Love at First Rescue: Rough & Ready Country, #3

By Engrid Eaves

Cricket has been the burning, blazing love of my life for as long as I can remember—my North Star. My former high school sweetheart and current employee, the curvy dispatcher tests my professionalism to the breaking point. She's my everything, but I can't let her know it.

 

Instead, I play the part of the uncaring bosshole, pulling it off so convincingly she quits. I can't blame her, and I try to let her go. I've worked hard to bury my feelings over the years, believing it's for the best. Then, an unguarded kiss leaves me dangerously close to surrendering everything to love. As much as I yearn to claim her, though, unspeakable secrets from my past won't allow it…

 

I'm convinced she can do better than me and resigned to a life without the only woman I've ever loved … until I get a punch-in-the-face wake-up call I can't ignore. And when fate threatens to take her from me? I ride through hell and back to save her. I'll kill the man who lays a hand on her. Problem is, how will I ever follow my own rule?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Engrid Eaves
• Release date: Feb 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798990168268

Book preview

PROLOGUE

CHRISTIAN

My hands shake as I look at the folded letter again. Written on a stained piece of binder paper with the edges ragged where someone tore it from a spiral notebook. The handwriting is scrawling, irregular, and came addressed to my high school. The words still shake me to my core, five months after receiving them:

Dear Christian,

I read about your winning touchdown with the Hollister Bobcats, and all I can say is Wow! I had no idea you would turn out to be such a successful athlete. I’m proud of you—for whatever it’s worth.

I made the right decision all those years ago when I gave you up for adoption. There was no way I could have provided for you the way your adopted parents have. But you’re still my son.

If you ever want to talk or find out more about me and your family, feel free to call or come by. I’ll know exactly who you are when I see you because you’re a dead ringer for your father.

Your mother,

Mazie McLeod

751 False Creek Road

Ophir City, CA

555-0199

I check the address on the letter one more time. I’m definitely on the wrong side of the tracks, staring down a white doublewide trailer with peeling turquoise trim. The yard’s overgrown with bushes and old car parts and piles of junk I can’t identify, and the chain link fence around the place has holes, making an imminent attack from two mixed-breed canines barking ferociously on the other side a high probability.

I hear a low gravelly female voice scold, Shut the fuck up! My stomach knots.

The cursing does nothing to stop the dogs, and I’m about to lose my nerve, hop back into my vintage pickup truck, and drive away, when the woman comes out.

She’s skinny as a rail, and the skin on her face is leathery. Her hair’s long, dishwater blonde, and disheveled. She’s bare-footed and missing a front tooth and looks like a poor person out of a National Geographic magazine. She stares directly at me, twitching. I don’t know if it’s from surprise or drugs.

Christian! she hollers my way. It’s about time you showed up. I was starting to wonder if you got my letter.

I nod, holding it up for her to see. I can’t make words come out of my mouth. She motions for me to step towards the gate of the fence, but my feet won’t move.

Don’t let these motherfuckers scare you. Come on in.

I take a deep breath, making a mental note of how strange I must look in this neighborhood. I’ve got on my blue-and-white high school letterman jacket, a pair of Levis, cowboy boots, and a spotless white T-shirt. My dark blond hair is clean-cut with a preppy vibe.

Are you gonna stand there all day?

A second deep breath helps me start moving again. I tell myself I can leave whenever I want to. I’m just here for some answers.

Mazie wears cropped jean shorts no son should have to see their mother in. That’s to say nothing of her torn, stained lavender tank top. She holds a dog collar in each hand as I pull back the squeaky gate and step into the yard. Both dogs have black and brown brindle fur with the occasional white patch, and they look like siblings. Once the canines see me enter the yard, they go crazy, pulling and barking until white foam and drool pour from their mouths. Mazie digs in her heels, but they drag her towards me anyway.

Go inside, she orders. I’ll be right there. I’ve got to chain these two shitheads up.

