Filthy Cowboy (Junkyard Shifters Book 4) Page 2

  It was a far cry from his old ranch in Colorado, but now he wouldn’t change it for anything. Too many memories in Colorado.

  When he reached the van, moonshine in his hand, he stopped short. A man stood by the door—a man who used to be a Junkyard shifter but had gotten out of this place. He had light brown hair that looked darker in the night, and green eyes that flashed reflected light from the edge of the fighting ring behind Stetson.

  “Grant,” Stetson said.

  “Hey,” Grant said, lifting a hand. “Is that Ephraimson’s moonshine?”

  “Sure is. Want some?”

  “Yeah, thanks.” Grant took the proffered jar.

  Stetson waited. Grant hadn’t returned to the Junkyard since getting out last spring. Yeah, he’d come around, but he always stayed at the periphery, never entering the Junkyard proper. It was only a few months ago the shifters had learned that the people who got out were able come and go over the magical boundary wall as they pleased. To see Grant on the inside, though, was a new development.

  Stetson’s inner jaguar raised its fur. He didn’t like new developments.

  After handing back the moonshine, Grant said, “I heard something. A guy named Jamal Kingston got in touch with me on the shifter forum message boards. You know him?”

  Stetson froze. Fuck. Fuck. Jamal Kingston. It was a name he hadn’t spoken since March. The last face from his home he’d seen before coming to the Junkyard. “What’d he want?”

  “He had a message for you. I don’t know if I should say sorry for your loss, or what. He asked me to tell you that Golena and Major are dead.”

  A savage pleasure ripped through Stetson. Golena and Major had been a part of the trafficking ring. Their deaths were nothing but an improvement to the planet, as far as Stetson was concerned.

  Grant was watching him carefully, but Stetson was careful not to show any emotion. Stetson was fucking good at schooling his features. He’d had to be, after so long undercover.

  “Thanks for the message,” Stetson said.

  “You need to talk about anything?” Grant asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Succinct as always,” Grant said with a chuckle. “Okay, man. You know where to find me if you need something.”

  “I do. Appreciate it.”

  Grant pushed off of the edge of the van and walked away. Stetson stood in place for a long moment, waiting for the clarity that came with solitude.

  Instead of clarity, his mind’s eye showed him Golena’s grinning face as he’d taunted a young woman. Then he saw Major’s lithe jaguar form—spotted, unlike Stetson’s completely black fur—stalking another woman. Major had set her free and told her to run. He’d made a game of the woman’s terror.

  They were images Stetson couldn’t forget, no matter how much he tried. Moonshine wasn’t enough. Fighting only brought it to the forefront of his mind. The only hope he had was of losing himself in words, words, words.

  Stepping into the van, he picked up a book at random. A piece of pale blue paper fell from the pages. He sighed, shoulders easing. Dew. He didn’t need a book, he needed her letters. It was her words that soothed his beast.

  He sniffed the paper. Clover. Mint. Her scent. It was all he knew about her—her scent and her first name. Safer this way. He wouldn’t tell her his name. He felt bad about that. He’d love to see the way her careful cursive formed the whole of it.

  This note was among the first of their correspondence, dated in May.

  S—

  Thank you for your letter. It sounds like your friend, J, is a good one, and I’m glad you have someone like that in your life.

  I very much enjoyed Louise Glück’s Meadowlands. You’re right—it’s a fascinating callback to The Odyssey. My recommendation for you is Brenda Hillman’s Bright Existence, if you’ve already read everything of Glück’s. I’m taking the liberty of adding it to your book delivery this week, but of course I won’t be offended if you don’t read it.

  You might be wondering what I thought of the poem you enclosed. It took my breath away, S. Please send more.

  Yours,

  Dew

  Stetson breathed in again, opening his mouth slightly to pull in more of her fading scent. There it was again. Clover. Just a touch of mint. Dew. And that word, before her name. Yours.

  Fuck right, she was his.

