her foot sinks into the mud, and she wobbles. Instinctively, I reach for her, closing my fingers around her hand. It’s small in mine, dainty. But her grip is firm as I help her step out of the ditch. When we’re on solid ground, she smiles up at me, all big eyes and full, soft lips.

Pretty.

Jaw clenching, I let go of her and step back, taking her in properly. When Sterling told me he’d hired a photographer from New York, I formed a picture in my head. Snobbish, high-maintenance, unprepared. The sort of woman who’d spend a single day on a ranch and then run screaming back to Manhattan.

I might’ve gotten at least one of those things wrong.

Rain has plastered loose strands of hair against her cheekbones. A long skirt clings to her legs, and mud streaks her white sneakers. Her tan cardigan hangs open over a white tank that’s slowly soaking through. When my gaze catches on the lace of her bra, visible through the increasingly sheer fabric, I drag my attention back up.

Her mouth is still curved in a smile, but despite how she holds herself—straight-backed, face tilted up to mine—her eyes seem a little lost. She’s damp and a little messy, not New York City slick like I imagined. The sight of her, bedraggled yet still smiling, hits me low and sharp in the gut.

Attraction as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

I crush it, quick. I haven’t been with a woman since before my injury, and I’m sure as hell not interested in breaking the drought with one who’s going to be a fixture on the ranch for the next few months.

“Thank you so much for coming to get me,” she says. “This deer came out of nowhere, and I…” She gestures toward her car with a grimace. “I’m just glad I went this way, not that way.” Her eyes flick behind me.