Love at First Campfire: Rough & Ready Country, #2

By Engrid Eaves

There's no rest for the wicked, and the same goes for search and rescue unit leads ... especially in the towering Sierra Nevada Mountains. If I'm not on top of my game, people suffer, and lives are lost. Distractions, like relationships, are for other people … not me.

Until I'm blindsided at my brother's wedding by the maid of honor, Jess. My new sister-in-law's bestie, she's 100% off-limits. But that doesn't make ignoring the blonde bombshell's scorchingly sexy curves or her naughty proposition any easier. One night—no strings attached.

From torrid stargazing to a truck ride that could get me arrested, my bedroom, and the shower, she matches my unquenchable thirst, lust for searing lust. In under 24 hours, I break every one-night stand rule, including the cardinal sin: catching feelings.

But Jess's resolve to stick to the playbook is only rivaled by her determination to keep secrets. Dark, dangerous secrets that could rip her from my life before I can convince her she's all mine. The only hope for a future together? A daring rescue with no margin for error and everything on the line…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Engrid Eaves
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990168251

Book preview

PROLOGUE

JESS

C raven’s out.

I don’t know how long I stare at the text from my editor at the Chronicle. I’m parked on the street near verdant, tree-lined Golden Gate Park, enjoying one of those sunny lunch breaks you can’t pass up in San Francisco. But now my appetite evaporates.

As a true crime reporter, I rarely see people at their best. But Craven is a special kind of monster. Unfortunately, making a monster your business risks gaining their attention. Something the tight knot in my stomach attests to.

But I had to do it.

I had to know what happened to the string of girls and women missing in the Bay Area over the past decade. Most in national parks, filling female hikers across the state with dread.

One name kept popping up as I dug into the case, pouring over files and reading through mountains of evidence. Ted Wesley Craven. By all accounts, an upstanding citizen and acclaimed high school teacher, the cops never counted him a serious suspect.

But after diving into his website viewing history, social media posts, past cell phone locations, incongruent testimony, and anything else I could get my hands on, another picture emerged. My articles soon revealed him as the only suspect that mattered. Obsessive work led to breakthroughs in the case and award-winning bylines. It also landed me in his cross-hairs.

While he sat behind bars, I shrugged off the occasional threatening missive he sent to the Chronicle’s office or my home address. Information comes so cheap on the internet, and I can only guess what he knows about me.

None of it mattered until procedural errors with the evidence chain of custody came to light. Then, a mistrial and now me staring at my cell phone, hands shaking.

I’ll never forget how he looked at me across the courtroom during his murder trial. His black, remorseless eyes, unblinking and emboldened by rage, chilled my blood.

Thanks for the heads up, I text back.

Why not take a few extra days away from the office while all this blows over? Where did you say you were going for the wedding again? Tahoe?

Rough & Ready Ranch.

And that’s where?

Sierra Nevada backcountry.

Sounds like the perfect place to lay low for a bit.

Agreed, I reply.

Have fun and enjoy a much-needed vacay.

I reply with a thumbs-up emoji, setting my phone on the passenger seat next to my purse. The news confirms a feeling I’ve had all day—a feeling I can’t shake. Like someone’s watching me. Even now, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Yet, checking my rearview mirror, I don’t see anyone.

I can’t let my imagination run away with me. Or start living in fear. Maybe the stress of being a maid of honor is getting to me. I don’t know.

My phone vibrates, startling me. I have a text from my bestie, Alex. She’s getting married this weekend, and there’s still plenty to do.

I open her message, immediately deluged in catering drama.

How about I come in a few days early? Take some of the planning burden off your shoulders? I text.

Next thing I know, my screen lights up with her FaceTime call. I deny the video. The last thing she needs right now is to see me upset.

Hi, sweetie, I greet her.

He’s out, isn’t he?

She’s too perceptive. I sigh, Yep.

Do you think he’s following you or anything?

I look around, still feeling oddly nervous. No, everything’s fine … and you know I can take care of myself. Anyway, enough about me. You’re about to tie the knot! How can I help you feel less stressed?

Just promise me you’ll be extra careful. When are you getting in?

