Rare Blend (Red Mountain #1)

6. Ethan

CHAPTER 6

Ethan

KILL ME, DO IT FAST

T awny taps on the door frame of my office. “Hey, why don’t you go home? Get some rest. You look like shit.”

“Jesus, tell me the truth why don’t you.”

“You don’t pay me enough to lie.”

It’s only six, and there’s still so much to take care of; the pile is never-ending. But I’m gassed, and if Tawny is telling me to go home, who am I to argue?

I’ve only been back in Red Mountain for about a month and a half, and due to the short notice, my options for accommodations were limited, forcing me to freeload in one of the winery rental cottages until I find a more permanent solution. There’s a foundation poured on the plot of land my parents parceled off to me, but the walls never went up. The thought of dredging up that mess overwhelms me. That was my old life, my old plans.

I park my truck on a dirt pathway and make the short trek to the cottages. As they come into view, I get an odd feeling that someone has been here. It’s like the sense you get as a kid when you know a sibling has been in your room, even though nothing looks disturbed. But when I look around, nothing seems suspicious, so I chalk it up to my lack of sleep.

Goose greets me at the door, his tail wagging with excitement. My little sister, Ariana, came by to check on him earlier and let him out for a potty break. I feel bad that he’s been alone for most of the day. I would love to bring him with me to work, but with it being peak season, it would be too chaotic to have a giant German Shepherd, who thinks he’s a puppy, running around the place.

“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down and scratch the spot behind his ears.

He groans and pushes his head further into my hand, trying to get a deeper scratch.

“Where’s your leash?”

His ears perk up. Damn dog is too smart for his own good. A leash means a walk, and he lives for our walks. Goose runs off and then quickly returns with his leash between his teeth.

“Alright, bud, let’s go.” I snap the leash in place to his collar and let him drag me out the door. It’s dog walking 101 to not let your dog drag you during a walk, but this guy has had me wrapped around his fingers since day one and I let him get away with just about anything.

Goose happily trots along, kicking up sand and gravel with each bounce of his step, and pausing a few times to pee. There’s less than an hour of daylight left before the sun disappears behind the ridge. For now, though, it casts an array of oranges and pinks across the river valley, bathing everything in a glow you can only experience this time of the year. Despite the days getting shorter and the unpredictable temperature highs and lows, nothing beats Red Mountain in the fall. Even a few years away couldn’t make me forget that.

As we walk, I take in the rows of vines stretched out before me. Their leaves are fading from green to gold, a sign that fall is in full effect. The crisp air is tinged with the earthy scent of soil and ripe grapes, a nostalgic smell that always reminds me of my childhood and the chaos surrounding harvest.

Goose starts tugging on his leash, snapping me back to the present, trying to get out of my hold. I could probably walk him out here without a leash since there isn’t anyone around, but he’s a little shit and would find trouble, just like he’s trying to do now when he spots a jackrabbit a couple hundred yards away.

I give the leash a tug. “Goose, inside. Now.”

Like a good boy, he obliges, while glancing longingly at the jackrabbit he doesn’t get to attack today, and we go back inside.

After eating dinner, which consisted of a random concoction of leftovers my mom snuck inside my fridge, I take care of a few more work tasks I didn’t get to when I was at the office. By 7:30, the sleep I’ve been fighting off finally starts to win. How fucking sad is that? This schedule is making me feel a hell of a lot older than thirty-two. Only a few more weeks of harvest remain, and then I’ll be on a more manageable schedule.

Goose joins me in bed, taking up the entire right side, like a human would, body sprawled out, with his head on a pillow. I attempted to train him to not get on the furniture, because German Shepherds are notorious shedders, but I gave up fighting it. It’s his space, too. In fact, he’s home more than I am, so the way I see it, he should get to enjoy the furniture along with me. And, if in some alternate universe or very, very distant future, I actually allow another woman into our lives, she’s going to have to be okay with that. If I’m ever made to choose between Goose or some chick, it’s Goose every damn time.

My eyes glaze over, the narrator on the History Channel and Goose’s whir of snoring lulling me to sleep.

It feels like I just closed my eyes when I’m jolted awake by my dog’s low growl. My eyes adjust to the pitch-black room, and I prop myself up on my elbows. There was still a faint glow of light when I fell asleep, but now it’s completely dark. Tapping my phone, I see it’s almost midnight. Goose growls again, more aggressively, and my hackles raise. He hears something, something foreign and wrong, because in all the years I’ve had him, he’s never woken me up like this.

Using the glow of my phone to discreetly light my way around the bedroom, I throw on a pair of sweatpants and slip into my boots, making sure to grab a hoodie. Despite how warm it was today, once the sun is down, the temperature drastically drops. Before heading out the door, I grab my pistol, just in case. There’s always an uptick in cougar sightings this time of the year, and I’m not about to find myself facing a snarling cat without some protection.

