When it clicks, I open the door and reach for the thick envelope inside. Sure enough, it’s empty.
“I changed the combo like I always do after you get out of rehab,” I say. “How did you get in?”
“It spelled Logan Wild,” Daddy says. “Too easy, darlin’.”
I flush.
Logan Wild.
I take a big swallow of my iced tea and lean closer to the air conditioning vent. Just thinking about Logan gets me hot and bothered. The way he looks after working at Wild Ranch all day, his cowboy hat low on his head, those whiskey-colored eyes zeroed on me like lasers, and his sweaty, fit body in worn jeans and chocolate cowboy boots.
I take a deep breath and close the safe. “I’ll work harder on the code,” I promise. “But no freaking way am I waiting around at the finish line for some guy in town to ‘marry’ me.”
“Um…your daddy already put your face on the flyers he distributed around town this morning.” Ginny’s eyes widen.
“You didn’t,” I say to my father.
Daddy nods. “That’s right, darlin’. And you know why? Because you’ll be representing Elizabeth Bennet. You’ll be the only lady dressed in true Regency costume. The other ladies will pick their own dresses and the men their suits, but Eloise from Darcy Bridal Boutique has agreed to lend you her window costume from the time she sewed an exact replica of Elizabeth Bennet’s gown from the BBC movie.”
I slump against the bar. “Oh, God. This is all so ridiculous that I don’t even know what to say.”
“Be respectful, Macey.” Mama eyes me disapprovingly. “Jane Austen’s ghost is a living being, with a soul just like you and me. You’ll hurt the poor dear’s feelings if you complain about her. She’s already a prisoner in our bar—the least we can do is treat her kindly until she’s freed.”
“That ghost is never going to be freed, no matter how many weddings The Cowherd throws or how many ways you two try to find the magical couple.” I brush a stray hair out of my face impatiently. “The legend isn’t real—it’s town gossip, a folk tale. And by next July fourth, when no wedding has succeeded in opening the cell door, y’all will know I’m right.”
“Mace…” Mama says as she furrows her brow and eyes me uncomfortably.
I glance away from her and down at the white scar line on the soft inside of my wrist. Some memories will never fade, no matter how much I wish they would.
“I’ll do the damn fake wedding,” I say. “For the sake of our family business only. But right now, I need to close up for a bit. I have an errand to run.”
I tell Ginny I’ll call her and wave goodbye as the three of them leave. Before leaving myself, I walk down the long, lonely hallway to the liquor room, which doubles as my office. I shut the door behind me and sink down into the chair at my desk. I stare across the room at Cell Number One, the lone jail cell from our former town prison that supposedly has held Jane Austen’s ghost since she was brought here from England under a witch’s cruel spell. No one can release her from her cell except for the magic of two soul mates coming together in marriage. And if the right couple isn’t discovered by next July fourth, the ghost will be forever trapped in the bar.
It’s a story I’ve heard my entire life and one my mother swears is going to keep me from my own soul mate if Jane doesn’t get set free. All because of some dumb scar I’ve got on my wrist, a scar Mama is convinced makes me as cursed as Jane Austen’s ghost.
Well, I decided a long time ago not to deal with any of that crap. As the oldest child of two parents who never figured out how to make their relationship work in any healthy way, I’m not going to repeat their mistakes. The easiest way to do that? Follow the same path Logan does:
Don’t marry.
Don’t commit.
And don’t give your heart away.
But I do have needs. And if my parents are going to make me play Elizabeth Bennet and be a fake wife for a night, then I’m damn sure going to guarantee that my Mr. Darcy gives me one hell of a good time.
I just have to ask if he’s on board.
Chapter Two
Logan
I’m hotter than blazes.
It’s over a hundred degrees, and we’ve been out in the fields since dawn.
My cousin and best friend, Blake Wild, whose parents own the ranch next door to ours, is helping my brothers and me out for the day. His father and mine share the profits and the labor of our two ranches. Plus, Blake’s siblings are currently living out of state, and he takes every chance he can get to hang out with me.
Blake grimaces as he steadies the fence post while I hammer in the last nail. “I think I got a fucking splinter.”
“Aw, poor baby,” Reid, my brother closest to me in age, says mockingly.
Lightning fast, Blake grabs the hammer out of my hand and hurls it at Reid, who catches it effortlessly with an arrogant smirk.
I resist a familiar urge to pop Reid one. My brothers and I fight more than we get along. If Blake weren’t here, I’d have lost my temper about ten times already today.
Reid flashes a lazy smile at the death looks Blake and I give him, and then the cocky bastard hops back onto his horse. “Let’s do one ride around the back field before we head to the barn. This summer heat sucks.”
We’ve spent the day’s hours fixing fences and moving cattle between Wild Ranch and my cousins’ neighboring ranch. But all I really want to do is sit in my one-bedroom cottage on the edge of my family’s property and paint.
My dad calls it, “that crazy painting hobby of yours.”
My “crazy hobby” has been my passion since I was a kid. And my two-room cottage at the edge of Wild Ranch is my sanctuary where I live and paint after a long day of rounding up cattle or goats or sheep. Ranching is in my blood, but other than bronc riding, I can barely stand to put in a full day’s work without cutting out a bit early. And no matter how many talks I’ve tried to have with my father over our differences, Roy Wild stubbornly refuses to see me as anything but a cowboy.
“Logan, let’s go!” Reid calls out from atop his horse. “We still need to get the feed.”
I give the fence one last tug to make sure it’s secure, and then, I spin and take one stride before I slip a boot into the stirrup and swing my body up into the saddle—as easy as getting out of bed in the morning.
I nudge Dexter to follow Reid and Blake and wipe the sweat off my brow, grateful for the protection of my cowboy hat. I’d be sunburned far worse right now without it, and a case of sunstroke wouldn’t come close to stopping my father from making sure all four of his sons put in a day’s work.
As Blake, Reid, and I reach the far field, I glance in the direction of The Cowherd Whiskey Saloon & Chapel. I scan the distant porch and lone picnic table nestled underneath the large oak tree. No sign of Macey.
If there’s one thing I’d give up painting for tonight, or really any night, it’s to hang out with my best friend. Although between myself and Dexter, I have to admit I want more than just talking tonight. No matter how many ways I try to forget her, no woman lights me up the way my sassy next-door neighbor does.