  No. That was his jaguar side thinking. His human side refused. She couldn’t be his, no matter how much he wanted her.

  He wondered what she thought of his last poem. He should be careful and hold himself back, but he’d been sending more and more of his heart and his yearning to this woman. The taste, the scent of rounded nights / The curve of thighs… What the hell had he been thinking, sending that to her? It was too much, too obvious that he wanted her.

  Still, she didn’t have to know he was a shifter prisoner, sentenced to live out the rest of his days in a junkyard. She didn’t even know his name. Neither of them knew what the other looked like. She could have brown eyes, or green. Maybe pale blue like her notepaper. For all he knew, she was seventy years old—and that wouldn’t change his feelings at all. Her soul was evanescent and shone through every word she wrote to him.

  Poetry. Letters. A deep friendship based on words.

  That’s all this was, all it could ever be.

  Even if his beast raged, even if his heart broke.

  3

  Dew arrived at the library early in the morning, her car’s tires slipping on the icy road just enough to throw her heart into her throat as she pulled into the parking lot. Last night had been freezing, and the morning sun hadn’t yet chased away the chill.

  Nobody was here this early, which was perfect. Dew went into the library, disengaged the alarm, and locked the door behind her. This quiet time would be the best opportunity to work on her letter to S. She’d drafted it last night, but it wasn’t quite perfect yet. She wanted to show him the best, smartest side of herself. She wasn’t a poet like he was, but she appreciated words and their connotations, and that meant taking time to write the best letter possible.

  The letter in her favorite handbag (a purse large enough to carry several books) was one of her longest letters yet. She’d listed her hopes and dreams for the future, as well as her fears. Loneliness was a big one of those fears, but she skirted the issue, not wanting to sound pathetic. She didn’t want S’s pity, just his understanding. The way he responded to her letters was always perfect—just the right amount of sentiment to make her feel seen. He “got” her, and that was all there was to it.

  After flipping on the library’s lights, Dew hurried to the thermostat to get the heater running. It wouldn’t take too long to heat up this little building, which was one of the benefits of working at a tiny library in a tiny mountain town. The disadvantages included lack of funding and a lack of space for new books so they were constantly trying to sell older tomes to make money—and room—for newer ones.

  Shrugging off her coat, she sat down at one of the big tables in the kids corner of the library. When cleaning up yesterday, she’d missed a tiny bit of glue from the craft session. She picked at it with her fingernail until it popped off the laminate.

  There. Now she had a large, clear workspace.

  She took her letter from her handbag and spread it open, then snagged one of those stunted library pencils from the tray in the center of the table and got to work, crossing out sentences, rephrasing the awkward ones, stripping out the overly-vulnerable lines that crossed too far into confessions of her desperate loneliness. She liked S, and she didn’t want to lose his respect because she’d shown herself to be maudlin and melodramatic.

  An hour later, she had a nice letter in front of her. Now all that was left was copying the cleaned-up version to a new piece of paper. She’d brought her favorite blue stationery with her, tucked into a folder in her handbag. S always wrote to her on plain white paper, or binder paper, which didn’t bother her in the slightest. His words were good enough, he could pr
obably scrawl his poems and missives on toilet paper and she wouldn’t care.

  Unfortunately, a key turning in the library’s door alerted Dew to the fact that Jillian was here, and Dew would have to copy down her letter to S during her morning break. Totally fine, because Garrett wouldn’t be here to pick up the BTDs—books to deliver—until after three.

  Following on Jillian’s heels were a few patrons, the older folks who liked to get their errands done first thing in the morning, bringing in and out stacks of all kinds of books—military nonfiction, self-help, mystery, high-brow literary fiction, and romance. The early part of Dew’s shift passed in a whirl of soft conversation, checking in returns, and helping people find their next favorite reads.

  A man came in after the early rush—a stranger to Dew. She was on a first-name basis with most of the library patrons, so this was odd in itself. He walked around the small space, ducking between the shelves, touching the spines of books before moving on. He didn’t even seem to be browsing, just wasting time.

