Chasing the Wild

Book 1: Crimson Ridge

by Elliott Rose

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Erotic & Steamy Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

In this steamy age-gap, forbidden-love cowboy romance for fans of Lyla Sage, Bailey Hanna, and Elsie Silver, a veterinarian is snowed in on a remote mountain ranch in Montana with the one man she definitely should not be fantasizing about…her ex-boyfriend’s sexy, brooding father.

I’ve always done what was expected of me. Layla Birch, the good girl.

Forced to grow up too fast. To take care of everything myself. I had a plan. Only, I didn’t count on him. Colton Wilder. The cowboy nearly twice my age. He’s my dream man. One who takes care of me, gives me a job, and makes my pulse thud harder every time he comes near.

My ex-boyfriend’s father.

The nights are long and cold on top of this mountain. As the snow grows thicker and the tension builds between us, we’re both inching closer to a line we shouldn’t cross. Each day, it grows harder to resist the man who looks at me with longing in his eyes. It’s tempting to forget about being the good girl for once. No one would find out. Would they?

Release date: September 30, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 460

Sample

Straight to voicemail. Again.

I huff out a frustrated breath and drop my forehead against the steering wheel.

For fuck’s sake, let my douchebag ex-boyfriend answer his phone for once in his goddamn charmed life.

Keeping my head rested against the baking hot plastic, I put the phone to my ear, trying his number for the fifth time. My eyes squeeze tight, already knowing the outcome, but for whatever reason I persist anyway. It doesn’t even ring, just goes straight to his non-personalized voicemail service.

He’s either lost his phone, lost his charger, or is lost at the bottom of a bottle somewhere.

Maybe all of the above.

Kayce Wilder was all blue eyes, dimples, and cowboy charm… until he wasn’t.

I’m just thankful to every fucking star in the sky that it was a six-month fling. By the time we might have even considered ourselves to be dating, our relationship—if you could even call our situationship that—was already over.

While I never did find him face-first in some other pair of tits, I had my suspicions. Kayce wasn’t intentionally mean, or hurtful, or abusive. In fact, he’s the type of happy drunk liable to pass out in the corner anywhere, but that is his problem. He’s a waster and a drinker who is coasting through life on his good looks while busy getting black-out drunk at three in the afternoon on a Tuesday.

Making all his rodeo talent and big dreams that he dazzled me with that night we first met seem laughable in comparison to the reality that is Kayce. Underneath that facade, when I finally met the scared little boy, I realized just how much of a waste of time he allowed himself to be.

Chalk that life experience up to being one of the greatest blessings of my life. I’m relieved it only took me six months of giving parts of my life to him, rather than six years.

Or worse.

I shudder, despite the sweat dripping down my spine in the stifling heat.

Imagine if I’d accidentally gotten myself pregnant by a guy like that.

The horror.

And if anything, that was the foundation of our relationship. Sex. Not that it was anything to write home about, mind you. He was ok, and I was ok, and that seemed to be enough for me to tolerate some mediocre fucking. Now that I think about it, we didn’t exactly talk much at all.

Between my hours working at the bar and picking up as many overtime shifts as I could around my studies, there wasn’t a lot of time for dating or hanging out. But when we did find the time, it was easy to fall into bed with him. Kayce was a good time. He made me laugh. And for someone like me, who desperately wanted to forget the difficulties in my life that stifle my laughter, all he had to do was hit me with that cheeky blue-eyed expression, and I’d fold. Promising myself that I’d tell him to sort his shit out, or clean out the trash, or do his own fucking dishes in the morning.

God, I’m so glad I don’t have to come home to a sink stacked full of dirty dishes anymore.

But guess who’s the sucker sitting in a sweltering car with a backseat full of boxes that contain his crap he left behind at my house?

Kayce had been ‘in-between’ places to live, so I foolishly said it would be fine for him to store a few things until he had a new address. His stuff has been in a closet for the past couple of months while I’ve been finishing my latest vet apprentice placement, but now I’m on my way to the next job, a new town, and I really need to cut cords with this guy once and for all.

My first instinct was to chuck them all in the dumpster behind my apartment when he didn’t return my calls, or emails, or messages on Instagram. Fucking useless little shit. But when I rifled through them, I found his childhood photo albums, and school awards, and cute ribbons from junior horse events. All things from his time living in the Midwest with his mom.

