Chapter 8- His People.

MIA.

I'd managed to email Isabella Brown three days after my disappearance, and I knew she was going to be mad.

Not just mad.

Murderously mad.

I'd created a fictitious email address using my newly invented name, Chloe Anderson. I couldn't afford to leave a trail that might lead William straight to me, so I'd been extremely cautious about what I wrote.

But I also needed Isabella to know it was me.

After staring at the blank screen for what felt like an eternity, I'd finally typed:

Dear Ms. Brown,

I had a wonderful evening at Mrs. Sterling's exhibition. The drinks, the company, and the conversation were all delightful. Thank you for the ride home and for keeping me company.

As promised, I've arrived home safely. Once I've settled in, I'll extend an invitation so we can continue discussing the business we left unfinished.

Sincerely yours,

Chloe Anderson

I'd read the email at least a dozen times before finally hitting send.

To anyone else, it would have sounded like a perfectly ordinary message between two acquaintances.

But Isabella would know.

She had to.

Mrs. Sterling's exhibition was something we'd attended together, and she'd been the one to drive me home that evening. Those little details were enough to tell her who was writing without putting my real name anywhere in the message.

At least, that was what I'd hoped.

Two days later, I returned to the library, logged into my new email account, and discovered that Isabella had responded.

And, well...

Let's just say my best friend hadn't appreciated my attempt at subtlety.

From: Isabella Brown

Subject: ENOUGH WITH THE BULLSHIT!

Mia,

Enough with the bullshit!

My emails are secured by my cybersecurity team, and William won't be able to get his hands on them unless I personally give him access. So quit with the mysterious messages and tell me WHERE THE HELL YOU ARE!

Do you have any idea what you've put me through? I'm on the verge of a heart attack thanks to you! I haven't slept properly in days, and now your mother is breathing down my neck, asking questions I don't have answers to!

As far as I can tell, neither William nor Malcolm has told your parents a damn thing about what's happened. Which makes me wonder what the hell those two bastards are planning.

So, I'm asking you one more time.

WHERE. THE. FUCK. ARE. YOU?

I'm coming to get you, and we're going to figure out how to send those motherfuckers straight to hell. Together.

And don't you dare tell me you're fine. You're not fine. Nobody disappears off the face of the earth without a word because everything is just peachy.

I love you, you stubborn bitch, but I swear to God, when I find you, I'm going to hug you first and strangle you second.

Isabella

P.S. You have until tomorrow to tell me where you are, or I'm calling your mother and telling her everything I know. Don't test me, Mia. You know I'll do it.

I stared at the screen.

Then I read the email again.

And again.

Finally, I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes.

Oh, Bella.

Only my best friend could threaten to strangle me and declare her undying loyalty in the same email.

And the worst part?

I knew she meant every single word.

Especially the part about calling my mother.

The funny thing was, her deadline had expired yesterday, so at this point, I had absolutely no idea whether she'd followed through with her threat.

Knowing Isabella, there was a very good chance she had.

Oh, Lord. Please tell me she hasn't called my mother.

I glanced at the time displayed in the corner of the computer screen. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. I needed to respond before Bella decided to organize a nationwide search party.

Taking a deep breath, I began typing.

To: Isabella Brown

Subject: Please Don't Kill Me

Bella,

First of all, I'm so sorry for putting you through all of this. I know you're worried, and I know I should have contacted you sooner.

The truth is, I don't even know what I'm doing half the time. I'm confused. I'm hurt. And some mornings, I wake up wondering how my entire life managed to fall apart so quickly.

But there's one thing I'm absolutely certain about: I know what I want to do.

I want a divorce.

Please find me the best divorce attorney you can and have them contact me through this email address. I don't care how much it costs. I just want to be free of William.

And Bella, as strange as this might sound, for the first time in my life, I feel at peace. There's something incredibly liberating about walking around with a random name and not having to be Mia Sterling, the famous artist, for once.

Nobody knows who I am here. Nobody expects anything from me. Nobody cares about my reputation, my paintings, or how much money I have.

I'm just Chloe.

And right now, that's exactly who I need to be.

When I'm ready for you to come, I'll let you know. Until then, I need you to trust me. I'm somewhere safe, and I promise I'm being careful.

There are a couple of things I'm going to need, though. A phone and some money. I haven't quite figured out how we're going to arrange that without leaving a trail, but I'm sure your brilliant mind will come up with something.

Oh, and Bella?

When you finally come visit, make sure you bring your cowboy boots.

I love you.

