Chapter 5- Saved.

The moment I crossed the threshold of Sawyer's front door, I became restless.

Not because I was entering the home of a complete stranger who, for all I knew, could have been a serial murderer.

No.

That possibility seemed almost trivial compared to my actual predicament.

From this moment forward, every lie I told would have to be carefully calculated.

One inconsistency. One poorly considered answer. One innocent question I hadn't anticipated, and my entire fictional identity could collapse.

I was beginning to reconsider my choices.

Perhaps I should have told the man the truth from the beginning.

Hello, Sawyer. My name is Mia Sterling. I recently discovered my husband in bed with my brother, and rather than confront the spectacular destruction of my marriage, I drove several hundred miles until I crashed into your fence. Would you be so kind as to conceal me in your charming little town while I figure out what the hell to do with my life?

Nope.

That wouldn't do.

Besides, things were considerably more complicated than a cheating husband and an exceptionally unfortunate family reunion.

William Peterson was the Governor of New York.

I was Mia Sterling.

And Malcolm Sterling was my brother.

The three of us appearing in the same scandal would be an absolute feast for the press.

Journalists would descend upon us like vultures, demanding answers to questions I couldn't possibly answer.

How long had the affair been going on?

Who knew?

Had there been previous incidents?

Was our marriage merely a political arrangement?

Had I suspected anything?

No.

That was the humiliating truth.

I hadn't suspected a damn thing.

I didn't know how long William and Malcolm had been involved.

I didn't know how many times they'd betrayed me.

How many evenings we'd spent together as a family while the two of them exchanged perfectly innocent smiles across the dinner table.

How many times they'd occupied my bed while I was away.

God.

My bed.

The image threatened to return, and I immediately forced it away.

I wasn't ready.

Not yet.

Because the more I considered it, the less certain I became about anything in my marriage.

Five years.

Nearly five years of loving a man whose life I apparently knew nothing about.

Had any of it been genuine?

Had he ever loved me?

Or had I simply been another carefully selected piece in the composition of William Peterson's perfect public image?

I pressed my lips together.

Absolutely not.

I was not going to have another emotional collapse in front of a cowboy I'd met by destroying his property. I had already exhausted my daily allowance of public humiliation.

Instead, I sat on Sawyer's old couch, clutching my canvas tote while he moved around the living room making phone calls.

The first was to a man named Ricky.

Apparently, Ricky was the mechanic.

The second was to someone named Ben, who would be coming to repair the fence temporarily.

I listened with growing discomfort.

Sawyer wasn't particularly upset about his damaged property, but he was clearly concerned about the cattle.

And understandably so.

Once Ricky removed my Mustang, the enormous opening in the fence would become painfully obvious.

A magnificent invitation to freedom.

I imagined several cows gathering around the opening, exchanging conspiratorial glances before making their escape into the West Virginia wilderness.

Free Willy.

Except with cows.

And frankly, I supported their decision.

Who wanted to spend an entire lifetime grazing peacefully in a picturesque pasture only to end up on someone's dinner plate?

Not me.

If I were one of those cows, I'd be halfway to Pennsylvania by morning.

Then another image entered my mind.

Sawyer.

Running down a deserted country road in his cowboy boots, desperately chasing a stampede of rebellious cattle while shouting obscenities into the night.

His hat flying off.

His arms waving.

The cows refusing to cooperate.

Oh, God.

A chuckle escaped me.

I immediately covered my mouth.

Too late.

Sawyer stopped talking.

He turned.

And stared.

Those warm brown eyes settled on me with an intensity that made me straighten my posture.

I blinked innocently.

He continued staring.

Was he beginning to realize that the woman he'd rescued from his fence was an absolute menace? Because, given the evidence, I could hardly blame him.

All right.

A time of arrival had been established.

Ricky would be here shortly to inspect what remained of my vehicle, and Ben would meet Sawyer at the damaged fence.

Which meant there was nothing left for me to do but wait.

So I sat there like a mischievous schoolgirl who'd been escorted to the principal's office.