From what I know, she’s a pretty shitty parent, and I know all about those. But something tells me there might be a time in his life when he’ll want to have these memories. The greatest love of Kayce’s life right now comes in a bottle, but perhaps in the future, he’ll regret not taking care of these things.

Even if he can’t appreciate them right now.

I bang the phone against my forehead. Think. Goddammit.

All I have is his address scribbled down on a Post-it note from when he gave it to me ages ago, sometime around when we decided to go our separate ways. I don’t even know if that’s his exact address anymore in this tiny little middle-of-nowhere-Montana town. He’s even more transient than I am, and that’s saying something. What I do know for certain is that he’s here somewhere in this quaint little mountain village and it’s the only reason I’m sitting parked on the side of the road.

Crimson Ridge is on my way to my next job, and surprise-surprise, I’m once again being Layla Birch, eternal good girl and pushover, by calling in here to do my ex a favor because it is kind of on my way.

He knows money is tight for me—story of my goddamn life—until I get to this next job for my placement, but I have to pay for this tank of gas anyway. I’ll need it to get me over to the next town where I’m due to start work on Monday.

So, while I sit here sweating like a pig, with my copper curls turned to frizz around my face, I can’t help but notice the lazy summer afternoon unfolding all around me. Like I’m somehow not part of the world that belongs to young women my age. I watch as girls with their tiny shorts and bikini tops lounge in the park across the road. They’re lying propped on their elbows in the cool grass, laughing and giggling behind their hands. Each of them eye-fucking the parade of cowboys hopping out of their big trucks as they pull up and park in the wide main street.

Days like today, I feel a thousand years old, not twenty-five.

I flip through the same sequence on my phone, refreshing notifications to see if, just on the off chance, Kayce has replied within the last two minutes to either my emails or my texts. Just a simple reply is all I’m after, to let me know that he’ll be here in town to meet me, like I’d asked.

For fuck’s sake. Still nothing.

Chewing the inside of my cheek, I dig around in my purse for the address. Hoping to god it hasn’t got rubbed off, or torn somehow. The yellow Post-it is a bit faded, covered in crumbs I have to brush off, and more crumpled than the last time I looked at it. Fortunately, it’s legible.

Kayce’s pigeon scratch handwriting scrawls over the page in blue ballpoint.

3488 Devil’s Peak Road, Crimson Ridge.

It sounds like something out of a slasher movie. One where the girl gets chased through the woods by a guy in overalls and a hockey mask wielding a chainsaw.

Looks like I’m going to have to take a drive out into hillbilly territory. Because there is no way in hell I am leaving here with these boxes still in my possession. I don’t care if I have to dump them on the front porch for him to find whenever he gets back from his latest bender.

“Fuck this shit.” Cursing out loud, I throw the car into drive. There’s minimal traffic and I pull out, searching for the gas station I know I passed earlier on my way in. This tiny, one-horse town vibe is cute enough, though, and I kind of wish I could eventually find a job in a place like this when I’m qualified and graduated. Tall trees line the middle of the long, straight road, with quaint Victorian-era wooden storefronts along each side of the wide boulevard.

This place has a Stars Hollow feel about it, where they probably have regular community gatherings. Annual pumpkin growing contests, cider festivals in the autumn, summer hoedowns under the twinkling night sky complete with couples slow dancing to a live band beneath strings of fairy lights.

The big red and white ‘Crimson Ridge Fuels’ logo looms up ahead, and as I turn in, bumping over the rough curb, my little car looks like an ant compared to the cowboy-sized wagons and Chevy’s rolling around this place.

I pull up next to the pump and unstick my thighs from my seat one by one as I climb out the driver’s side. Ew. The cotton of my tee clings to my lower back, and I have to discreetly readjust where my denim shorts dig into my inner thighs.

This is one of those rare blink-and-you’ll-miss-it towns where they still allow customers to fill up prior to paying at the checkout. Cute.

Punching the Fill option, I start pumping the gas and take the chance to sort my hair out. Tugging on the tie, I shake the mess of pale copper curls around my shoulders before I pile it back up in a loose top knot again. It is way too fucking hot today to be bothered with wearing my hair down. Sure, my white tee and faded denim cut-offs would look great with my hair all nice and hanging over one shoulder—but today is about being a practical bitch and getting shit done, which means I’m not out here dressing to impress anybody. Especially not Kayce, if I ever do track the bastard down.