  Working up his nerve to come to the circulation desk? He’d glanced up at Dew more than once.

  Could this be S? Her heart thudded harder in her chest and her stomach did the kinds of somersaults she’d never been able to master as a kid.

  If it was S, she had to admit, she’d be pleased with his appearance. She’d pictured S in all kinds of different forms—old and genteel, a dashing young rogue, or a middle-aged divorced dad. He’d mentioned a ranch once, so she often put him in a cowboy hat in her mind, in jeans with a belt buckle and no shirt. It wasn’t how the local ranchers dressed, but it was what the covers of western romances usually featured, and she’d decided she liked the look.

  This guy, however, didn’t look like a rancher, and he didn’t wear a cowboy hat. Still, he was attractive, and if he was S, she’d consider herself very lucky to get to know him better. His skin was pale, reminding her of the vampire on that book Jillian had ordered, but he didn’t look sickly, just like he didn’t get out in the sun much. Definitely not a rancher, Dew decided. He had longish golden-brown hair, curling around his ears on the sides, bangs falling into his eyes. His eyes were the most noteworthy feature—an ice-blue that made her shiver. With delight or fear, she wasn’t sure which.

  When he didn’t come to ask her a question, Dew decided she’d take her break, since the library was otherwise quiet. She usually relaxed at one of the tables nestled against a window if she didn’t have a snack to eat. Grabbing her handbag, she walked over and sat down. She spread out the old letter to S and her fresh sheet of stationery. One moment, she looked down to copy her letter to S, and the next, the man was standing right next to her. She quickly covered her papers and gave him a sheepish smile.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. “I mean, I’m taking my break right now, but I’ll be done in ten minutes.”

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said.

  “It’s not a problem.”

  Was this S? If so, she could just hand him the letter now and forget about sprucing it up.

  “I’m new to the area,” he said. “Just arrived yesterday. I’m looking for a local map.”

  Dew’s heart plummeted. If he’d just arrived, he couldn’t be S. Swallowing her disappointment, she said, “We have some atlases, which won’t be much use for local sights. There’s a large map of the town behind the circulation desk, but it’s a historic map. Only the library and the feed store are still in place. Your best bet is going online, and we’ve some computers at the back of the room. Printing out a page costs fifty cents.”

  His eyebrows rose.

  “I know it’s steep, but we have to keep the printer working. You know what it’s like—or maybe you don’t—but a tiny library like this, well, funds are sometimes tight.” She was babbling. With effort, she closed her mouth.

  “Maybe you could help me out,” he said, his handsome jaw moving slowly as he spoke. “I’m looking for an old dump or junkyard.”

  Dew shook her head. “I’ve no idea. I just use the trash service.”

  “This junkyard isn’t used anymore,” he said.

  “Oh,” Dew said slowly, remembering one of the older patrons talking about it once. “I think there is one, out on Pedrick Road. I’ve never been there, but you could probably find it on that map.”

  “Well, I’ll do that, then.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” she said. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” He flashed her a smile. “Maybe when my errands are done here, we could meet for dinner one evening?”

  Her mouth fell open. He’d just asked her out. And it had been so smooth, not teasing or corny like she usually heard from some of the older men who flirted like it was the only thing keeping them alive.

  Before she could respond, he said, “You don’t need to say anything now. I should be done in a few days with my work, and I’ll come back here, see if I can find you and ask again. Sound good?”

  “Um. Yeah. Okay.”

  Wow, really articulate, Dew, she thought. But the guy didn’t laugh at her, just nodded and made his way to the circulation desk, where Jillian currently sat. While the guy examined the map, Jillian caught Dew’s eye and mouthed, “Holy hotness!”

  Dew couldn’t wait to tell her that the guy had asked her out.

  He wasn’t S, though.

  Quickly, Dew finished copying down the new and improved version of her letter to S. Her mind wasn’t quite as focused as it would normally be, because her heart was pitter-pattering over the excitement of the stranger asking her for a date.