Quiet.

Watching him.

Waiting to discover what came next.

Sawyer finally broke the silence.

“I need some coffee.” He glanced at me. “Want some?”

I smiled politely. “Thank you, but I don't drink coffee. I'm more of a matcha or green-juice person.”

Sawyer stopped.

He placed both hands on the table, lowered his head between them, and muttered something beneath his breath.

I couldn't decipher the words.

The tone, however, strongly suggested another one of his impolite curses.

I narrowed my eyes.

He lifted his head.

“Can the princess settle for water?”

Princess?

Rude.

Completely rude.

I bit my tongue.

“Yes. Thank you. Water would be lovely.”

He stared at me for a second.

Then he disappeared through an adjoining doorway.

Presumably the kitchen.

I heard cabinets opening, the refrigerator door, the clinking of glass. And two minutes later, Sawyer returned carrying a glass of water.

“Here you go, Princess.”

I accepted it.

“Thank you, Cowboy.”

His eyebrows rose.

There.

If we were assigning titles, I was perfectly capable of participating.

Something suspiciously close to amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He muttered something else I couldn't quite decipher before turning around and disappearing into the kitchen again.

I sat there.

Alone.

Observing.

It was instinctive.

I'd spent most of my life studying details other people overlooked.

Light.

Texture.

Color.

The relationship between objects and the spaces surrounding them.

A person's home could reveal an extraordinary amount about them without saying a single word. And Sawyer's house was beginning to tell me a story.

The living room was rustic without appearing intentionally designed to be rustic. There was no calculated attempt at creating a country aesthetic. Nothing looked as though it had been purchased because an interior designer had decided it complemented the room.

The wide-plank floors were worn in places.

The leather couch had softened with age.

A heavy wooden coffee table sat in front of me, bearing several scratches and one pale circular mark from a glass someone had clearly neglected to place on a coaster.

I stared at it.

Uncivilized.

There were photographs scattered throughout the room.

Not professionally arranged.

Not coordinated.

Just memories occupying whatever space had been available when someone decided they belonged there.

I wanted to examine them more closely.

But getting up and inspecting a stranger's family photographs while he was making coffee seemed intrusive even by my current standards.

So I remained seated.

Then the smell reached me.

Coffee.

Strong coffee.

I wrinkled my nose.

Of course Sawyer drank coffee.

Probably black.

Probably strong enough to dissolve metal.

I took another sip of water.

I'd never understood humanity's collective devotion to the stuff. Between the acidity and the way too much caffeine could leave the nervous system overstimulated, I'd always preferred matcha.

A gentler release of caffeine.

Antioxidants.

L-theanine.

Civilization.

Sawyer returned carrying a steaming mug.

Black.

I knew it.

No cream.

No sugar. Probably.

Nothing.

He took a long sip.

I stared at him.

He lowered the mug.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You're starin'.”

“I am observing.”

“What's the difference?”

“Intent.”

His eyebrows drew together.

I smiled sweetly and took another sip of water.

He stared at me for another second.

Then shook his head.

“Princess.”

“Cowboy.”

And somehow, despite the wrecked car, the demolished fence, my twenty-four dollars, my fraudulent identity, and the catastrophic implosion of my marriage...

I almost smiled.

He was about to say something smart when a tremendous thud rattled the front door. And before I could ask what the hell that had been, the door flew open.

A thunderous bark followed.

Then came the unmistakable sound of an enormous animal shaking itself violently enough to send droplets of God-knows-what flying in every direction.

I froze.

A dog.

Oh.

My.

God.

Every ounce of sophistication I possessed abandoned me.

I jumped onto the couch.

Not sat on the couch.

Not gracefully repositioned myself.

I climbed onto the cushions and stood there like a woman escaping rising floodwaters.

My water sloshed over the rim of the glass.

My canvas tote was clutched against my chest. And an enormous yellow Labrador retriever came charging directly toward me.

Of course he did.

Naturally.

The dog had obviously smelled the fraudulent woman sitting in his master's living room and had come to expose me.

