Table Of ContentROUGH COUNTRY
LAUREN LANDISH
Edited by
VALORIE CLIFTON
Edited by
STACI ETHERIDGE
CONTENTS
Also by Lauren Landish
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Excerpt: Dirty Talk
About the Author
ALSO BY LAUREN LANDISH
Bennett Boys Ranch:
Buck Wild || Riding Hard || Racing Hearts
The Tannen Boys:
Rough Love || Rough Edge || Rough Country
Standalones
My Big Fat Fake Wedding || The Dare || Filthy Riches || Scorpio
Dirty Fairy Tales:
Beauty and the Billionaire || Not So Prince Charming || Happily Never After
Get Dirty:
Dirty Talk || Dirty Laundry || Dirty Deeds || Dirty Secrets
Irresistible Bachelors:
Anaconda || Mr. Fiance || Heartstopper
Stud Muffin || Mr. Fixit || Matchmaker
Motorhead || Baby Daddy || Untamed
C HA PT E R 1
WILLOW
“Q
uit staring at me!” I snarl, emphasizing my point with a huff that sends my bangs up then right
back down into my field of vision again.
The recipient of my bark, which like the popular saying is worse than my bite, stares back,
unmoved by the order. Fine, so it’s a mountain, not likely to sprout legs and move out of my way, nor
is it going to quit looming over me like a judge.
Stupid mountain.
For most people, that’s probably the exact view they come here for, a quaint escape from their
daily life to small town, rural America.
Too bad I’m not here for a quick trip from the city. No, Great Falls is my new hometown. And the
fancy mountainside resort I can now see is most definitely not my destination.
“Ugh,” I growl, though there’s no one to hear me since I made the trip alone, driving for hours
over the last three days with nightly stops at motels. I’ve been living on the cheap—scratchy sheets,
sketchy neighborhoods, and greasy takeout. If I see one more slice of pizza I’m going to scream.
The road is straight and empty, giving me time to glance up again. Broad strokes of nature’s
grandeur, striped with green and brown and even . . . I lean forward to glance out the top of my
windshield . . . yep, white at the very tippy-top of the peak. It’s beautiful, I’ll admit that at least.
But still it feels . . . judgy. The weight of the horizon presses in on me, even heavier than my
conscience. But not even that mountain could withstand my Mom’s earnest gaze begging for help.
Fine. I’ll go to Podunk, Nowheresville, Mom. Just quit looking at me like that.
I come to a blinking red light and take a right, thankful to put the mountain behind me. But now,
I’m almost there . . . and that might be even worse.
“Destination is on the left. You have arrived.” My phone tells me the dreaded news.
I park in the packed dirt lot, my ten-year-old Subaru one of only two cars versus nine—no, ten—
trucks. They come in two varieties, old and dented or jacked-up and pristine other than the layer of
fine red dust on the lower half. “Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”
I shut off the engine but make no move to get out. I’m not the type to get nervous, but this is an
extraordinary circumstance, so I’m basically shivering inside my skin with jitters. Hence, the
grumpiness with the inanimate mountain. It’s not every day you waltz into a place uninvited and
announce yourself. Especially when I’m not sure the welcome is going to be all that friendly. It’s
entirely possible that I might get hustled out of town faster than I got here.
Despite my hesitation, the heat gathering in the car forces me out. Crunch-crunch-crunch. My
flips flops are nothing against the small pebbles mixed into the dirt, and I’m nearly dancing before I’m
halfway across the parking lot. I pause at the door, my hand on the brass handle, and look up, praying
for strength.
The only thing I see is the neon sign proclaiming this place as Hank’s.
Resigned to my fate, at least for the foreseeable future, I open the door and step inside. Part of me
expects it to be like one of those low-budget, B-grade action flicks where the city girl walks in, a
record scratches—even though no one plays those anymore—and a dozen sets of narrowed eyes turn
to me in suspicion. Two heartbeats later, there’ll be a redneck slurring out that my kind’s not welcome
here.
Despite years of late-night movies telling me so, none of that happens.
No one even looks my way, which gives me a chance to take everything in with a quick scan.
Wood floors, wood walls, wood tables, all gleaming in the overhead lights, which are bright
considering it’s mid-afternoon. There are a few booths with pleather that, even from here, I can see is
patched with red duct tape like someone was doing the best they could to hold it all together and keep
the stuffing inside. Country music plays faintly, with the chatter of the patrons mixing in easily.
Automatically, I reach for my back pocket to grab my phone. Its camera isn’t the best by any
stretch, but it’s the least intrusive. Still, I can’t exactly start snapping shots in the middle of the bar so
my hand falls back to my side, though my fingers itch to press the shutter. My brain does it anyway,
framing each take mentally.
An old guy, wrinkles lining his eyes and mouth, the edge of a bottle of beer paused at his lip as he
stares at the television over the bar. Snap.
A group of five guys wearing neon vests, work boots, and dirty jeans crowded around a table,
looking like their day has already been enough to make them weary. Snap.