Goose walks quietly beside me, aware that we are now on a mission that requires a little stealth. It’s probably nothing, but I’d rather check it out than sit and wonder. Tourist season is in full swing, and you never know what kind of crazies are going to roll into town. I hope to hell this is nothing but a lone coyote or wandering deer.

The moon is almost full in the night sky, but heavy clouds dull its brightness and block most of the light. Luckily, I know the landscape like the back of my hand. I’m not dumb enough to use a flashlight and draw the attention of whatever—or whoever—is out here. We make it just past the front steps when Goose pauses, lifting his nose, sniffing the air. His ears pin back as he takes his attack stance, dropping his back legs so he can spring off of them. I grab hold of his collar to stop him before he goes on the attack. If someone is out there, they’re dealing with me first.

We move forward together, one step at a time, slowly, crouched low, my hand still gripping the collar. I think I see movement near the trees, but I can’t be too certain. I don’t want whatever it is to see me coming and try to hide, or do worse. Goose whines, seeing it, too, and yanks himself out of my hold to jet off after our unwanted visitor like a bat out of hell.

Before I can change my mind, I race after him, watching as my hundred-pound dog tackles a small figure to the ground.

“What”—a feminine choking gasp—“the”—a shriek that could cut glass it’s so high—“fuck!” Strangled sounds push out of the person Goose flattened as he stands over them, barking profusely in their face.

I run up, shoving him out of the way, and replace him so that I’m standing over the intruder instead. His barking comes to a halt as he sits and waits for a command. At least some of his training stuck.

I look down at the tackle victim and shine the light from my phone in their face.

Recognition surfaces.

It’s the woman from earlier. The one who crashed into my vineyard.

Fuck.

She’s sprawled out on the ground, gasping for air, and there’s an assortment of…garbage around her.

Her eyes widen to the point I can see the whites all the way around her brown irises. Then, like a fish flopping on land, she throws her body into the fetal position.

“Do it fast,” she croaks. “If you’re going to kill me, do it fast!”

I step aside so I’m no longer standing over her. “I’m not going to kill you.”

She stays frozen for a few beats, holding the fetal position like she thinks I’m going to strike her. Apparently, my staying still is enough reassurance that I’m not going to hurt her, because she slowly starts to uncurl, keeping her eyes trained on me.

“Well then, will you at least help me up?” she yells, her voice raspy.

I grab hold of her reaching hand and pull her to stand. She clutches her chest, huffing as she bends over, hands resting on her thighs.

“What the hell are you doing wandering around here in the middle of the night? Are you following me?” I ask, much louder than I intended.

Rather than answer me, she puts up a hand, gesturing with her pointer finger that she needs a minute.

“Shit. Fuck. Are you hurt?” My eyes inspect her for any possible injuries, but it’s hard to get a good look with her hunched over the way she is and the lack of decent light.

She shakes her head no, but her head is still hanging off her shoulders as she continues to try to catch her breath.

Minutes pass as she slowly starts to breathe a little better. I wait, staring at her and unsure of what to do.

“My dinner,” she whines, and it comes out wheezy.

Dinner? I look down to see what I initially thought was garbage is actually a variety of gas station food. Two taquitos, a burrito, some nachos, a hotdog, and a large pop, spilled and soaking into the ground. How was she carrying all of this? It’s ruined now, unless she enjoys the taste of sand. Goose doesn’t seem to mind, though, as he helps himself to the hot dog.

Fucking hell .

I’m startled by what I think is a cry escaping her. My gaze flies to her face, ready to see tears rolling down her cheeks—she did just get the shit tackled out of her—but instead of crying, she’s laughing. It’s not a cute, girly laugh either—more like a honking bird mixed with a cackling hyena. She throws her head back, unrestrained, her eyes sparkling as they pick up light from the few stars shining above. Her laugh is so unexpectedly genuine I can’t stop my lips from lifting into a smile. Our eyes meet, and we both deflate, laughing together at the sheer ridiculousness of what just happened.

My shoulders shake, my fist covers my mouth, and a wheezing laugh crawls up my throat. It feels good to laugh a real laugh. And for the dumbest fucking reason, my greedy dog and his addiction to hot dogs. The tension I’ve been carrying in my back begins to unravel, loosening like a tightly wound spring finally releasing its grip. The stress, the pressure, and the anxiety are carried away with each breath. I look to the cackling woman, astounded that such a hideous sound can be attached to someone very far from hideous, and it makes me laugh harder.

After a while, her awful laughter fades into a phlegmy cough, and I’m jarred back into reality, the slap-happy feeling dissolving as quickly as it appeared. Reality sets in, and I’m reminded she could very well be some unhinged criminal.

“I’m not following you,” she clarifies, her breathing still irregular.

I cross my arms and raise my shoulders with a firmer stance. “Then what are you doing out here? This is private property.”

The atmosphere between us takes a dive. Her eyes narrow, looking up at me with an icy, penetrating stare. The speed at which her eyes shifted from wide and bright to cold and detached is startling.

“I’m staying there.” She points to the cottage to the left of mine.

“That’s not possible.”