Climbing the half-rotted steps to the front door, I don’t know which is worse—taking my chances with the dogs or the trailer. The doorknob is sketchy as hell and shows signs of a break-in.

Inside, I’m greeted by a wall of clutter. Boxes stacked from floor to ceiling against a backdrop of ancient brown shag carpet. The smell of cigarette smoke and weed hangs heavy, and I can hear heavy snoring coming from a room down the trailer’s one narrow hallway. The kitchen smells like something’s been sitting out too long, and the orange and brown linoleum has large holes in it. Dirty dishes fill the sink, and the refrigerator is buried under magnets and papers. A small cockroach scurries from the kitchen sink towards the island, disappearing.

Behind me, I hear the door push open with more than a little effort, and the woman who greeted me in the yard shuts it, breathlessly. Don’t mind the mess. You shoulda warned me before coming. I’d have straightened up the place.

Everything about this is a bad nightmare. I want to run out of the trailer screaming and never look back.

Can I get you something to drink? A beer maybe?

The question alarms me. I’m no prude, but having your estranged mother start by promoting underage drinking? Just plain weird. The pit in my stomach grows.

She talks in hushed tones. Let’s try to be quiet so we don’t wake up Ralph. He’s coming off a two-day bender, and the last thing we need is him all fired up. Leaning on the kitchen counter, she stares at me for a long moment, and I feel the awkwardness ratchet skyward.

Shaking her head, she clarifies, Ralph’s not your father by the way. Haven’t seen that man since before you were born. But you really do look just like him. She doesn’t hide her disgust.

Covering her hands with her face, her shoulders shake, and I realize she’s crying. I don’t know what to do. But standing still isn’t an option thanks to my upbringing, so I step around the kitchen counter to lightly pat her on the shoulder. She snorts loudly and wipes the tears from her face. Her head twitches and darts around, and she chews on her bottom lip, which bears an angry sore. She’s also got sores on her cheeks that look like she’s taken her own fingernails to them. She cranes her head, looking around nervously before settling on a used dish towel to blow her nose.

Done trying to comfort her, I drop my hand to my side where it fists like the other one. The letter crumples in my hand.

She motions me to sit at a barstool at the kitchen counter, and she heads to the fridge for a can of beer.

You sure you don’t want one?

No, ma’am.

She laughs, Ma’am. Your adopted parents must be uptight. The criticism makes me fighting mad, but I try to give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was her attempt at a joke. Her eyes widen, sweeping from the top of my head to the toes of my boots as I perch atop the stool, trying not to touch anything. Her eyebrows raise.

This experience needs to end. Look, I came because of the letter. I guess I wanted to know a little more about you and my family. But if this is a bad time, I’ll go. I motion with my head towards the snoring in the back.

It’s hard looking at you. The picture in the paper wasn’t so bad. But, up close, you’re a spitting image of your father.

I shrug, not especially impressed by the pronouncement. Basic biology.

She laughs. You’re a smart boy. You must get that from me.

I nod politely.

What would you like to know about your family? She sits on the stool next to me, turning so our knees face each other.

My mind goes blank. Uncrumpling the letter, I take another look, hoping it’ll spark something. My eyes fall to the signature line. The name McLeod. I’m assuming that’s my blood father’s last name?

Her eyes round. Oh no, no, no. That’s my maiden name.

Okay, so what was my bio dad’s name, then?

Coach Wheeler. Matthew Wheeler. Her face twists, and she looks near tears again.

I can’t stand to see a woman cry, and I send up a silent prayer she’ll calm down.

Sounds like you two never married?

Never.

Hmm. My name could’ve been Christian Wheeler instead of Christian McLeod. Weird. I frown, staring at the stained vinyl countertop.

Yeah, but you don’t want to use that name.

Why not? I ask, curiosity growing.

She shakes her head, trembling. Because he was a bad man, Christian, and you don’t want to be anything like him.

Melodrama’s obviously her thing, but I’m not buying it. I shrug my shoulders, "Yeah, I get it. You guys broke up or whatever,