  And yet, she doubted the stranger could captivate her mind and heart in the same way S had. If she did end up going out with this guy, he’d have a high bar of excellence to match. She almost felt bad for him.

  Her break was over, so she went to the Books to Deliver box and found the tome that said only S for the name and had an address for Pedrick Road. It was a copy of The Ten Thousand Doors of January, a historical fantasy by Alix E. Harrow. Dew had pulled it out and opened it to tuck in her letter when the library phone rang.

  “Can you grab that?” Jillian asked, hurrying by. “I’m having a hot flash, have to run outside. I think Mr. Hottie in the tight pants caused this. I’d like to check him out of the library.”

  Nodding and laughing—not at Jillian’s hot flash, but at her explanation and one of their favorite library puns, Dew hurried to the front desk and picked up the phone. And from there, the rest of the morning and early afternoon passed in the comfortable haze and busyness of keeping a small-town library functioning.

  Three o’clock arrived, and with it, Garrett, who had a near-religious fervor when it came to punctuality. Dew appreciated timeliness as much as the next person, but Garrett took it to new extremes—never early, never late. Even as he was walking through the library doors, he was checking his fancy watch for the time.

  He exchanged brief hellos with Dew and Jillian and then, movements swift, collected the box of BTDs. His skinny arms strained with the weight of it, but Dew was impressed because she would never in a million years be able to lift that many books at once.

  And then he was gone, and Dew’s stomach did another flip of hopeful glee because S would be receiving her letter today. What would he think? Would he notice the change in her closing today? Instead of Yours, she’d written With love, and she’d felt that love as she wrote the word. Love. For a man whose name she didn’t know.

  Yep, if she went on that date with the guy she’d talked to this morning, the poor guy would have stiff competition for Dew’s affections. In fact, she couldn’t say yes to a date with him. It was unfair to him. She’d tell him she was already attached to someone.

  She had all but told S about her attachment in that letter.

  Floating on an uncertain, tenuous happiness, she walked into the office to take a breath. A book lay on the table. Dew did a double-take.

  The Ten Thousand Doors of January.

  S’s book.

  The one with her letter.

/>   She’d been distracted with Jillian’s hot flash and the phone call, and she hadn’t put the book back into the box. And Garrett had just left.

  Maybe there was still a chance. Dew strained her ears, heard the sound of an engine start up. He was still here. There was time.

  Grabbing S’s book from the counter, Dew launched herself through the doors and into the parking lot. The frigid winter air was a balm to her flushed cheeks but immediately called forth goosebumps. Garrett’s blue van was pulling out of the parking lot, exhaust visible from the tailpipe.

  “Garrett!” Dew yelled, waving S’s book. “Wait! Garrett!”

  But Garrett’s windows were up and she could hear the pounding bass of his stereo from this far away. No way would he be able to hear her shouting for him. And even if he could, with his obsessive need for punctuality, would he wait for her to run to the van? Or would it throw him off his precious schedule?

  “Darn it, Garrett!” She knew she looked like she’d lost her mind, running after the van and flailing her arms, but she didn’t care.

  But Garrett was off, motoring out of sight, and Dew was left with The Ten Thousand Doors of January and her letter.

  Dew stared at it, at the little blue envelope she’d tucked inside. Just a couple of millimeters of blue was visible against the white pages of the book. She was such a fool. In wanting everything to be perfect, she’d made it so S wouldn’t get his requested book until next week.

  She had to do something. She couldn’t let him not get his book just because she’d been distracted.

  The little white print-out with his address waved before her eyes, flapping like a limp bookmark. 5844 Pedrick Road. It was a sign—she’d just been talking about the old dump out that way, and now it turned out S lived on the same road.

  She’d take the book to S’s house. It was only fair, because her mistake meant he wouldn’t get it otherwise for another week. She wouldn’t invade his privacy, she wouldn’t look in his windows or act like a creeper in any way, shape or form. She’d find the mailbox, drop off the book, and scurry away.