I screamed.

Actually screamed.

“SAWYER!”

The Labrador's tail wagged so violently that his entire backside moved with it.

That did absolutely nothing to reassure me.

He was approximately three feet away when Sawyer caught him by the collar.

“Duke!”

Duke ignored him.

His eyes were fixed on me.

Mine were fixed on him.

We had reached an understanding.

He knew I was an impostor. And I knew he knew.

“Get him away from me!”

Sawyer looked from Duke to me. Then at my feet planted firmly on his couch.

Then back at Duke.

His mouth twitched.

Don't you dare.

He laughed.

Not a polite chuckle.

Not a restrained expression of amusement.

The man threw his head back and laughed hard.

“Princess,” he managed, “I think the animals are after you.”

I wanted to punch him.

“This is not funny.”

That only made him laugh harder.

“First Dallas, then the cows, then the chickens—”

“The cows did nothing to me.”

“You were suspicious of 'em.”

“I was concerned about their containment.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And that chicken approached me aggressively.”

Sawyer stared at me. “Aggressively?”

“It invaded my personal space.”

He laughed again.

I tightened my grip on my tote. “I despise you.”

“Nah. You barely know me.”

“At present, I consider that fortunate.”

His grin widened.

Infuriating man.

“Duke,” Sawyer ordered, pointing toward the door. “Outside.”

The Labrador looked at him.

Then at me.

And apparently decided Sawyer's authority was merely a suggestion. He pulled free, bounded forward, and hopped directly onto the couch.

“Oh, my God!”

I moved farther back.

There was nowhere to go.

My shoulders nearly touched the wall behind the couch as Duke settled comfortably on the cushions beneath me.

Then he sat.

At my feet.

And looked up.

His tail thumped against the leather.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

I stared down at him.

He stared up at me.

“Why is he looking at me like that?”

Sawyer folded his arms across his chest.

“Probably wonderin' why there's a woman standin' on his couch.”

“His couch?”

“Pretty much.”

Wonderful.

I'd invaded the dog's territory.

“Get him down.”

“He ain't gonna hurt you.”

“That is extraordinarily easy for you to say. He appears to respect you.”

Sawyer snorted.

“He just ignored everything I told him.”

“Precisely my point.”

Duke's tongue rolled out.

He looked delighted.

Entirely too delighted.

Then he leaned forward and sniffed my Converse.

I jerked my foot away.

“Duke.”

The dog wagged harder.

“Sawyer!”

“What?”

“He's smelling me.”

“He's a dog, Princess. That's kinda what they do.”

“I don't consent.”

Sawyer stared at me. Then he rubbed a hand over his mouth, clearly attempting not to laugh again.

I pointed at him.

“Do not.”

His shoulders shook.

“You're enjoying this far too much.”

“Best entertainment I've had all week.”

I narrowed my eyes.

Duke chose that moment to lie down directly beneath me, resting his enormous head across my shoes as though we'd been lifelong companions.

I looked down.

“Oh, for heaven's sake.”

Sawyer leaned against the doorway, coffee mug in hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“He likes you.”

“I don't understand why.”

“Animals are pretty good judges of people.”

My amusement disappeared. For the briefest moment, my heart stumbled.

Because if that were true, Duke was currently resting his head on the feet of a woman who had lied about her name, her family, her stolen belongings, and nearly everything else she'd told his owner.

I looked down at him.

Duke gazed back at me with warm, trusting eyes.

Then his tail thumped once against the couch.

Something in my chest softened.

Very slightly.

I crouched cautiously.

Duke didn't move.

I extended one hand.

“Please don't eat me.”

Sawyer chuckled.

“He ain't gonna eat you.”

“That remains to be determined.”

My fingertips touched the top of Duke's head.

His tail immediately began wagging again.

I stroked him once.

Then twice.

His eyes practically closed with pleasure.

“Oh.”

I scratched carefully behind one ear.

Duke leaned into my hand.

My lips betrayed me with a smile.

“Well... you're considerably less terrifying when you're stationary.”