I look down at my car’s dashboard, realizing my lunch break is nearly over. I don’t have to go back into the office. But traffic will be miserable leaving the Bay Area this afternoon. Between packing and picking up my maid of honor dress from the seamstress, there’s still plenty to do, and I can probably miss a jam if I head out after six.

Maybe ten or so.

Will you stay here? she asks hopefully.

I can’t stifle a laugh.

She and her hot mountain man fiancé can’t keep their hands off each other, and their cabin is relatively spare in the privacy department.

What? she asks a little defensively.

No offense, but you and Maksim need your privacy.

She giggles.

Looking at the dashboard clock again, I press my fingers to my temple. I wasn’t planning on leaving for a few more days, and I still have so much to do. But getting away from the City right now sounds undeniably appealing.

Thank you for the offer, but I’d prefer my own place.

Hollister Bed and Breakfast?

If I can extend my reservation, yes.

Alright. Well, drive safely, and be careful. I won’t stop worrying until you get here.

I’ll text you. I promise.

By the time I extend my reservation at the hotel, pick up my gown, finish packing, and eat dinner, I’m behind schedule. It’ll be midnight before I get in. Hollister’s a small town, with something like 2,000 people, and the owner of the bed and breakfast, Mrs. Chatterton, sounds elderly. The last thing I want to do is make her wait up.

I call her again, arranging to pick up my hotel room key nearby at the gas station. Apparently, her grandson owns it, and it’s open twenty-four seven. My head’s on a swivel in the parking lot on the way to my red Camry. I don’t want to indulge paranoia. But having my face plastered on the missing persons board at Walmart is unthinkable.

My shoulders and neck finally relax about two hours into the drive, when I break free of the congestion at the Bay Bridge and again in Vallejo. The radio blares rock hits from the 90s and early 2000s. I no longer shoot constant glances in my rearview mirror, settling into singing along with the satellite radio—Glycerine by Bush. I feel liberated, escaping the City, my job, and Craven.

CHAPTER ONE

JESS

Seriously? Of all the women in the room jonesing for love, how did I end up with the bouquet? It’s not like I caught it.

Honestly, it clobbered me. The bundle of pastel roses, freesias, and lisianthus mixed with deep purple anemones and verdant rosemary nearly took my head off. I put my hands up to avoid a scratched face or bloody nose. But the crowd gathering around me doesn’t care about that. Instead, they clap and cheer at the strange irony of the situation.

The self-avowed single girl singled out by fate. Bah! I force a stiff smile as my fellow bridesmaids shoot me dirty looks.

But the garter toss takes the cake. My best friend Alex’s crazy, beautiful wedding has thirteen groomsmen, twelve of whom mill around the dance floor as Alex takes a seat. Maksim dives eagerly into the fluffy layers of her skirt as Christian, the sheriff, and Fletcher, the doctor, talk trash about their catching abilities.

Hawk, the pilot, and Rock, the tattoo artist, hem and haw, looking resigned. And others, like Zane, the cowboy of few words, put on a polite face. Only Logan, the swaggering mountain man with smoldering good looks, hangs back, leaning against the barn wall. Even in his tux, the definition of his athletic frame puts a tight knot in my throat. He’s got a folded twenty-dollar bill in his hand, and I watch him pay off Alex’s adorable, ten-year-old nephew to stand in for him.

Are you serious right now? I ask, leaning back against the wall next to him.

What? he replies, raising an eyebrow and grinning. My heart flutters.

This guy’s a walking red flag. Apparently, he’s the player in the family. But he shares my dry sense of humor, which I’ve counted a huge bonus in the midst of so much crazy wedding drama. Wedding drama not so much from my girl, Alex, but from her over-the-top Bulgarian mom and aunts. I don’t understand half of what’s been said this week, but it has involved many melodramatic hand gestures and percussive monologues.

Logan’s sarcasm provides a nice counterpoint, even though everyone’s warned me to stay away. Bribing a child to save you from the specter of domesticity?

He shrugs. Just a little insurance in case my luck’s as bad as yours ...

The curly, auburn-haired boy shrieks as he dives for the garter. Jumping to his feet, he holds it aloft, cheering and doing a victory dance.

Logan’s shoulders drop, and his face relaxes. Then, things go haywire.

Here you go! The mischievous boy tosses the garter over the