High Meadow, page 25
“Jonas…”
“Not asking the question now, because I’m not sure you’re ready to say yes, but your son’s already given me his blessing when I asked him, and I want you to wear it knowing that I intend to make you my wife.”
I twist around so I’m kneeling in from of him.
“You talked to Jackson? When did you talk to him?”
He grins. “The day of the cookout, in your kitchen.”
I slap his shoulder.
“I knew you were hiding something from me.”
“Only because I thought you weren’t ready to hear it and your boy was leaving.”
I’m not usually one for impulse decisions, but I’m not holding this back.
“I’m ready to hear it.”
He looks surprised.
“Are you sure?”
I nod and try to stay calm but a bunch of Clydesdales are doing a polka in my stomach. Jumping in the deep end is not my usual MO, but I’m ready to leap.
“Try me.”
His hands cup my face and his eyes take me in, like he’s mapping out every line and feature.
“Marry me, Alexandra. You already own me.”
I grab on to his wrists and smile like a crazy woman.
“I’d be happy—”
His mouth drowns out the rest of what I intended to say, but I don’t care.
In no time he is divesting me of my clothes, layer by layer, until I can feel the cool breeze brushing against my bare skin. The waning sunlight is barely enough to warm me, but Jonas’s body radiates enough heat for both of us as he fucks me in the fresh mountain air.
It’s perfect—romance Montana style—and I’ve lost my heart to this man and his mountains.
“He’s beautiful,” I mumble.
We’re sitting on the paddock fence, a mug of coffee in hand, and a quilt wrapped around our shoulders, watching Missy’s handsome little boy nuzzle the mare for milk.
The little colt has gorgeous coloring like his mother, but the stronger rounded lines of a quarter horse, courtesy of Phantom.
“Have you decided on a name yet?”
It’s not the first time I’ve asked Jonas this question, but he keeps saying he hasn’t decided yet.
“You choose,” he says, glancing at me with a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Me? He’s not my horse, he’s yours.”
“Exactly, and I want you to name him,” he persists.
I roll my eyes at him and take a sip of my coffee.
“Mmm, I’ll have to think on that.”
He throws an arm around my shoulders, kisses the side of my head, and I snuggle into him.
Last night was amazing, but the chill eventually chased us down the ladder and into the house. This morning I was woken up by Jonas showing his appreciation again, but a lot slower and more thorough.
We grabbed the quilt and came out here to watch the sun come up again.
I straighten up and turn to face him.
“Thank you for a beautiful night.”
His eyes smile, the lines deepening on his face.
“It was my pleasure.” He drops a brief kiss on my lips. “And something I hope to repeat time and time again.”
Oh yeah, I was right to take the leap.
“High Meadow,” I suddenly blurt out.
“Sorry?”
“Missy’s colt, his name should be High Meadow.”
He looks at the foal and then back at me with a warm smile. He reaches over and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“High Meadow, huh? I like it.”
* * *
THE END
* * *
Keep reading for a sample of the next book in the series:
High Stakes
High Stakes
COMING APRIL 18, 2022
When her sister, Pippa, goes missing, Nella Freling tells her boss she’s taking time off from her job as a research librarian, hops in her sensible van, and heads south of the border to Montana. However, local police don’t seem too concerned about a missing woman living in her motorhome. So Nella will have to look for Pippa by herself, unless she can convince a highly recommended tracker to help her, but sadly the rude and angry cowboy won’t even listen to her at first.
But Nella can be persuasive.
* * *
The first time High Mountain Tracker, Fletch Boone, laid eyes on Nella, her ass was stuck in his grocery cart. The next time was at the ranch; she was wearing mud, head to toe. But when he catches sight of her a third time, hanging off a cliff, he can’t turn his back again. What Nella lacks in survival skills she makes up for in sheer determination. Unfortunately, neither of those is enough protection when bullets start flying.
Fletch has no choice but to jump in before the woman gets herself killed.
And that would be a damn shame.
Nella
* * *
“How can I help you?”
The woman behind the desk has a friendly smile, but her eyes are cautious.
“I have a reservation. Antonella Freling.”
I picked the Sandman Motel because I can park right in front of my unit, which I prefer.
“Ah, yes. I have you here. Four nights?”
“Yes.”
“You requested the end unit with a kitchenette?”
“That’s correct.”
I’m not here to see the sights or waste money and time on eating out. Much cheaper and faster to pick up some groceries and fend for myself. I keep a small cooler in my van for drinks and something to eat in case I’m out all day.
She slides a form across the desk and I quickly fill it out before handing it back to her.
“I’ll need a credit card, please.”
I look around the small front office and shudder at the pictures of proud hunters with their prize kills. My dislike must’ve shown on my face.
“Not here for hunting I gather?” she inquires, a little smirk on her face.
“No. Not a fan,” I admit.