“He'll be relieved to hear it.”

I looked at Sawyer. “Don't ruin this.”

He lifted his mug in surrender. “Yes, ma'am.”

I returned my attention to Duke. And before I realized what was happening, the enormous beast had moved closer and rested his head against my leg.

I sighed.

Apparently, I'd made a new friend in Pleasant Valley.

Unfortunately, this one might be considerably more difficult to lie to.

I was still perched on the couch when the front door burst open for the second time.

My entire body jolted.

Good Lord.

Did anyone in this house knock?

This time, thankfully, the intruder was human.

A man walked inside wearing black overalls with grease smeared across his forearms and several streaks scattered across his face. He took one look at me standing on Sawyer's couch with Duke comfortably occupying the cushions beneath me and immediately started laughing.

“What the hell's goin' on?”

Sawyer pointed in my direction with his half-empty coffee mug. “Duke was about to eat Princess Chloe.”

I glared at him.

The stranger laughed.

“Well, I ain't surprised. Duke hates every woman that gets near you.”

And with that disturbing piece of information, the man casually disappeared into the kitchen.

My eyes widened.

I looked down at Duke.

Then at Sawyer.

Then very slowly back at the dog currently resting against my feet.

“Sawyer.”

He laughed.

“Sawyer!”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah.”

I tightened my grip on my tote. “What precisely do you know?”

He walked toward the other couch and dropped onto it as though there wasn't a potentially homicidal Labrador holding me hostage in his living room.

“Duke doesn't usually like women much.”

My mouth fell open. “You neglected to mention that.”

“He ain't gonna hurt you.”

“You have absolutely no evidence to support that conclusion.”

Sawyer took another sip of coffee. “I got plenty.”

I stared at him.

He nodded toward Duke.

“Look at him.”

I did.

The alleged misogynistic beast was still sprawled comfortably beneath me.

“He's behaving differently with you,” Sawyer added.

The stranger returned from the kitchen carrying a mug of coffee he had apparently helped himself to.

He studied Duke.

Then me.

Then Duke again.

“Huh.”

Sawyer nodded. “Exactly.”

“That's weird.”

“Very.”

I looked between them.

“Why?”

Neither man answered me.

Excuse me?

“Why is that weird?”

Still nothing.

Apparently, I'd become invisible.

Then, as though determined to contribute his own opinion to the conversation, Duke lifted his head and licked my ankle.

I gasped.

Both men looked at him.

“You see?” Sawyer said.

The other man took a slow sip of coffee.

“Huh.”

Would somebody please elaborate beyond primitive noises?

Sawyer looked at me. “Chloe, you can get down now.”

I frowned. “I am perfectly comfortable where I am.”

He looked at my feet planted on his couch. “Sure look it.”

I ignored him.

Sawyer gestured toward the grease-covered man.

“This is Ricky. My best friend.”

The mechanic lifted his mug toward me.

“Howdy.”

Of course.

Howdy.

“Hello, Ricky.”

I carefully lowered myself onto the couch, keeping one suspicious eye on Duke. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Ricky's eyebrows rose. Then a slow grin spread across his face. “I mean, it ain't every day a pretty woman drives through my best friend's fence.”

I smiled politely. “I'm delighted my misfortune has provided the community with entertainment.”

Ricky stopped with the mug halfway to his mouth.

Then he looked at Sawyer.

Sawyer looked at him.

Something passed silently between them.

“What?” I asked.

Ricky's grin widened. “Nothin'.”

There was that word again.

Nothing.

I was beginning to discover that when either of these men said nothing, something was absolutely happening.

Ricky looked at me again.

“So you're Chloe?”

“Yes.” The lie came smoothly now. “Chloe Anderson.”

“Nice to meet you, Chloe Anderson.”

“You as well.”

He took another drink of coffee before looking toward Sawyer. “So where's the car?”

“Down by the south fence.”

“How bad?”

Sawyer scratched his beard. “She's sittin' where about eight feet of my fence used to be.”

Ricky slowly turned toward me.

