Let It Bree. Colleen Collins
hitchhiking in the middle of nowhere,” she said quickly, switching topics. “I, uh, missed my ride from the stock show and a really nice truck driver said he’d give us a lift to Nederland so I said okay but I didn’t want to be dropped off in the middle of a town, so I told him just to leave us off on the side of the road. Figured we’d get a lift somehow to Chugwater, but nobody was stopping, so I jumped out in front of your stopped van…” She sucked in a breath, hoping the story sounded relatively sane and plausible, and it should considering she’d left out the parts about the gangsters and guns.
As he stared at her sorta stunned like, she realized this was the first moment she’d had a chance to really see him in the light. His hair was thick, blond. And he was solidly good-looking. Put him in a double-breasted suit and a gray felt hat, he could star as one of those hunky, hard-boiled detectives in one of Grams’s gangster flicks.
But she doubted this guy even owned a suit. He looked extremely comfortable in his faded jeans and blue-and-gray flannel shirt. Hard to fit his down-home look with that fancy van, though. The two didn’t mix.
He finally broke the silence. “Well, you’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
She hoped that was true. Thanks to this guy, she was, for the time being. Tomorrow, she’d figure out how to get back home, clean up this “alleged theft” confusion, and get back to leading a normal life.
“What’s your name?” asked Bree. She’d hovered next to the door as he’d filled out the registration stuff in the lodge lobby, so she hadn’t overheard any information, such as his name or where he lived.
“Kirk Dunmore. Yours?”
“Bree Brown.” She eyed the TV, knowing in her gut that the story of a Brahman bull trotting out of the Denver Stock Show would be on the news. Escapee livestock was big news. Last year when those llamas had bolted free and run down the I-25, it’d been on all the stations.
She’d check the TV later, when she was alone.
Then she thought, with a sickening realization, that chances were Grams, who watched the news religiously every evening, would have seen a story about Bree and Valentine riding out of the coliseum and be worried sick.
Bree looked around the room for a phone. “I need to call home.”
“Yeah, I need to phone my fiancée, too.” Fiancée?
Bree pushed her hand through her curly hair, unsure why her stomach felt as though it had just flipped upside down. Couldn’t be because of Kirk’s remark. Like she cared. She eyed the sandwiches Kirk had purchased. My insides are flip-flopping because I’m hungry. After she’d eaten something solid, she’d feel lots better.
But when she looked at Kirk, her stomach did another somersault.
The way he stood—legs spread, arms crossed solidly over his chest—he looked like a rough and rugged explorer, the kind of guy who fearlessly tackled anything in the world.
What did he say he had in the back of the van? Pickaxes. Shovels. Oh yeah, this man treated life like an adventure. Only a man like that would understand Bree’s own yearning to strike out on her own and discover the world.
She dipped her head, rubbing her chin against the slick rayon of the jacket he’d loaned her. She caught a whiff of scent—his scent. Male. Musky. Inside her, the curl of heat ignited, spreading through her like a small fire.
Kirk scraped his hand across the stubble on his chin. “I’ll go check my room now, call Alicia, then come back for that sandwich.”
Alicia? Had to be the fiancée. Bree nodded absently, slipping off the jacket so she didn’t accidentally sniff any more of his lethal male muskiness.
He left, the room door clicking shut behind him. She’d do the same with her reactions. Shut them down. Tight. After all, he was just a nice guy who’d helped her out of a jam. By this time tomorrow, they’d both be back in their separate worlds, never to see each other again.
3
BREE RAN BAREFOOT through a jungle, crowded with vibrant green leaves, birds, hanging vines. Her feet slapped hard against cold, damp earth. Pounding footsteps followed, tracking her. She glanced over her shoulder. Dense foliage blocked her assailant’s face. Her gaze dipped. He wore turquoise boots.
Bang-bang-bang.
Bree jolted awake. Cold perspiration slicked her body. She blinked into the dark, her gaze following a stream of moonlight from the window next to her bed.
Outside stood a massive, dark shadow close to the tree line.
Valentine.
She released a shaky breath. I’m in the lodge. We’re safe.
Bang-bang-bang!
Swiping a shaky hand across her brow, she glanced at the digital clock next to the bed—3:00 a.m. Who would be knocking on her door at this time of the morning?
The thugs?
Her stomach curdled. Could they have traced me to this lodge in the middle of the mountains? Maybe not such a far-fetched idea considering they were determined to get Val, which meant big money for them, bigger money for whatever breeding outfit illegally sold Val’s sperm. And for that kind of money, the thugs would go through anything, do anything, to get the prize.
Even take my life.
Hairs stiffened along her arms. Don’t start spooking yourself.
Hell, if they’re that smart, all they’d have to do is look behind the lodge and see Val plain and clear in the moonlight. No need to knock on any doors and alert people that they’re stealing a bull!
Anyway, it was probably just some happy drunk, home from one of those rowdy Nederland bars, knocking at the wrong door. If the knocking continued, she’d call the front desk. Let them know some poor drunkard was knocking at random rooms.
She swung her feet over the side of the bed and edged through the dark across the thick rug, trying to remember where she’d put that phone after calling Grams earlier and leaving the message.
“Bree?” Bang-bang-bang. “It’s me, Kirk.”
She stopped in her tracks. “Kirk,” she whispered. With a burst of pent-up energy, she ran to the door and threw it open.
A blast of frigid night air assaulted her. Shivering, she hadn’t thought about how she was dressed, or wasn’t dressed. All that stood between her and the freezing mountain night air was a spaghetti-strap pink T-shirt and matching undies.
Wrapping her arms around herself, she scooted back as Kirk stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
“A-anything wr-wrong?” she asked through chattering teeth.
“Don’t you hear them?”
“Th-them?”
In the distance, a bottle crashed, followed by raucous laughter.
“It’s that damn Harley party,” Kirk huffed. “Those bikers have been going full steam ever since I went to bed. Haven’t slept a wink.”
Despite the cold, she smiled. With three wild teenage boy cousins living next door, she was used to all kinds of racket, day and night. If she could sleep through beer keg parties, band practices and a bunch of teenage boys screaming and whooping it up, it was nothin’ to sleep through some drunken biker party.
“Where’s the light?” Kirk asked.
She fumbled along the wall behind the door and flipped a switch.
The overhead light flickered on, casting the room in a warm, yellowish glow. Fortunately, the room heater was quickly warming things up, erasing the night chill.
Kirk, disheveled in a pair of worn jeans and a partially buttoned flannel shirt over a dark blue T-shirt, blinked and looked around.