The third standalone novel in Amber Kelly’s Wildhaven Ranch series—a small town, single dad/nanny, enemies to lovers romance—is out this week, and I have a sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
Shelby
I’m up before the sun, which isn’t unusual, but it still pisses me off every time my alarm goes off and the world outside my window is pitch-black. Sometimes, I long for a day—just one day —where I sleep until I wake up naturally. I bet my eyes would pop open at five a.m. just to spite me. I laugh to myself at the thought.
The house is quiet—too quiet. No Charli showering. No Grandma Evelyn humming as she kneads dough. Just the low hum of the heat flowing through the vents and the distant creak of old wood settling.
Cabe asked me last night if I could help him knock out morning chores so he could go into town. When I asked why he was going to town so early, he simply said, “Breakfast,” but I didn’t miss the blush creeping up his neck. I wanted to push, but I figured I’d leave it until he was ready to spill the tea on his new flame, so Charli and I could begin the merciless teasing we were inevitably going to bombard him with.
I pull on my jeans, thick socks, and my softest hoodie—the one from the first junior rodeo I competed in—with a ripped neck and a hole in the right sleeve. My hair goes into a messy braid. No makeup. No mirror. The horses don’t care what the hell I look like.
Outside, the air bites. So cold that it makes my lungs ache when I breathe in deep. The moon hangs low and pale, throwing silver light across the paddock. The horses nicker softly when they hear the crunch of my boots on gravel.
“Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “I’m coming.”
The barn doors groan when I slide them open. I flip the light switch just inside, and the overhead fluorescents flicker a few times before buzzing to life. Stalls line both sides, familiar faces peering out—ears pricked, eyes bright.
“Morning, handsome,” I tell my beautiful boy, Jupiter Rising, scratching his nose through the bars. “You’re looking particularly ornery this morning.”
He snorts.
The stall across from Jupiter is empty. Cabe must have beaten me out and is already on the back of his horse, riding out to check the perimeter.
I grab feed buckets, measure grain, talking as I go. I always talk to the horses. So does Charli. Cabe says it’s weird, but our mother used to do it all the time.
“You’re gonna eat, and then you’re gonna behave,” I tell Moonpie, a gorgeous palomino American quarter horse. “No biting, no kicking, no attitude. I know that’s a big ask.”
Once everyone’s fed, I start dumping and scrubbing water buckets, stacking them neatly near the hose. My hands are numb from the ice-cold water by the time I drag the hose across the concrete aisle.
I turn the corner near the hay stacks—and freeze.
There’s a body.
A human body.
Stretched out across a pile of loose hay in a dark corner on the far side of the barn, near the doors that lead to the paddock.
My heart slams into my throat.
I scream.
It rips out of me—high, sharp, echoing off the rafters. The horses startle at the sound, shifting and stamping behind their stall doors, but the body doesn’t move.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, every horror-movie scenario crashing into me at once.
Dead transient. Dead drunk. Escaped criminal. Murder victim.
A few years ago, we had a break-in in the middle of the night. It cost us dearly when thieves took off with our horses. Matty has made sure that all the new stables and facilities have been fitted with state-of-the-art security systems, but so far, the only part of this original structure that’s been upgraded with cameras and alarms is Matty’s office.
With my heart thundering in my chest, I take one cautious step forward.
Nothing.
Another step.
I tell myself it’s probably just one of the contract workers sleeping on the job, although I didn’t notice any of their trucks in the drive on the way to the barn.
Please, God, don’t let him be dead.
As I get closer, I hear the faint sound of snoring.
Thank God.
I hold the head of the water hose like it’s a weapon and walk to his side. Tall. Broad. One arm is slung awkwardly over his chest, the other dangling toward the concrete. His boots are expensive—too expensive for ranch work—and absolutely filthy.
I swallow hard and force myself closer, tiptoeing, like that’ll help.
Then I recognize him.
Waylon Ludlow.
Passed out cold in a pile of our dirty hay.
My fear evaporates in an instant, replaced by a hot, furious anger.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
He looks like shit.
His hair’s a mess. Shirt wrinkled and half untucked. Jaw dark with stubble. He reeks of whiskey, even from six feet away.
I stare at him for a long second, debating my options.
Then I smile.
I clutch the head of the water hose and squeeze the nozzle.
I don’t ease into it. I don’t warn him. I don’t hesitate.
I blast him full force with freezing cold well water.
Waylon comes to life like he’s been struck by lightning.
“Geezus!” He bolts upright, slipping in the hay, flailing, cursing as water soaks him head to toe. “What the hell?!”
He stumbles, catches himself on a bale, blinking wildly as he tries to orient himself.
I keep spraying.
“Mornin’,” I say sweetly.
He finally manages to get his bearings, throwing an arm up to shield his face. “Are you out of your damn mind?!”
