Cry Wolf (Wolves of Angels Rest #7)(11)

Back to her. Back to—

“Holy f*ck.”

LT glanced in the rearview mirror. “Care to elaborate?”

Diesel twisted in his seat to stare at the billboard going by, then he dropped back into his slouch. “No. This place is whack. Too much money, not enough room to run.”

And good thing he was running away. Because that beautiful smiling face on the billboard—“Last week to catch Willow Raleigh and the Eagle Boys!”—was no one he should’ve been chasing.

Even if she’d been a nobody like him, it wasn’t like he could let himself catch her. His life up until now had never let him hold onto anything for long. And the fight against the Kingdom Guard only made that worse.

He let out a slow breath, as if he could force the lingering smoky sweetness out of the tiniest capillaries in his lungs. He had his friends and he’d gotten a f*ck. That was all he could ever allow himself to want.





Chapter 5

What the hell was she doing in this podunk little town?

Willow slowed the van behind a red tractor doing three miles an hour down the middle of the street. The smell of its exhaust knocked her back a couple decades to life back home. She’d loved it but she’d left it, too restless for something she couldn’t name. So why had she decided to spend her time off in a place basically exactly like it? Seth and Arlan had thought it was the dumbest idea ever, preferring to take their break in Sin City. She’d just turned off the highway and already she was thinking they might’ve been right.

If she couldn’t find her music while surrounded by luxury and the best sound crew around, what made her think this Angels Rest place was going to do the trick?

But it was too late now. She’d given up her room at the hotel, and Seth and Arlan had gone off on their own. She didn’t have anywhere else to be.

Not that she was going anywhere here either, since she was stuck behind this damn tractor.

Before she got all road rage-y, she angled the van into a free spot in front of the feed store, parallel parking with the ease of many years spent horning into too-small places outside crappy clubs around the country. The guys had wanted to ditch the van when they upgraded to the tour bus, but she’d refused. It was just nostalgia, but a country girl knew better than to abandon her wheels just because something flashier came along.

She got out and slammed the door hard to make sure it latched, then she resettled the baseball cap with her ponytail pulled out above the strap. From the feed store, the smell of cracked corn and wood shavings powdered the air. Oh geez, just like home.

She strolled down the street, fists shoved in the pockets of her denim jacket, back toward the main drag, such as it was. A few shops lined Main Street on either side, looking a little worn but chipper enough in the crisp afternoon light.

A little walk would be good after a late start out of Vegas and the long drive. Not long enough, however, to figure out why she was here.

Not because she was chasing after a certain no-good cowboy who’d sneaked out of her bed without so much as a…a something that would’ve been better than nothing, even if she couldn’t figure out what that might’ve been. Just…not sneaking.

But whatever. She’d been snarling out all the things she wanted to say to him while she looked for her stupid room key and right then it had started to sound like a breakup song. So she’d quit looking for the key and sat down with her guitar and gotten the start of a chorus down.

She sang it under her breath as she walked.

One night, one flight, one ray of moonlight.

One kiss, one touch like this, one swing and a miss.

One tear, one beer, and dreaming of ‘the one’ when I should’ve steered clear.

Not that she’d thought Diesel was the one. Obviously. It was just a song, after all.

She worked her way up one side of the street—past a low-slung county building, the small general store, a diner—and then down the other side—an antique/thrift shop, an empty storefront, another diner—humming variations for the verses.

Abruptly she stopped in her tracks. That wasn’t so bad. Maybe this Angels Rest and Recovery getaway really would get the music flowing again.

There didn’t appear to be anything else to do in town anyway.

The wafting perfume of too-strong coffee lured her into the diner. She glanced at the name as she entered. Grampa’s. At least he made coffee, and that was good enough for her.

She settled at the counter and reached for the folded paper menu tucked between the napkin dispenser and two not-matching salt shakers.

Eyeballing the offerings, she was aware of the server approaching. “Hi,” she said distractedly. “Can I please get a…” She glanced up and realized the old man wasn’t looking at her. He was making a rude gesture to someone out the window. Across the street, a grey-haired woman was standing outside a place named Gramma’s with her hands on her hips. She returned the gesture with extra gusto, whirled, and went back inside. Willow swiveled back on the counter stool. “Uh…cup of coffee?”

The old man grinned. “Sure thing, sweetheart. That it for ya?”

“How are the gravy fries?”

“House specialty,” he proclaimed. “Straight line from my gramps to me to you.”

“An order of that too, please.”

“Gravy’s been simmering all day waiting for the dinner rush, but it’ll be a minute on the fries.”