Behind me, an impressive black truck pulls in. One of those really big Dodge’s. Racehorse sleek, practical as an ox, absolutely enormous. As it pulls up on the other side of the pumps, it dwarfs me and my Honda runabout. Immediately, my stomach does a little swoon over how guys with trucks like that are just effortlessly hot.

I’m subtly trying to check just how wild my hair is in the reflection of my car windows, which is ridiculous when my only agenda here is to fill up with gas, offload these damn boxes, then carry on my way out of this town. But even so, I sneak a peek at the vehicle pulled up alongside mine. All I see when the door opens on the far side is the brim of a black cowboy hat and some messy dark curls.

The pump clunks to a sudden halt, jolting me back to earth before I can catch a proper glimpse, and I quickly hang the nozzle up.

Christ, Layla, get it together.

Before darting off inside, I glance at the dial to double check the total. The numbers are broken—of course they are, fucking typical—but I know what it costs on average to fill my car’s tank up, and the eighty-nine dollars left in my bank account will easily cover that, plus some Ramen for dinner until my next payday.

I push through the heavy metal door and hear the metallic chime go off. A fan hits me with a momentary breeze, but it’s just hot air being blown as an unwelcome greeting straight into my face. The floor is in desperate need of a mop, and the place gives off a funky smell of gasoline and grease.

There’s a bulldog-looking man in a stained undershirt behind the counter, who rings up the register as I walk towards him.

“Just the fuel today?” He’s scowling, with slicked-back gray hair and a faded tattoo wrapping his bicep—something military. This guy looks like he eats Jack for breakfast and Jim for lunch.

“Yes, please,” I chirp. Trying my best to plaster on a smile in the face of his dour customer service, and wave my debit card. He points a stubby finger at the grimy card reader and the screen lights up.

I hold my card over it until it beeps, and am already walking away when he clears his throat with a little more aggression than is really necessary.

“Says declined.” When I turn around, his glare is unnerving.

Jesus. What would he do if I actually tried to steal something? Probably hurdle the counter and kneecap me with a baseball bat. So much for the friendly, small-town vibe. Why does this asshole allow customers to pump first if this is his response when something like this happens?

“Oh.” My cheeks heat, and I let out a little flustered laugh. I know there’s enough money in my account. But in scenarios like these, I can’t help but feel a tinge of shame. There’s nothing worse than feeling like I’ve been called out or have failed in some way.

Which is stupid, I know, but it is what it is.

“Let me try again.” Smiling through a grimace, I hold the card out again.

Ogre-man grunts something and jabs at some buttons on his register, before the terminal lights up. The way he’s studying me makes my neck prickle, my hand is now far less steady than it was a moment ago, as I carefully hold the card flat against the screen this time. Trying to make sure it wasn’t a contact error or something stupid like that.

Again, it beeps. Lifting the card, words I absolutely do not want to see are stamped in bold black capitals across the screen.

DECLINED.

“You got another way to pay?” His tone is accusatory, and as he exhales sharply the guy slaps the counter.

What a grade-A asshole.

“Um. Just give me a second.”

A tightness forms in my throat as I grab my purse and start making a show of rummaging through it for the alternative payment method that I know fully well doesn’t exist. I’m so certain there was enough money in my account, having checked only this morning to make sure before I drove out here. But now I’m panicking and doubting myself all because this asshole is being such an over-the-top wanker about it.

As I’m searching, I hear him make a dismissive noise. “You people are all the same. Turn up here from out of town and think you can rip off businesses like mine. If you can’t pay, lady, you’re going to have to siphon that fuel out of your tank.”

I’m stammering in the face of his brash rudeness and feeling clammy from head to toe. If I can’t fuel up today, and get to my placement in time to start work tomorrow I’ll undoubtedly risk losing this job. My next three months of bills and expenses and Evaline’s payments start going up in smoke in my mind’s eye.

“Please… if you can just give me a moment.”

Over my shoulder, I hear the door bang open and the screech of the chime. Oh, god, now there’s a queue forming behind me to enjoy my humiliation first-hand.

“Just… could I try the card one more time, please?” I try forming a smile while a sting pricks behind my eyes. “I know there’s enough money there to cover the gas.”

Although, now I’m actually sweating. Doubt has crept in. Maybe there was an unexpected bill I forgot to take into account?