P.S. One more favor. Please contact my assistant and let her know I'm taking a mental health sabbatical. I need all my appointments, meetings, and professional commitments postponed for the next several weeks until further notice. You're to be my primary point of contact until I'm ready to speak with her directly.

And please, Bella, don't tell my mother where I am. Not yet. I need a little more time.

Love,

Mia

I reread the message twice, my finger hovering over the mouse.

It was the most honest I'd been with anyone since leaving New York.

And yet, I was still keeping so much to myself.

I clicked Send.

For a moment, I simply stared at the screen.

Somewhere out there, Isabella Brown was probably plotting my murder. But at least now she'd know I was alive, safe, and determined to take back control of my life.

And hopefully, she'd have enough sense not to show up in Pleasant Valley wearing cowboy boots and demanding to speak to every rancher in West Virginia.

"Are you excited about tonight's cookout, sweetheart?"

"What?" I turned at the sound of Maggie's voice, startled to find her standing near the computer stations. I had no idea how long she'd been there.

"The cookout, honey. Every Friday since Adeline's passing, some of our friends from the community, along with Sawyer's family, come over to the ranch for a little get-together."

My jaw dropped.

"Sawyer seems to have forgotten to mention that minor detail," I said with a chuckle.

"Well, honey, I'll be bringing my famous green bean casserole."

"Mmm! That sounds delicious."

"Oh, there'll be plenty of food, sweetheart. Nobody ever leaves those gatherings hungry."

I smiled, although a rather unsettling thought had just occurred to me.

"About how many people usually attend these Friday gatherings?"

"Oh, thirty or so."

I blinked.

"Thirty?"

"Give or take a few, darling."

Thirty people?

Good heavens. I'd been under the impression that I was staying at a quiet little ranch, not a community recreation center.

I was about to say something that might have sounded terribly rude when Sawyer appeared.

"Is the princess ready to go?"

I turned toward him.

"Totally."

He glanced at the computer before looking back at me. "Did any more negotiatin' this time?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Nope. This time, I emailed my sister."

He stopped.

For the briefest moment, something unfamiliar crossed his expression. His eyes searched mine, and I couldn't quite figure out what he was thinking.

Then, just as quickly, the look disappeared.

This cowboy was so confusing.

I could never understand his reactions. One minute, he was teasing me like we'd known each other for years, and the next, he was looking at me as though I'd said something that bothered him.

"All right, Maggie. See ya later," he said.

"See y'all tonight!" she called cheerfully.

I waved goodbye, and we made our way outside.

As usual, Sawyer opened the passenger door of his truck and waited until I was comfortably seated before closing it behind me.

I watched through the windshield as he walked around the front of the vehicle.

For a man who looked as though he could wrestle a bull into submission, he certainly had impeccable manners.

He climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot.

"Thanks for telling me about the big party you're throwing tonight," I said casually. "I mean, not that you had to. It's your house, after all."

Sawyer glanced at me.

"You're right. Should've mentioned it."

I turned toward him, surprised by how easily he'd admitted it.

"Well, look at that."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Chloe."

I smiled sweetly.

"You're just full of surprises, Montgomery."

He shook his head, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The big, intimidating cowboy was a softie.

A very attractive softie.

Which was becoming an increasingly inconvenient observation.

A few minutes later, Sawyer pulled into the parking lot of the town's grocery store.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"Gettin' supplies for tonight."

"Oh! Well, what do you need help with?"

He reached into the center console, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and handed it to me. "Here's the list."

I unfolded it and stared at the scribbled words.

Then I stared a little harder.

Good Lord.

I tilted the paper toward the window, hoping the sunlight might somehow help me decipher the mysterious symbols.

"Wow, Sawyer."

"What?"

"Did you write this with your feet, or was this list written by someone in second grade?"

He turned his head slowly.

"Shut the fuck up."

I burst out laughing.

"I'm serious! What is this supposed to say?" I pointed at a particularly unfortunate-looking word. "Is that potatoes or possums?"

"Potatoes, woman."

"Are you sure? Because I'm fairly certain there's an extra leg in there somewhere."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face.

I laughed harder.

"Did you graduate from elementary school, Montgomery, or did they just hand you a diploma because you were too big to fit in the desks?"

He gave me a sideways look.

"You done?"

"Not even close."

"Well, you're about to be."

I grinned.

"Oh, come on. Don't be so sensitive. We all have our weaknesses. Yours just happens to be the entire English alphabet."

He shook his head, climbed out of the truck, and walked around to open my door.

"Get your smart mouth outta my truck, princess."

I slipped the grocery list into my pocket and stepped down, still laughing.