I’m the biggest hypocrite on two legs because I won’t say no to a good steak from a poor anonymous cow, who never had a chance to start with, but I can’t bring myself to try game meat from an animal at least able to live its life free. Somebody offers me venison and all I can envision is Bambi with those big brown eyes.
My meat comes shrink-wrapped in plastic so I can keep my emotional detachment. I tried a vegetarian lifestyle for a little over a year but found it a challenge living in a small mountain town in British Columbia, Canada. My first juicy burger after that episode was a purely orgasmic experience.
She smiles, a sparkle in her eyes. “We cater to a lot of hunters, but they won’t be coming in until next week when the season opens. Until the fifteenth only bowhunting is allowed and there aren’t that many of those. Mostly locals anyway.”
I mock-wipe my brow and smile back as she hands me the key card.
“Unit twenty-three is yours.”
“Thank you. Oh, where can I find the closest grocery store?”
“Just down the road. It’ll be on your right-hand side as you get into town. Rosauers, you can’t miss it. If you need anything else, my name is Martha.”
“Thanks so much, Martha.”
I’m almost out the door when I think of the more important question.
“The police station, is it easy to find?”
After shooting me a curious look, she gives me directions. The station is only a few minutes from the grocery store, so I’ll head there first and pick up supplies after.
My unit is nothing special. A generic motel room with an art-by-numbers painting on the wall over two double beds, a dresser holding a TV, a functional—and thankfully clean—bathroom, and beside it a tiny kitchenette with microwave, hotplate, coffeemaker, and a bar-size fridge. It’ll do.
I spend twenty minutes putting my stuff away, toiletries lined up on the small vanity in the bathroom, some things in the dresser and the rest of my clothes on hangers in the narrow closet. It does little to give the room more personality. I don’t own much aside from work clothes and those are all rather drab in grays, blacks, and some muted tans. No color other than the single pair of jeans I own.
Hiding my light under a bushel, that’s what Pippa always tells me. She’s my opposite in every way: colorful, exuberant, and adventurous. I’m a strictly inside-the-lines person, while she breaks every conventional rule she can.
I went to the University of British Columbia studying library and information sciences, while she went to trade school to become a mechanic.
As different as we are—coming from the same nest—we’ve always been close. Especially after our parents died in a house fire eighteen years ago. We’re all the other has, which is why I can’t simply sit around and wait to hear something. I need to find her.
The Libby Police Station is a nondescript red brick building and I snag a parking spot when a vehicle backs out.
“Yes?” The not so friendly officer behind the desk looks at me like I’m here to confess a crime.
I automatically feel guilty, even though I’m pretty sure I haven’t broken any rules in the past few decades.
“Is Officer Franklin available? I spoke with him on the phone the day before yesterday. My name is Antonella Freling.”
“He’s on patrol. What is it regarding?”
“I filed a missing person report on my sister Fillippa Freling with him.”
He types the name into her computer.
“Right. I have it here. It says she drives a motor home?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since August twenty-sixth.”
“Correct. I was hoping perhaps you’d found out something more?”
“Doesn’t look like it. We’ll continue to keep an eye out for the vehicle.”
His tone is dismissive, much like Officer Franklin had been when I filed the report. I don’t know why I thought a visit here would have a different result. Maybe a bit more urgency, but it doesn’t look like that’ll be the case.
I get it, my sister is a bit of a nomad, roaming the country, often staying off the grid but she would always let me know where she’d be and for how long. Exactly what she did this time. Except she was coming home, she said she’d be there on Monday. Only two-and-a-half hours to get from Libby to Cranbrook, British Columbia, it’s not like she had a long way to go.
I know my sister. If she had run into any trouble causing a delay, or even in the unlikely event something changed her mind about visiting, she would’ve let me know.
Unfortunately, my gut feeling Pippa is in trouble doesn’t go very far with law enforcement. I can’t really blame them, from what I understand quite a few people go missing in these mountains, exposed to the elements, so they’re not going to waste resources on a woman who travels in her home. Not unless I have something more concrete to give them, which is why I’m here.
My boss wasn’t happy with the short notice I’d be taking time off, but that can’t be helped.
My bread and butter is research so I’m not entirely unprepared. I know what to look for, I have every camping app downloaded on my phone, and I have the name of someone who might be able to help me.
If only he’d call me back, I’ve already left a couple of messages. If I haven’t heard anything by tomorrow, I’ll chase him down.
I’ll do what I have to find Pippa.
Fletch
* * *
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
I don’t bother answering.
The punk is squirming, but I have my knee in the middle of his back with my full weight on it. I pull a few zip ties from my pack and strap his wrists together.
Then I sit him up, right next to the young bear he shot with his goddamn hunting rifle. I prop the rifle up against the bear as well. Next, I pull out my phone and take a bunch of pictures while the kid is swearing at me. Every time he tries to get up, I kick his feet back out from under him.
It’s easy for me to tune him out, I have lots of practice. My hearing has gotten very selective after years of living in virtual silence. The only thing that penetrated it was the rifle shot earlier. Startled me so bad I fucking dove right for the dirt. It took me a few seconds to register what I heard, then I was on my feet and aiming straight for the excited laughing I heard down the trail.