She rolls her eyes and places her hands on her hips. If I wasn’t so weary of her, I’d find her display of determination slightly comical given her short height.

“What part of ‘I’m staying there’ do you not understand?”

“See that name right there?” I tell her, pointing to the arched, wrought iron sign at the end of the pathway that says Ledger on it. “That’s my name, Ledger. Ethan Ledger.”

Her eyes cut back to mine, unimpressed. Bored even. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“My land. My winery. My cottages.”

A sharp laugh escapes her lips. She’s laughing at me, and the tips of my ears singe. I don’t know who this woman thinks she is, but she’s dangerously close to getting tossed on her ass by the cops I’m seconds away from calling.

“All I heard was my, my, my .” She laughs again, and it grates my ears like a goddamn crow cawing in the dead of night. “Lighten up, crabby pants. My dad set this up for me with some guy named Jack. Take it up with him.”

I should’ve known my dad had something to do with this. Just another thing he couldn’t be bothered to tell me about. I whip out my phone, not giving a single fuck what time it is. I should’ve been informed of this. While I wait for the call to connect, Goose trots up to our intruder and starts rubbing his head on her legs. Guard dog, my ass. I expect her to shoo him away, but instead she pets him mindlessly, giving him gentle little scratches along his head. He soaks in the attention, tail wagging.

Traitor.

The phone rings three times before my dad picks up.

“Hello?” His voice is gravelly, and a pang of guilt hits me. I could’ve waited until the morning. It’s not as if she’s an actual threat. But then I remember he’s been a lot less helpful in this transition than I thought he would be, leaving me to figure things out blindly, and some of the guilt dissipates.

“Did you book someone to stay in the cottage next to mine?”

“Sure did,” he says, sounding more awake.

There’s no way she heard my dad through the phone, but the satisfied smile she’s shooting my way says otherwise.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” I ask through gritted teeth.

He yawns, an exaggerated, long yawn. “Slipped my mind.”

“You should’ve told me. Goose attacked her because he thought she was sneaking around.”

He groans, cursing under his breath. “It was an honest mistake. Is she hurt?”

My eyes rake over her, and I let myself indulge slightly with her focus off me and firmly on my dog. She’s attractive, there’s no doubt about it. But I have an aversion to women who are too attractive for their own good. They blind you with their beauty, making it difficult to see what’s been right in front of you the entire time. I don’t know why she’s here, and I don’t know for how long, but I don’t like it one bit.

“She’s fine.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. That’s good. She’s Robert’s daughter, so be nice to her, will you?”

I’d never guess the two were related. Robert, a pale, average looking white guy, who doesn’t look nearly old enough to have an adult daughter, looks nothing like the olive-skinned, brown-eyed woman before me. She clearly takes after her mother.

“Marisa I think is her name. She drove down from Seattle today,” he adds.

I tip up my chin at her to get her attention. “You got a name?”

She cocks her head at me, annoyance dripping off of her. “Marisa,” she says, in a dry, dead voice.

“Son, what did I just say about being nice?” my dad chastises.

“I’ll work on it,” I tell him and then hang up the phone.

Marisa’s back is to me, and she’s squatting in front of Goose. “And what’s your name, handsome?”

Thank God it’s dark and she’s facing away from me, effectively hiding the smile I almost let slip. I’ve never heard a baby voice quite like that one. Sugary sweet, yet husky.

“His name is Goose.”

Ignoring me she extends her hand out to him. “Shake,” she commands, and he puts his paw out to her. “I’m Marisa. That grumpy man gave you such a terrible name, didn’t he? Naming you after a bird.”

Something south of my belt twitches at hearing her baby-talk voice. Christ. Now I feel like a pervert. One more reason I don’t need her around.

“He’s not named after a bird. It’s from the movie Top Gun .” Not sure why I feel the need to elaborate.

She stands, dusting off some of the sand still stuck to her. “Never seen it.”

Who the hell hasn’t seen Top Gun ?

I remain silent, the awkwardness growing with each passing second.

Her smile is devious as she walks closer to me, invading my bubble of space. She cranes her neck up at me, all doe eyed and smug. “Satisfied?”

“Mildly,” I retort, slightly distracted by the vanilla smell coming off her.

“Well, now that we have all that sorted out, I’m going to go back inside and try to find something to eat.”

She walks to the cottage. Her hand glides along the railing as she takes the front steps up to the door. Before going in, she pauses and looks over her shoulder at me. “I will be expecting an apology from you for ruining my dinner and for being a total ass about this.”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” I mumble.

Her lips purse, eyebrows raising. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” I shrug. I doubt she heard me, but she knows it was something smart ass.

“Maybe tomorrow, after you’ve had some much needed beauty rest, we can try this again.”

“Try what again?”

“Meeting.” Without giving me a moment to respond, she’s inside, the door slamming loudly in her wake.

Goose looks at me with disappointment.

“Yeah, yeah,” I whisper to him as I gather the gas station food still lying all over the place. “I’m an asshole, I know.”