"Don't worry, cowboy. I'll translate your hieroglyphics for you."

"Keep it up, Chloe."

"Or what?"

He leaned slightly closer, his brown eyes narrowing with amusement. "Or I'm puttin' you in charge of peelin' fifty pounds of potatoes tonight."

My smile vanished. "That's cruel."

"Thought so."

He turned toward the grocery store, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

I hurried after him.

"For the record, Montgomery, threatening a defenseless woman with manual labor is extremely ungentlemanly."

His deep laughter carried across the parking lot.

"So, what'd you tell your sister?" he asked, changing the subject.

I considered my answer for a moment.

"That I need her to bring me a phone and some money to pay for my car repairs."

He didn't say anything. Just made a low, thoughtful sound. "Hmm."

I glanced at him, wondering what that was supposed to mean.

But Sawyer Montgomery was apparently a man of very few words when he wanted to be, and I was beginning to realize that trying to figure out what went on inside that handsome head of his was a complete waste of time.

We continued toward the grocery store, but just as we reached the entrance, he surprised me with another question.

"So, what's your plan once Ricky gets your car fixed?"

I looked up at him.

There was something different about the way he'd asked. His voice was casual enough, but his expression suggested he was genuinely interested in my answer.

"I don't know, Sawyer."

He slowed his steps, and I found myself doing the same.

"I have a life back home that I don't particularly want to return to," I admitted. "But there are things I need to settle, and I might have no choice but to go back eventually."

He studied me for a moment.

"Things with your husband?"

I swallowed.

"Among other things."

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly.

"Sounds complicated."

I let out a humorless chuckle.

"You have absolutely no idea."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he looked toward the entrance.

"Well, reckon you don't have to figure it all out today."

I smiled faintly.

"No. I suppose I don't."

He reached for the door and held it open for me.

"And for what it's worth, Chloe, ain't nobody sayin' you gotta leave the minute that Mustang's runnin' again."

I stopped and looked at him.

"Are you saying I can stay?"

He shrugged, suddenly appearing very interested in the shopping carts lined up beside the entrance.

"I'm sayin' there's no rush."

Something warm settled in my chest.

"That's very generous of you, Montgomery."

"Don't get too excited, princess. Still expect you to earn your keep."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And what exactly does that involve?"

He glanced at the grocery list I pulled out of my pocket. "For starters, learnin' how to read my handwriting without insultin' me."

I laughed.

"Well, then, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."

He shook his head, but I caught the smile he was trying to hide.

And as I followed him into the store, I couldn't help wondering whether Sawyer Montgomery had any idea how much his simple invitation meant to me.

Because for the first time since leaving New York, I wasn't thinking about where I needed to run next.

I was wondering what it might feel like to stay.

A few minutes later. "Look! I was actually able to read barbecue on your list," I teased, holding up the crumpled piece of paper triumphantly.

Sawyer shook his head. "You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Monty!" A woman's voice rang out behind me, practically bursting with excitement.

Sawyer turned.

"Oh. Hey, Savvy."

Before I could even see who was approaching, a pretty young woman rushed past me and practically threw herself into Sawyer's arms.

And then she kissed him.

Not on the cheek, either.

Right at the corner of his lips.

Well, hello there.

Judging by the way Sawyer stiffened, he hadn't been expecting that little display of affection.

He cleared his throat and gently stepped back.

"Chloe, this is Savannah. Ricky's sister." He gestured toward me. "Savvy, this is Chloe."

I offered the woman a polite smile and extended my hand. "Nice to meet you."

Savannah glanced at my hand but made absolutely no effort to shake it. "Oh, yeah! I've heard about you. You're the woman who crashed into Sawyer's fence."

Rude.

Plain rude.

I slowly lowered my hand.

"That would be me," I answered, maintaining my smile.

Savannah tilted her head, studying me with an expression that was anything but friendly.

"I mean, were you drunk or something?"

Excuse me?

I stared at her.

For a moment, I genuinely wondered whether I'd heard her correctly. Then I glanced over her shoulder at the gigantic cowboy standing behind her.

Sawyer's expression had hardened.

And I couldn't decide whether I wanted him to intervene or whether I'd rather handle this little situation myself.

Because, quite frankly, I was beginning to feel an overwhelming urge to punch this woman.

Which was ridiculous.

I'd met plenty of unpleasant people in my life. Wealthy socialites, pretentious art critics, women who smiled to my face while tearing me apart behind my back.

But this one?

This one had managed to get under my skin in less than thirty seconds.