I shut off the hose.
“That,” I tell him calmly, “is what happens to trespassers around here.”
He drags a hand down his face, water streaming from his hair, his clothes plastered to him. He looks furious. And soaked. And honestly? Hot as ever.
Dammit.
He narrows his eyes at me. “I’m not trespassing, sweetheart. My family owns this place.”
That does it.
Something snaps in my chest.
Sweetheart.
Second man in as many days to call me that.
I step closer, jabbing a finger toward him. “First of all, I’m not your sweetheart. Second, your family doesn’t own a damn thing on this ranch. Mine does.”
He blinks.
Actually blinks.
Then he looks around—really looks. The stalls. The tack room. The faded Wildhaven Storm Ranch brand burned into the doors.
He wrinkles his nose. “This isn’t Ironhorse?”
“Nope.”
I point past the paddock, toward the dark stretch of pasture beyond. “Ironhorse is about two miles that way.”
He scrubs his face again. “Shit.”
Then he laughs. A low, rough sound. “I guess all smelly, old barns look the same in the dark.”
I lean in and sniff him deliberately.
His smile falters.
“I don’t think it’s the barn that’s smelly.”
That gets a bark of laughter out of him. The horses seem to agree, snorting softly.
“Wait. Wildhaven Storm Ranch,” he mutters as recognition dawns on him.
“Ding, ding.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “Caison drove out here last night.”
I stand and wait for him to work it out.
“We were out. He got a text from Matty,” he continues, squinting like the memory hurts. “She needed something from the pharmacy. I was supposed to wait in the truck. Guess I didn’t.”
“No,” I agree. “Guess you didn’t.”
“Shit. Ruby.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Ruby? No, I’m—”
“I was supposed to go home to her last night. Fuck. I fucked up.”
Ruby.
Figures he’d be out, carousing all night, while a girl waited at home for his sorry ass.
“Hopefully for you, she’s the forgiving type. But I’m kinda hoping she’s not.”
He studies me then, eyes narrowing. “Stormy?”
My spine stiffens.
I haven’t heard that name in years.
“Don’t call me that.”
He tilts his head, studying my face like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “Damn. I barely recognized you. You’re all grown up,” he says, his eyes sliding over me like he’s committing every inch to memory.
“Yep. That tends to happen,” I say coolly. “And it’s Shelby. Or Miss Storm, if you prefer.”
That makes him grin.
A slow, unapologetic grin that says Waylon Ludlow hasn’t learned a damn thing.
“Well, Miss Storm,” he says, voice rough and amused, “you sure know how to wake a man up.”
I cross my arms. “You’re lucky I didn’t call the sheriff.”
“Thank you. Would’ve been awkward, explaining to Walt why I was napping in your hay.”
“More awkward, I imagine, explaining why you smell like a distillery.”
He chuckles again, then winces as he shifts, clearly sore. “You always this mean in the mornings?”
“Only to strangers trespassing on my property.”
That wipes the smile clean off his face.
For a second, there’s something almost … remorseful in his eyes.
“I’m not a stranger,” he says quietly. “We’re old friends.”
“We were never friends, Waylon.”
“Weren’t we?”
I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “Not to my recollection. Just neighbors.”
“Okay,” he says. “Fair enough.”
I stand there in the humming barn, staring at my biggest regret, surrounded by horses and old memories I didn’t ask for.
He looks out of place and familiar, all at once—like trouble that never really leaves town, just lies in wait for the right moment to sneak back in and wreak havoc on your life.
“Guess I’ll get out of your way,” he says, walking past me to the barn doors. Then he glances back and points in the opposite direction. “You said two miles that way, right?”
I let out an exaggerated breath. “If you plan on jumping barbed wire and cutting through hay fields.”
“Great. Seven miles on the road it is,” he says before turning back to the doors.
I glance at the sky, just starting to lighten.
“Wait, Waylon,” I call. “Cabe’ll be back at any minute from riding the fence line. He’s get some secret breakfast date in town. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind dropping you off on his way.”
“That’d be awesome. Not sure I’m up for that walk.”
“Just wait by the front of the barn. You don’t want Grandma Evelyn to catch sight of you through the kitchen window. You’d get a tongue-lashing or dragged inside for breakfast. No way to tell which way it’d go.”
“That’s a terrifying thought.”
He continues forward, dripping water onto the concrete, and pauses at the barn door. “Hey, Shelby.”
I look at him despite myself.
“Still feisty,” he says. “Some things don’t change.”
I lift the hose again.
He laughs and ducks out into the cold morning.
And just like that, Waylon Ludlow is back in my life—wet, hungover, and exactly the kind of complication I don’t need right now.
And with a Ruby. Figures.
I sigh, turn back to the horses, and mutter, “This day has already been too damn long.”
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