I smiled. “Possibly more than eight.”

His eyebrows climbed.

Sawyer snorted.

“At least she's honest about somethin'.”

My eyes snapped toward him.

His expression was perfectly innocent.

Too innocent.

For one horrifying second, my heart stopped.

Did he know?

No.

He couldn't.

Sawyer took another leisurely sip from his mug. Then the corner of his mouth lifted.

The bastard was teasing me.

I narrowed my eyes.

He smiled.

Ricky looked between us.

“Well,” he said, setting his mug on the table, “reckon I better go see what kinda hell Princess Chloe put that poor Mustang through.”

“Please stop calling me that.”

Ricky paused.

Then looked at Sawyer.

“Princess?”

Sawyer nodded solemnly.

“Princess.”

I closed my eyes.

Wonderful.

I'd been in Pleasant Valley for less than an hour, and somehow I'd already acquired a title.

Princess.

How utterly ridiculous.

And, regrettably, I had the distinct impression Sawyer intended to make it permanent.

“Come on, Chloe. Let's go.”

I made my first move carefully.

Duke had been perfectly content while I remained stationary, but I wasn't entirely convinced that our newly established friendship would survive sudden movement.

I lowered one foot to the floor.

Then the other.

Duke lifted his head.

I froze.

He stood.

I froze harder.

Then, rather than devouring me, the dog hopped off the couch, trotted toward the front door, and stopped beside it.

Waiting for me.

Sawyer laughed.

I glared at him.

“Not a word.”

He raised both hands. “Didn't say nothin', Princess.”

“You were thinking it.”

His grin confirmed it.

This time, thankfully, we did not ride Dallas back to the field where my poor Mustang remained impaled between the shattered remains of Sawyer's fence.

Instead, Sawyer led me toward an old pickup truck parked beside the house.

Ricky climbed behind the wheel.

Sawyer opened the passenger door and gestured for me to get inside.

I stared at the single bench seat.

Then at him.

“Where are you sitting?”

“Right there,” he pointed to the space beside me.

Oh.

Wonderful.

I climbed inside and slid toward the middle.

Sawyer climbed in after me and shut the door, effectively wedging me between two large men inside a truck that appeared to have been manufactured sometime before adequate personal space was invented.

I placed my tote carefully on my lap.

Ricky turned the key.

The truck roared to life.

Actually roared.

The entire bench vibrated beneath me as he backed away from the house and started down Sawyer's gravel driveway.

“She was drivin' down the old road?” Ricky asked.

“Yep.”

Ricky glanced at me.

“Where were you comin' from?”

“Pennsylvania.”

Partial truth.

I'd driven through Pennsylvania to get here. They didn't need to know what existed on the other side of it.

New York.

My husband.

My brother.

My life.

“She's an explorer,” Sawyer muttered beside me.

I turned my head.

There was something about the way he said it.

Something suspiciously close to sarcasm.

Ricky looked interested.

“Oh, yeah? Where all you been?”

Both men looked at me.

Well...

That was an inconvenient question.

I'd been to Italy.

Greece.

England.

France.

Spain.

Mexico.

Dubai.

Several islands in the Caribbean.

I'd traveled throughout Europe more times than I could easily count.

But the United States?

That was considerably more embarrassing.

I was born and raised in New York. The only significant relocation of my life had been for college, and even then I'd merely moved one state away.

Once my career began ascending, I'd traveled to other states for exhibitions, gallery events, private showings, and appearances.

But recreational road trips?

Never.

I certainly hadn't spent my weekends driving aimlessly through rural America in search of adventure.

“New York,” I said.

I was preparing to fabricate an impressive list when Ricky interrupted me.

“I ain't never been to New York.”

Thank God.

“Oh, it's wonderful.”

I smiled, hoping that would conclude the discussion.

It did not.

“What was your favorite adventure there?” Sawyer asked.

I slowly turned toward him.

Why did that sound like a test?

“There is an extraordinary amount to do in New York.”

“Like what?”

I stared at him.

