Page 8 of Take Me Home

I’m looking through the traffic that’s swooshing through airport arrivals, trying to find a car with the Whispering Pines Ranch logo—the outline of a stallion surrounded by mountains—when a rusty old Chevy pickup drives up to the curb, stopping the pickup lane. A large clump of dirt falls off the back of the truck when it comes to a stop, dropping unceremoniously onto the blacktop and then breaking into a million smaller chunks of dirt.

I shake my head. Have they ever heard of a car wash?

A tall man with broad shoulders steps out of the dirty vehicle. He’s wearing a dark blue Carhartt coat, one he obviously wears for durability and not style because it’s faded and dusty just like his jeans and boots. I try to pry my gaze away from him and look for my ride, but my eyes linger on those wide shoulders. They’re impressive shoulders. The man may be dusty, but I can appreciate a nice pair of shoulders when I see them.

He walks around the front of the pickup and turns so I can see his face. His hair is mostly covered with a brown cowboy hat, but wisps of dark hair escape at his nape. His eyebrows are dark, and a beard covers his jaw. The man’s eyes are narrowed so I can’t tell what color they are, and his eyebrows are so deeply furrowed, I wonder if the expression is painful.

I wrinkle my nose. The man’s scowl ruins any sexy cowboy fantasy I may have had. I sniff and look away, gazing through the rush of vehicles once more with no luck.

With a heavy sigh, I turn back toward Mister Sunshine. He’s still scowling, but now he’s holding a wrinkled piece of paper with the name Harriet scrawled across it in messy handwriting.

I blink, making sure I read the name correctly. Surely that’s not my ride. I’m not the only Harriet in the world. I wait another minute, watching the cars go by, before taking a step towards him.

He turns his sharp glare in my direction. Even the way he’s holding the paper with my name on it—lightly between his thumb and forefinger where it could blow away at any moment—says he wants to be anywhere but here.

I clear my throat. “Excuse me, sir. You’re not from Whispering Pines Ranch, are you?”

A heavy sigh that’s almost a growl comes out of him. “Yes. Are you Harriet Townsend?”

I brighten. “I am.”

“Why’d you stand there silently this whole time? We don’t have all day. It’s almost a two-hour drive back to Whispering Pines.”

Wow. Who kicked his puppy?

I huff a laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, I thought a company car would pick me up…not…” I stop and motion to the dirty monstrosity before us. “Whatever that is.”

He snorts. “Okay.” The man turns, muttering something under his breath that sounds like you’re going to have a hell of a time at the ranch.

It’s hard to tell between the scowl and the furrowed brows, but I believe there was an eye roll hidden in there, too. “Are all these bags yours?” he asks.

I glance down at my two suitcases. “It’s only two bags.”

He closes his eyes briefly before grabbing the slightly smaller one and lugging it into the back of the dirty pickup. I gasp and lean over to investigate the bed of the truck. It’s not as dirty as the outside, but it’s still dirty.

While I’m distracted, he does the same with the larger suitcase, then he dusts his hands on his jeans and looks me up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want to change before we start the drive?”

What the hell is this guy’s problem? I look down at my black leather knee-high boots that have a practical kitten heel. Perfect traveling shoes. Nothing crazy. It’s not like I’m wearing my Christian Louboutin stilettos.

I paired the boots with wide-leg black pants, an off-the-shoulder cashmere sweater for extra warmth, along with my simple Burberry trench coat. My hair is down and slightly curled at the ends. Nothing too fussy. I realize this is Montana, not California.

“I’m perfectly fine in this, thank you.”

He sighs, heaving those thick shoulders that are wasted on a man with his personality, then heads straight to the driver’s side of the truck. He doesn’t offer to open my door for me.

My biological father hires some questionable employees, that’s obvious.

I heave open the truck door, and it squeaks in outrage. Carefully, I step inside and slide onto the leather seat. It’s mildly dusty inside the cab, but much neater than the outside. I have to use both hands to close the heavy door.

I’m not even buckled yet when the man on the bench seat beside me presses his foot against the gas pedal, and the pickup lurches into traffic. I squeak out a startled gasp, clutching the seatbelt and buckling it quickly.

I shoot a glare in his direction, but he either ignores me or doesn’t notice. For twenty minutes, the man stares straight out the front window. His hands grip the steering wheel so tight, his knuckles are white. And he’s sitting straight enough in his seat to make his back ache. He’s like this until we’re out of the airport traffic and on the open highway. The mountains sprawled across the landscape before us are capped in snow, and the sun is setting behind them in brilliant oranges and reds.

“It’s gorgeous,” I say in awe, my eyes glued to the front window. I watch the mountains for a long while. Only when we’re completely out of the city, surrounded by miles of untouched nature, do I turn toward the man and realize he never introduced himself.

“So, you work at Whispering Pines?”

He grunts.