A bell rings out, drawing my attention to a cutout in the wall framing a middle-aged, heavyset
woman who’s setting a plate in the window. “Order up!” she calls out. Snap.
I intentionally ignore the man behind the bar and make my way to a corner table, hiding in the
slight shadow offered by a couple having a leisurely lunch, judging by the number of empty beer
glasses that decorate their tabletop. To further disguise myself, I pick up a menu from the holder by
the wall and duck into my shoulders.
“What can I getcha?” a voice asks from right beside me, the sentence all run together like it’s one
multi-syllable word.
I startle at the direct question, but the waitress is looking at her notepad, not me. “Oh, uh . . .” I
stammer, so caught up in my own mental games that I haven’t really looked at the menu. I hate being
unprepared, but I make the quick decision to play it safe. “A cheeseburger.”
“Howd’ya want it cooked?” Her blonde ponytail swishes impatiently, her lashes dark against her
cheeks. She’s young, at least a few years younger than me. Twenty-one or two, I’d guess, to my
twenty-five.
Was I ever that young, though? Even as a child, I was an old soul. Not sure what that says about
me now.
“Medium.”
“Ell-tee-oh-pee and fries?” Olivia asks. Olivia. That’s her name, according to her nametag. I have
no idea what she’s asking, other than fries, and the confusion must show on my face. “Lettuce, tomato,
onion, pickles, fries?”
“Sure.” She scribbles on her notepad before hustling away. I realize a moment later that I forgot to
order a drink. But as I watch the goings-on around me, Olivia saves me by bringing a glass of water
with a lemon wedge.
“Let me know if you want a beer or soda or anything.”
A shot of whiskey, I think but don’t say out loud. Instead, I smile politely and nod.
I take my time squeezing the lemon and unwrapping the straw just for something to do. But once
that’s done, I can’t put off the inevitable any longer.
I look at the bar. More specifically, I finally look at the man behind the far end of the bar . . . Hank
Davis. He’s over seventy now, but the leathery skin peeking out of his short-sleeved T-shirt is
covering lean muscles and etched with old tattoos. The scowl on his face is familiar, gut-punchingly
so, but I swallow the bile that tries to rise, helping it down with a sip of water. His eyes are blue and
bright, clear as a summer sky, and full of sharp intelligence even from here. If he’s anything like I
remember, I’ll have to be careful or he’ll figure me out in an instant.
He’s talking with the old guy watching the television, but I can’t tell what they’re saying, only that
they seem friendly. Hank is mindlessly drying a beer glass with a white towel, which he sets on a
shelf beneath the bar before grabbing another glass. I imagine the two men are giving each other shit
over the ball game playing. Maybe they have a bet on who’s going to win. I do that a lot, create entire
scenarios for the people around me, giving them personalities and backstories. I like the real stories
too, but when I don’t know, I fill in the blanks for myself.
The lady in the window calls out for another order and Olivia grabs the plate. Not needing to
check her ticket, she brings it directly to me. “Anything else?”
Having decided against the whiskey for real, I answer, “No, thank you.” I bite into the burger,
moaning at the unexpected deliciousness. It’s fresh, hot, and stacked with the crispness of fresh
veggies. A pickle falls out, and I snag it, crunching it alone. I think it’s home-canned. Oh, my God, I
could eat this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. I want to go peek in the cook’s window and
tell her that I appreciate the life-changing flavor of her food as an accompaniment to my day.
Because today is the day my life changes.
But there are some things that will never change. I promised myself that when I agreed to this
fool’s errand.
I set the burger back on the heavy white plate and pull my phone out. I snap a quick shot of the
burger and fries, make a few adjustments for the lighting, and add a caption that says TDF good, a
skull emoji, a halo emoji, then hit Post. I stare at it for a moment, counting the seconds until the first
heart appears. Twenty-two seconds. I smile. More hearts and comments start appearing, but after
reading a couple, I shut it off and set the phone facedown on the table.
I eat. And watch.
I have a unique ability to disappear, be invisible and forgotten. When I was younger, it used to eat
me up inside, making me feel unimportant. As I got older, I learned how to put it to good use as a
photographer. People don’t notice me, which gives me a sneak peek into their world, their experience
in a way I couldn’t get if I were bolder. It took time, but I’ve turned my weakness into a strength.
Once I’ve stuffed as much burger into my belly as I can—okay, maybe more than I should’ve—I
gather my courage, stuffing it into every nook and cranny of my soul not filled with ground beef. I lay
a ten on the table for Olivia and put my phone in my pocket, wishing I could capture the look on
Hank’s face when he sees me.
But I already know I’ll memorize it with my eyes. In that look, I’ll know if this is going to work.
My heart races with hope that it will.
I walk up to the bar, between two stools, and wait for his eyes to drag away from the television.
“What can I getcha?” he asks in the same run together, one-word way Olivia did. It’s something they
both must do dozens of times every day.
I smile even though my lips are shaking and my knees are knocking. “Hi, Uncle Hank.” As I say it,