But the man is shaking his head and growling something at me about siphoning and the nerve of fucking him around and my cheeks are flaming hot.

“Silly air-headed girls like you have no idea how to be responsible. Always coming in here running up bills you can’t pay for. That’s you parked at pump three? The Honda?” He sneers at me and looks me up and down, before jabbing a finger in my direction. “Stand right there and don’t fucking move. I’ll deal with you in a second.”

I’m stunned. My hands are shaking. This prick has no idea about me, or my life, and thinks he can talk to me like a chauvinistic, condescending asshole. I feel like he’s slapped me, the tirade is so unexpected.

My step falters backward as I step aside, making way for the next person in line. What the fuck am I going to do?

As I’m spiraling in the middle of this shitty gas station in the middle of nowhere, a low, smooth voice cuts in.

“Christ, Kurt. Take your heart pills already. I’ll cover it.”

I’m rendered speechless.

The man beside me reaches across and taps his card on the screen. Green lights all perk up, indicating a successful payment, and the asshole behind the counter mutters something resembling a thank you.

But that’s not exactly the reason I’m left without the ability to form words.

A stranger just paid for my fuel, and he is absolutely someone who I had no idea could exist in real life.

He’s a wall of rugged man, and I have to tilt my head a little in order to take all of him in. With a faded black t-shirt revealing a tanned neck, scruffy dark curls, and a short beard with a bit of salt and pepper gray in it.

When he turns around to face me, I’m immediately caught in the snare of his bright hazel eyes. There’s something wild about him, and I am nothing but a fawn stunned in high-beam headlights.

“After you, ma’am.” His voice washes over me like rain after a long, hot day as he gestures politely toward the door with something in his hand. When my eyes drop down, they catch on the jet-black cowboy hat in his big paw.

Oh, god… and then his tightly fitted wranglers.

This is the real danger out here in small towns like this. Cowboys with impeccable manners who look like they can sweep you off your feet one minute and rail you until you forget your own name in the back seat of their truck the next.

I stammer something incoherent and move toward the door. I’m still not sure what just happened back there, but am more than relieved to escape the silent glare of the prick who will never get my business again in this lifetime.

Ever the country gentleman, this cowboy holds the door open for me. Behavior that is entirely foreign—especially coming from a stranger. In my world, I’m used to fending off men with wandering hands trying to cop a feel at two a.m.

Once back on the forecourt, it’s like the world rushes in again. Birds chirp, the drone of a truck rattles past, and the sweet fragrance of jasmine climbing a trellis drifts from the cafe next door.

“Thank you.” I blurt out. Regaining use of my tongue. “You didn’t have to do that.” I twist my purse in my hands.

Gorgeous-cowboy drags a hand through his unruly hair, before putting his hat back on. As he does so, I catch a little glimpse of the lines around his eyes that don’t exactly tell me his age, but they place him somewhere in the older category.

This man certainly isn’t in his twenties, that’s for certain. Possibly his late thirties.

Jesus. My thighs clench as I take him in properly now. He leans a shoulder against the tailgate of his enormous vehicle.

“No sense arguing with Kurt over a tank of gas. He’ll take any opportunity to make up for having a small dick.”

Something between a cough and a laugh bursts out of me. I was not expecting that the third thing to come out of this man’s mouth would include the word dick.

But I’m certainly not mad about it.

“It was very small dick energy, wasn’t it.” I roll my lips together. Immediately my slutty brain makes a comment about how this man is the complete opposite of that. Big dick energy radiates off him like the sun.

Something about my response seems to please him. I don’t hate the way that makes me feel, like I would enjoy finding ways to please this rugged man.

“Even so, thank you, that was very gallant what you did in there.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “Gallant?”

“Uhh, you know…” I’m stuttering under his intensity. “Like, chivalrous.”

“Sounds like you’re calling me old. Or old fashioned.”

My mouth opens and closes a couple of times, thinking I’ve offended him somehow, but then I spot the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

He’s teasing me.

Dear sweet Jesus. This man is hiding a sense of humor underneath that gruff exterior.

This isn’t fair.

“Let’s just say that girls like me don’t happen to come across men like you very often. I mean, especially not men offering to pay for a whole tank of gas out of the blue.” I gesture between the two of us.

He fixes me with a hard look. One that leaves me swallowing down a lump in my throat.

“You’re hanging around the wrong men in that case.”