Was this man conducting an interview?

“For starters, Central Park is enormous. There's the Brooklyn Bridge, Broadway, the Staten Island Ferry, the museums—”

“Where else you been?”

Sawyer!

I resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

“Connecticut.”

“Where at?”

Of course.

“New Haven.”

Ricky nodded as though waiting for more.

“East Rock Park,” I continued. “The view from the summit is beautiful.”

Sawyer remained suspiciously quiet.

“And Wooster Street,” I added quickly, before the stupid bearded man beside me could ask another question. “It's one of my favorite areas in New Haven. It's essentially their Little Italy. Wonderful restaurants, beautiful architecture, excellent pizza.”

There.

Specific.

Believable.

And, most importantly, true.

“HOLY FUCK!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

My head snapped toward Ricky.

His eyes were fixed through the windshield.

“What?”

Then I followed his gaze.

And forgot about New York.

Connecticut.

Sawyer's interrogation.

Everything.

My Mustang had come into view.

Oh.

Oh, dear God.

From a distance, the accident had looked bad.

Up close...

It looked catastrophic.

Both men climbed out of the truck.

I remained seated for another minute.

Maybe two.

I wasn't entirely certain whether I was embarrassed or frightened.

Perhaps both.

Because suddenly, the wreckage in front of me represented considerably more than a damaged car. If the Mustang couldn't be repaired quickly, this little disaster could catapult me straight back to New York.

Back to William.

Back to Malcolm.

Back to reporters and cameras and questions.

Back to the nightmare I'd driven hundreds of miles trying to escape.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

No.

One problem at a time.

I climbed out of the truck and walked toward the men.

Ricky was already inspecting the Mustang, crouched beside the front end while Sawyer stood a few feet away with his hands resting on his hips.

“All right, Cowboy,” I said. “Give it to me. How long will it take to repair, and how much are we talking about?”

Neither man answered.

Ricky opened the hood.

He stared inside.

Then he looked at me.

Then back at the engine.

“You were gonna kill this beauty sooner or later.”

My eyebrows drew together.

“What?”

He reached inside and pulled something out.

“How? Why?”

“Sweetheart, lemme answer one question at a time.”

I folded my arms.

“Fine. Why did you say that?”

He held up the dipstick.

“This car ain't got no oil.”

I blinked.

“What do you mean it doesn't have oil?”

“I mean exactly that. She's damn near dry.”

Crap.

When was the last time I'd had the oil changed?

I searched my memory.

Nothing.

Then it came to me.

Oh, God.

Nearly four years.

I'd barely driven the Mustang since purchasing my newer cars, and apparently, somewhere along the way, I'd forgotten that vehicles required maintenance even when they weren't being used regularly.

Ricky looked genuinely offended on the Mustang's behalf.

“When's the last time you had this thing serviced?”

I cleared my throat.

“I don't recall.”

He slowly turned his head toward me.

Sawyer did the same.

I smiled.

“It's been a while.”

“How long's a while?”

“That's a rather subjective measurement.”

Ricky stared.

Sawyer's mouth twitched.

“Chloe.”

I sighed.

“Approximately four years.”

Ricky's jaw dropped.

“Four years?”

“It wasn't intentional.”

“Jesus Christ.”

He turned back toward the engine, muttering something about people not deserving classic cars.

“I can hear you.”

“Good.”

Apparently, Ricky and I were no longer friends.

He continued his inspection.

And the list grew.

Oil.

Filters.

Belts.

Hoses.

Fluids.

Something involving the radiator.

Front-end damage from my unfortunate encounter with Sawyer's fence.

A headlight.

The bumper.

And several other mechanical terms I couldn't follow because my anxiety was increasing with every word.

“How long?”

Ricky kept talking.

“How long, Ricky?”

He finally looked at me.

Sawyer answered instead. “You in a hurry, Princess?”

I turned toward him. “No. But I need to know how long I have to come up with the money.”

Something in Sawyer's expression changed.

Only slightly.

But I noticed.

Ricky wiped his hands against his overalls.