Fucking poachers. No more than kids. Unfortunately, the second guy took off running while I was taking this one to the ground.
It takes me half an hour to get the kid and the bear back down to the trailhead where my truck is the only one parked now. Catching my breath, I take my phone out. Only one bar, but enough to dial out.
“Sheriff’s Office.”
“Ewing, Fletch Boone here. I’m up by the Granite Ridge Trailhead parking lot. Got a dead bear with a bullet hole, the rifle that shot it, and the punk who fired it. Second kid got away. You wanna come pick this one up?”
Guess it was a slow day because less than half an hour later his cruiser rolls onto the parking lot, followed by a pickup. The kid loudly complains about his rights as Ewing hoists him to his feet and tucks him in the back of his vehicle. The deputy stepping from the pickup is already poking at the bear.
“Trust me, he’s dead,” I tell him dryly.
“Want it?” Ewing asks as he walks up.
He peeks in the back of my truck where I left my bow and the rest of my gear.
“Me? No. Still have plenty of bear from last season. Got a tag for a bighorn this year.”
“Bighorn? No shit? Those are hard to come by.”
“Especially for bowhunting,” I add. “Tried every year for the past six and this is the first tag I got my hands on.”
I only hunt with a bow.
Don’t like guns. I may wear one, but I don’t like it. It would have to be an extreme circumstance before I pull my weapon, let alone fire it. Instantly my mind goes back to the spring, when my boss had the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head. That counted as an extreme circumstance, but even knowing it would’ve been Jonas’s life otherwise doesn’t stop the sour burn in my gut. It was James who pulled the trigger, but we all carried that kill.
“It’s a fresh kill, shouldn’t be wasted,” the sheriff points out before asking me, “Mind if I drop it off at Pete’s?”
Pete owns a butcher shop and processes game for folks who don’t like doing that dirty job or don’t have room for it. Most hunters I know clean their own like I do.
“Have at it. And by the way, the second kid that got away? He’s driving a rusted, blue Chevy pickup, my guess would be 1985 or thereabouts. Rear bumper is tied down with wire. Shouldn’t be hard to find.”
“Sounds like Willy Stubblefeld,” the deputy suggest.
“Yeah. We’ll go have a chat with Willy after I drop this other punk off. Don’t know him, do you?”
“Never seen him,” I answer.
It takes all three of us to hoist the bear in the back of the deputy’s pickup.
“If there were any bighorns around, they’re probably gone by now,” Ewing observes. “May wanna check south of Cedar Creek. Talked to a guy the other day who spotted a couple of sheep up there.”
“Thanks.”
I’ve got a few other spots I want to try first, but if I’m running out of time, I know a couple of logging roads that’ll get me close to that creek.
“See ya later, Boone, ‘preciate the assistance.”
I wait until they’re driving off before packing up my own gear, but the moment I get behind the wheel, my phone rings.
“Yup.”
“Fletch, it’s Ama. Are you anywhere near town?”
“I’ll be driving through in about five minutes. Why?”
“Would you mind picking up some coffee? I would, but I’m in the middle of dinner prep and—”
“Sure,” I cut her off.
I need to get some stuff myself anyway. I’ve been putting it off because I hate fucking grocery stores. Always too many people getting in my way. I like to go in, grab what I need, and get the hell out of there.
“Ah, you’re a lifesaver. Thanks. No coffee in the morning would’ve made for a grumpy bunch tomorrow.”
“True.”
She’s right about that. All of us count on that big pot she always has ready to get us going.
“You stopping by for lasagna?” she asks as I start the truck.
More often than not I eat at my own cabin, instead of at the house with the other guys. I don’t mind my own company, I’m used to it, and I happen to enjoy cooking, which I know the others do not.
Having said that, Ama’s lasagna is legendary and I have to drop off the coffee anyway. She usually has dinner ready at five, before she heads home, which means I’ll still have the whole night to myself.
“You bet,” I respond, knowing it’ll please her. “See you soon.”
Ama is not only the wife of my teammate, James, but the den mother, manager, and housekeeper, for the entire crew at High Meadow Ranch. Jonas Harvey—my boss—owns it, but Ama runs it. She even tackles the office work for High Mountain Trackers.
Jonas Harvey was the commander of our Special Ops combat tracker unit. He was the first to be aged out and bought High Meadow ranch, building its name as a respected horse breeding facility. Then, one by one, he brought our former unit together to form High Mountain Trackers.
I was the last to join, running my own small tracking venture just outside of Fernie, British Columbia. I liked being on my own. My cabin in the mountains was secluded and I kept my interactions with other people to a minimum.
But Jonas had been relentless in his pursuit to find me and, finally, convince me. Not with promises of money—which wouldn’t have meant much to me—but by offering me the only family I’ve ever known; my team.