Somehow, I feel like he just told me off and turned me on in the same breath.

“Don’t I know it.” I offer a small smile. My mind wanders briefly to the boxes in my back seat and Kayce while I shudder a little on the inside, considering the current mess I’ve found myself in. All because of his useless ass. The exact type of wrong man.

I want to ask what his name is, but something tells me that’s not wise. What do I need to go asking this man’s name for? It’s not like I’m ever going to see him again. Unless… unless what? I could always offer to pay him back for the fuel. But even then, to what end would that be. I’ve still got nearly a year’s worth of study and placements ahead in my future.

I’m in no position to even be thinking about dating, or doing anything but putting my head down and working for at least the next twelve months.

This feels like one of those sliding doors moments. In another time, if we were different people, maybe then I would ask his name, and he’d ask for mine. A world where I have the job of my dreams, running stables and taking care of horses all day, and I can buy a whole cart of groceries without checking my bank balance.

Instead, I’m standing here in the beating sun, as sweat trickles down my back and my thighs stick together. I’ve got nothing more than a declined card and a tank full of fuel thanks to the charity of a stranger.

All the while, God's favorite cowboy watches me from where he leans casually against his truck. A vehicle that’s probably worth more than my entire annual take home pay.

“I hope it didn’t ruin your visit to Crimson Ridge.” His hazel eyes are still fixed on me with a keen expression. Even though his gaze might be glued to my face, I can feel him taking in every inch of my appearance.

My body heats under his perceptive stare.

“How do you know I’m just visiting?” I tilt my head to one side. For some reason he’s still standing here talking to me in this grimy gas station, and I’m making no effort to move toward my car. Not only that, but I can’t help but feel like he’s definitely, absolutely flirting with me a little.

His attention feels warm and not too forward. This stranger isn’t being overly direct, but there’s something sparking between us, and I’m sure it isn’t just my imagination.

One of his dark eyebrows lifts a little and he nods towards my license plate. The one that says OLEANDER TOWN AUTO, from the dealer where I bought it years ago. “We don’t have those kinds of plates here.”

“I could be borrowing a friend’s car.” I tease.

This time, his eyes most definitely drop down my body, and every inch of me comes alive.

“A friend, hmm?” He mulls the word over. “Is that the kind of friend that comes with a dick, or without one?”

Well, fuck. Is he asking if I have a boyfriend?

“Uhh. No friend.” I chew my cheek a little. “Boys my age aren’t worth my time, I find.”

That makes his eyes snap up to mine. Oh, holy hell, I might as well just wave a big sign that says please fuck me, I’m single, with that kind of statement.

He rubs a thumb along his jaw, still leaning against the truck, and he looks so damn good I want to melt. As he shifts his arm, it drags up the hem of his t-shirt a little, revealing a sliver of tanned skin above his belted jeans. Am I having heart palpitations? My pulse thuds relentlessly in my ears.

This man is stunning, a little rough around the edges, with a lump at the bridge of his nose hinting at stories from his past. This cowboy is just my type, only I’ve never actually met someone like him in the flesh before. He’s compelling, attractive, enticing in a way that makes my skin prickle with excitement.

“So, if you’re staying here in town… what are you doing on Friday night?” His voice is all rumbly, and I feel it right in my chest.

But then I realize what he’s asking. Or maybe, is about to ask.

And I fall back to earth with a jolt.

“Oh, no.” I shake my head, and his expression hardens. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was saying… I really am just passing through.” Jesus, I’m such a fucking idiot. It took me all of two seconds to lead this guy on, and now I feel like the world’s biggest cock-tease.

In another time, or life, I could maybe be Layla Birch: carefree woman who says yes to handsome strangers asking her out on a Friday night.

I could be the woman who gets to enjoy an easy conversation with a gorgeous man such as this one. Indulging in drinks and stolen glances and the giddy moment of wondering whether the night might end with being treated to more intimate pleasures.

Wondering whether there might be the type of goodnight that involves a brush of lips and sensual glide of hot, seeking tongues.

Instead of all that, I’m stuck on a hamster wheel of bills to pay, a qualification to finish, and forever feeling older than my years.

When, by all rights, I should be dating and kissing handsome men with enthralling eyes and unruly hair.