And I wasn't entirely sure whether it was because of her insulting attitude or because she'd just planted her lips dangerously close to Sawyer Montgomery's mouth.

Oh, for heaven's sake, Mia.

So, I decided to give her a little taste of her own medicine, borrowing something Sawyer had said to me earlier.

I tilted my head and offered her my sweetest smile.

"Oh, darling, I have no idea how women conduct themselves in this charming little town, but where I come from, we have a little more class when making an introduction."

The smirk on Savannah's face disappeared completely, and judging by the way Sawyer pressed his lips together, he was having a difficult time containing his laughter.

"All right, then. Guess we'll see you tonight, Savvy," Sawyer said, clearing his throat.

And with that, he placed a hand against the small of my back and guided me toward the nearest checkout.

I was terribly tempted to turn around and admire the undoubtedly stupid expression on Savannah's face, but I decided against it.

Somehow, walking away without giving her another glance felt infinitely more satisfying.

Take that, sweetheart.

I didn't ask any questions about Savannah, and Sawyer didn't volunteer any information about her, either.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious.

Very curious, actually.

Who was this Savvy girl, and why did she feel so comfortable throwing herself at Sawyer Montgomery and kissing him practically on the mouth?

Not that it was any of my business.

Because it wasn't.

Absolutely none of my business.

Still, I couldn't help wondering about the nature of their relationship.

During our drive back to the ranch, Sawyer made small talk about the people who would be attending the cookout that evening. He mentioned several longtime family friends, neighbors, ranch hands, and a few relatives.

Apparently, these Friday gatherings were something of a tradition.

He also warned me about a handful of people, particularly his father.

"Just so you know, Dad can be a little... difficult," he said, keeping his eyes on the road.

"Difficult how?"

"He's got strong opinions. Ain't afraid to share 'em, either."

I chuckled.

"Sounds delightful."

Sawyer glanced at me.

"Just don't take everything he says personally."

"Oh, don't worry, Montgomery. I've dealt with plenty of difficult men in my lifetime."

His gaze lingered on me for a brief moment before returning to the road.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Reckon you have."

Something about his response made me wonder whether he was thinking about my husband.

I decided not to ask.

By the time we arrived at the ranch, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm golden glow over the pastures.

Sawyer parked near the house and helped me carry the groceries inside.

"Go on and get showered and ready," he told me as he set the bags on the kitchen counter. "Folks'll start showin' up soon."

"Yes, sir," I replied with an exaggerated salute.

He shook his head.

"Smart-ass."

I grinned and headed upstairs.

But the moment I stepped into my bedroom, I encountered a rather unexpected problem.

What on earth was I supposed to wear? I'd never attended a gathering quite like this one.

Most of my life had revolved around formal dinners, charity galas, private receptions, and prestigious art exhibitions. Events where appearances mattered almost as much as the people attending them.

And, more often than not, I was expected to be one of the best-dressed women in the room.

Designer gowns, expensive heels, perfectly styled hair, and jewelry that cost more than some people's annual salaries.

That was the world I knew.

Our dinners were elaborate affairs, complete with beautifully arranged centerpieces, fine china, crystal stemware, polished silver flatware, and enough courses to make a person forget what they'd eaten by the time dessert arrived.

There were assigned seats, carefully selected wines, and conversations that often felt more like business negotiations than genuine social interactions.

Even the laughter seemed rehearsed sometimes.

And now?

Now I was about to attend a Friday night cookout with thirty people at a cattle ranch in West Virginia.

I glanced toward the small collection of clothes hanging in the closet.

Well, at least I wouldn't have to worry about choosing between designer gowns. I barely had enough clothes to make an outfit.

I pulled out a pair of jeans and held them against my waist.

Jeans.

Good heavens.

When was the last time I'd attended a social gathering wearing jeans?

High school?

I couldn't remember.

Then again, when was the last time I'd attended a social gathering where nobody knew who I was, how much money I had, or what my husband did for a living?

Never.

And strangely enough, the thought made me smile.

Tonight, I wouldn't be Mia Sterling, the celebrated painter whose every public appearance seemed to invite scrutiny.

I would simply be Chloe Anderson.

A woman with a questionable wardrobe, a broken Mustang, and absolutely no idea how to behave at a country cookout.

I laid the jeans on the bed and reached for a simple blouse. Then, I pulled out another pair of jeans. 

Well, Chloe, I suppose there's a first time for everything.

And if tonight turned out to be a complete disaster, at least I could blame Sawyer Montgomery for failing to warn me about the thirty-person invasion of his ranch.