“Three weeks. Maybe four.”

My stomach dropped.

“Three to four weeks?”

“At least.”

“Why?”

“Because I ain't got half the parts I'm gonna need sittin' around the shop. Gotta order 'em. Then I gotta see what else she needs once I get her torn down.”

He continued explaining.

I stopped hearing him.

Three to four weeks.

The words repeated inside my head.

Three to four weeks.

My thoughts became increasingly distant, as though someone had wrapped my brain in cotton.

I couldn't drive anywhere.

I couldn't rent a car without identification and a credit card.

I couldn't use my bank accounts.

I couldn't call anyone without risking being found.

I had twenty-four dollars.

Twenty-four dollars.

My knees suddenly felt unreliable.

I leaned against the side of the Mustang and stared at the grass beneath my shoes.

What the hell was I going to do?

“Where you stayin'?”

Ricky's question penetrated the fog.

I looked up.

“What?”

“While I'm fixin' the car. Where you stayin'?”

Excellent question.

My brilliant plan had been to sleep inside the Mustang. It hadn't been particularly glamorous, but it had been free.

Now my bedroom was apparently going to spend the next month disassembled in Ricky's garage.

“I...”

Nothing came out.

For the first time since I'd told my first lie, I genuinely had no answer.

“She'll stay here with me.”

My head snapped toward Sawyer so quickly I nearly injured my neck.

What?

Ricky's eyebrows rose.

“She's stayin' with you?”

“I need an extra hand around the ranch.”

“Really?” There was something in Ricky's tone I didn't understand.

Sawyer ignored him.

I was still staring at Sawyer, incapable of producing a coherent sentence.

He finally looked at me.

“Plus, if she leaves, how's she gonna pay me back for the fence she destroyed?”

Oh.

There it was.

Of course.

Money.

For one ridiculous moment, I'd thought— actually, I had no idea what I'd thought.

Sawyer wasn't inviting a complete stranger into his home out of the goodness of his heart.

This was an arrangement.

A transaction.

I owed him money.

I didn't have any.

He needed help.

I apparently had two functioning hands.

Simple.

Logical.

And, most importantly, dignified.

Because I had offered to compensate him for the damage more than once.

I straightened.

“How much?”

Sawyer frowned.

“How much what?”

“Would you ordinarily pay someone to work for you?”

Ricky looked at Sawyer.

Sawyer looked at me.

“I haven't figured that out yet.”

“Then we'll need to.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“We will?”

“Obviously. If I'm working to repay a debt, there needs to be an established value assigned to my labor. Otherwise, neither of us has any way of determining when the debt has been satisfied.”

Ricky slowly grinned.

Sawyer stared at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“There is that word again.”

Ricky chuckled.

I ignored him and focused on Sawyer. “I will also need an itemized estimate for the fence.”

Sawyer's mouth opened.

“And,” I continued, “if lodging is part of our arrangement, we should establish its value as well.”

Now both men were staring at me.

I frowned.

“What?”

Ricky scratched his jaw.

“You always talk like you're negotiatin' a business deal?”

I paused.

Yes.

Yes, I did.

Because I'd spent years negotiating contracts worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.

Gallery percentages.

Licensing agreements.

International shipping.

Exhibition rights.

Private commissions.

But Chloe Anderson wasn't supposed to be a woman who could negotiate a seven-figure contract without blinking.

So I softened my expression.

“I simply prefer clarity.”

Sawyer continued studying me.

For one uncomfortable second, I wondered whether I'd said too much.

Then his mouth curved.

“All right, Princess.”

I exhaled.

“We'll figure out what you owe me.”

“Good.”

“And you'll work it off.”

“Agreed.”

His smile widened.

I should have been suspicious of that smile.

I wasn't.

Not yet.

Because standing beside my wrecked Mustang with twenty-four dollars in my pocket and nowhere else in the world I could safely go, Sawyer had just handed me exactly what I needed.

Time.

Three to four weeks of it.

And he had absolutely no idea how valuable that was to me.