“Well.” He pushes away from the truck, and suddenly ice solidifies in the air between us. Those shoulders of his are now tense beneath the thin cotton of his tee. “Travel safe, then.” And as quick as a flash, he’s fishing his keys out of his back pocket and is on the move, opening the cab of his truck without so much as another look in my direction.

I make a start toward him. “Wait, I need to pay you back for the gas.” God, I’ve fucked this all up.

“Don’t worry about it.” He swings up into the driver’s side and slams the door.

The giant black truck roars to life as he revs the accelerator, taking off out of the gas station. Leaving me standing there coated in sweat and shame and feeling my heart sink into the oil-stained concrete.

* * *

My foul mood only worsens when I plug the stupid hillbilly address into the map on my phone, and all I can see is a long-ass road finishing in a dead end. The red pin glares back at me like a big middle finger.

Surely, it can’t be right.

I pinch the screen to zoom out, and this address isn’t even hillbilly territory. It’s on Mars.

The location is so far out of town I want to cry. It’ll use up a large chunk of the gas that the handsome stranger just paid for in order for me to drive out there and back again.

Kayce Wilder can go fuck himself, I bet he wrote the address down wrong—it would be typical of him—so I decide to get resourceful and go in search of some local knowledge. Crimson Ridge is small enough, surely someone will know something, but I certainly won’t be setting foot back inside the gas station.

So I park my car under the shade of the trees lining the median and make my way into the cute little cafe next door. The outside is surrounded by jasmine blossoms winding along the porch, shading the footpath from the beating sun. The place is quiet, with the lunch rush long gone, and when I cross the threshold, cool air welcomes me inside. Thank fuck for that. My shoulders sag with relief.

A girl around my age is behind the counter washing some glasses, so I make my way over. She’s got long, poker-straight black hair, with bleached ends. Her tank top is way too tight, but hey, if that’s what gets her tips then so be it.

Sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

I can hardly judge, considering the places I’ve had to work over the years just to take care of myself.

“Excuse me.” I plaster on my best friendly smile. “Would you be able to help me with some directions?”

“Sure.” She eyes me and tosses the hand towel over her shoulder.

Loudly chewing gum, she looks me up and down as I approach, which immediately sets my teeth on edge. Whatever, I don’t need to be her friend. I just need some fucking confirmation that my trek to the middle of nowhere isn’t going to be a colossal waste of time.

“This address here, can you tell me if it’s real?” I show her the screen of my phone, the one with the pin located way off in the middle of nowhere. “Like, is it legit? I’m trying to find a friend, but I think the address might have been written down wrong.”

The girl taps at the screen and then gives me an odd look. The kind of sidelong glance that seems weirdly knowing and curious at the same time. It makes me feel uncomfortable within an instant, like I’m missing something and she’s in on a joke that I don’t get.

Her lips curl into more of a sneer than a smile. “You wouldn’t be the first girl trying to find your way up to his place.” She hands me back my phone and leans on the counter. Putting her tits right in my face. Like she’s pissing all over her territory or something.

Fucking hell.

Kayce Wilder. Certified man whore.

“I’m taking it you certainly know how to get there, then?” I’m about done with all of this and have half a mind to just toss this girl the boxes right here in the middle of the cafe and let him come and get them from his fuck buddy.

She just gives me a coy smile and smacks her gum loudly.

“Might have been there before. But you’re a bit young for him, ain’t you?”

What? I can’t even with this level of weirdness going on. It’s hot as hell and I’m dying for a cold glass of water and feeling just about done with being the good girl.

“Look, it isn’t like that. Can you just tell me if the address is correct? That’s all I need to know.” I shove my phone in my pocket and give her a pleading look. Yep, that’s right. I’m at the lowest ebb yet, groveling to some slut who my ex has obviously been fucking. Or maybe is currently fucking. Or, I don’t know… I just want to get this dealt with so I can get on the road.

“That’s the one. Right at the top of the mountain. It’s a dead end, so you can’t miss it.” She picks up a dirty glass and runs it under the tap. “Hope you don’t get lost… if the beasts up there don’t eat you, the wildlife might.” And with that, she saunters out through the back with a flick of her hair.

For fuck’s sake.

I shove my sunglasses on and stomp back to my car. Cursing Kayce and his unique brand of uselessness the whole way as I start to follow the directions on my phone.

The drive takes me away from town, and pretty quickly, I start climbing what must be Crimson Ridge. I keep glancing at the screen perched on my thigh, and there’s no other place to g