Page 21 of Whiskey Burn

“I can see you,” the voice gruffs.

Fuck.

Slowly, I uncurl, mentally noting instant weapons at my disposal. The coffee pot. Smash it and I have an instant shank. Plastic bag in the waste basket. Smothering time, motherfucker.

I bolt upright in bed.

Holy shit.

A gasp hitches my chest before I remember the steps to breathe.

Inhale, exhale. Real simple, Delilah.

It’s a man. A massive man. A cowboy. He stands in the middle of the room, fisted hands on his hips. Dark hair peeks from the edges of his black cowboy hat. A chiseled jaw with thick scruff and lush lips. Tight black T-shirt. Well-worn denim. Boots. Sleeves of black ink wind their way over his tan, corded forearms, reminding me of smoke.

At the sight of him, I forget fear. All I see is him.

Who is he? Why’s he in my room? And who decided he gets to look this good?

We gape at each other. His eyes flick down at my bare legs, my thin camisole. My cheeks heat. I grab at the sheets, yanking them back over me.

And then he’s growling, “Who the fuck are you?”

I almost laugh at the biting rudeness of his question. But his rudeness fuels my own.

I lift my chin. “None of your fucking business.”

“You’re on my ranch. It is my business.” His voice is gravel and fire. I shiver as it drags over me.

So do his eyes.

Those broad shoulders tense. His big hand goes to his back pocket. “Talk. Now. Else I call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing.”

“Please. No cops,” I blurt, and his brow furrows into an even deeper scowl. I drop the sheet before gathering it up again. My heart hammers. “I didn’t break in.” I rack my brain for the name of the man from last night, something related to nature, to a blue just like his eyes. “River! I met him last night. He said I could stay here.”

The cowboy sighs long and loud at the ceiling. Mutters some words that sound like brother, idiot, kill him. “Goddamnit.”

Brother. Brother.

I narrow my gaze, watching the annoyance play out on his face. “Your brother’s a saint. He was nice to me, which is more than I can say for you.” I didn’t expect the hostility; a friendly face would be nicer. At the Velvet Belles, sass gets me tips, but judging by the expression on this grumpy cowboy’s face, my charms won’t work with him. Which only makes me want to try harder.

He stares, and I stare right back. That square jaw of his tics, his eyes watchful and vigilant.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out of here as soon as—” I tilt my head as it dawns on me that I have no idea where I am. “Where am I, anyway?”

“Tempest, Montana. Copper Run Ranch. Weston Whiskey.” Each word is an annoyed grunt.

Whiskey.

The word transports me back to the Penthouse. To that damn USB in the bottom of my boot. To Sammy’s words.

If you don’t run, Delilah, you are next.

It’s perfect. Hope fills my heart. If someone is after me, a small ranch in Montana is the last place they’d ever think to look.

A soft whinny and the stomp of hooves interrupts my thoughts. My head whips to the window. I gape as a mahogany-colored horse pokes its nose through the open window.

I giggle. “Is that a horse?”