Page 4 of Buck Wild Orc Cowboy
Max pressed his cheek against the window, taking it all in. “This is so cool. Look at all the tall grass. The trees!”
It felt like we were stepping out of the world I knew and into a place that belonged only in stories.
When we rounded the last bend in the trail, I saw the town for the first time. Lonesome Creek sat tucked in the center of a broad valley, with a main street with storefronts reminding me of an old Western movie. False fronts, they were called. The saloon even had swinging red doors. A water tower sat behind a big red barn, painted with an orc skull wearing a ten-gallon cowboy hat.
Someone played a banjo off in the distance—or they'd piped in music, which could be the case since this was a tourist destination.
Humans dressed in Western clothing strolled along the wooden boardwalk spanning the front of the main street, some stopping to peer through gleaming windows, others entering buildings. A few opened the door to the building marked Jail and stepped inside.
This place was going to draw a crowd, and for a moment, that made my insides quiver. What had I been thinking? I could’vedisappeared into a sleepy nowhere town, but instead, I’d taken a job in a place that must be talked about on social media. Attention would draw the press. The press would take pictures. And pictures would appear on TV and online.
Melvin might see them.
Which meant I needed to find a new way to hide. Maybe I could buy a hat in the general store and wear it all the time. I adored my long, strawberry-blonde hair, but it would wave in the air like a flag in some random person's picture. I’d keep it up at all times.
The coach rattled to a halt in front of the saloon, dust rising in curls around us before the wind caught it and swept it away. It was so hot today, a trickle of sweat pooled at my lower spine and across the backs of my knees.
Max opened the door and poked his head out. “Smells like sugar.”
I blinked, tasting it too, yeast and flour on the breeze. Any good chef had imprinted that smell in her bones, and I was an excellent chef.
The orc driver hopped onto the ground. While he removed our bags from the top, Max and I climbed out of the stagecoach, remaining in the shadows while we looked around.
Max didn’t say he was scared, so I didn’t say I was either. But I scanned the buildings anyway. Windows, rooftops, a broad open plain with woods and mountains beyond. If Melvin showed up here, it wouldn’t take much to strip this new life as bare as the last. Had I been foolish to pick Lonesome Creek to hide?
The orc gave us a grunt and tipped his head toward the building with a bakery sign marked Sweet on the Range. “I’ll go tell Sel you’re here.” The orc turned and strode away, his boots thudding on the boardwalk. His tusks caught the light as he disappeared inside the bakery. Max remained close, craning his neck as he followed the orc with his eyes.
“He’s huge,” Max breathed. “Do you think all orcs are that big?”
“Probably.”
Heat lingered in the air as I tugged my bag higher on my shoulder. Max held his own.
A minute passed. Maybe two. Then the door to the bakery creaked open, and someone walked out behind the driver. Another orc, but I’d known that already. He kept his steps slow as he emerged, wiping flour from his hands onto a white apron. His face appeared calm, almost unreadable, but his eyes aimed straight at me and held.
As big as the orc driver, Sel's muscular chest stretched his faded black shirt. I took in his broad shoulders. Skin a muted green, and dark eyes that didn’t, even for a second, look away. No part of him smiled, but something shifted in his jaw, tightening like he was clenching his teeth.
I couldn’t move.
He didn't look dangerous in any obvious way, but I didn’t know what his quiet meant. Silence had once been the calm before a punch landed. My heart remembered before my brain did. I didn’t reach for Max, but I clocked the steps between us and how fast I could close it if I had to.
While the driver walked over to the other side of the sorhox, doing something with the straps securing it to the stagecoach, Sel moved forward, stepping down off the boardwalk and striding right over to stand in front of us.
“You're Holly?” He had a deep voice. Low. Rough as gravel, but not unkind.
My mouth opened, but words didn't come out. It was my true name, but my brain still sifted through aliases, checking for which identity I was supposed to be while standing on this dirt road in a fake Western town for tourists. I had to remember if this was a name safe enough to say out loud.
He blinked. “I'm Sel. You accepted the baker job?” His cheeks darkening, he scratched across the back of his neck.
Max stepped close and elbowed my ribs.
My fingers twitched, and I nodded once. “Yeah. Holly Engle. That’s my name. This is my son, Max. Max Engle.” I’d given him my name, not Melvin’s.
Sel gave Max a short look, more curious than judging, before he took our bags from us.
I almost protested. It wasn’t that I didn’t want help. I did, from the right person. But him holding them made me feel unready. Like if someone snapped a hand toward me, I’d need to grab our things before we could bolt, but now they weren’t in my possession.
“Follow me,” he said. “I'll show you to the hotel.”
