Mr Taken

She groaned, but the sound didn’t take on the edge of real annoyance like she had wanted it to; in fact, to her ears it almost sounded like the awful noise a woman made when she was trying not to fall for a man. And she was definitely, absolutely, categorically never going to fall for the infamous jokester Colter Fitzgerald. Nope. Not gonna happen. She would never let him win her over as long as she stayed in her right mind. Not that she had a left mind, but...well... She sighed.

No.

The bell tinged to life again from the parlor, reminding her of the guests who were undoubtedly growing more impatient by the second with her absence.

“Excuse me—I have work to do. Unlike some of us,” she said under her breath as she pushed past him, careful not to touch him again.

His laughter followed her into the parlor until she shut the door to drown him out. The last thing she needed to do was spend a moment thinking about that man.

Standing at the front desk was a man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, and based on the woman’s coiffed hair, to-the-sky black stilettos, and brown Louis Vuitton purse, they were definitely among their elite clientele. They had probably come here to spend their trust-fund money on some idealistic and romantic getaway that involved a horse-drawn sleigh and a bearskin rug in front of the crackling fireplace.

The woman was carrying what looked to be a slightly oversize fur ball, or maybe it was just one of those New York rats everyone talked about. Yet, as Whitney drew closer walking to the desk, the rat-looking creature picked up its ears and growled. Dog. Definitely a dog. It probably had one of those stupid names like Fifi or Fredrico. It was funny, but most of their elite guests had a dog just like that one, an accessory to their outfit—but most were cuter than the one this particular woman held.

“How may I help you folks?” Whitney said, using her practiced service-industry charm.

“It took you long enough,” the woman said, nearly spitting the words.

“Dear, I’m sure she was busy,” the man said, patting the woman lightly on the hand and drawing Whitney’s attention to the massive diamond that adorned the woman’s ring finger.

For a moment she wondered if they had drawn her attention to it on purpose, some well-practiced motion that drew even more attention to their status and wealth. Whitney forced herself to smile just a little bit brighter, but the truth in Montana was simple—no one really cared about how much money anyone had or the number of things a person owned. Respect and honor were only given to those whose character merited such accolades. It was one of the reasons she had picked this state as her home instead of staying in Kentucky.

“I don’t care if she was busy or not. We have flown halfway around the country to be here. The least she could do is be present when we arrive,” the woman said, continuing her rampage.

Whitney bit her tongue instead of telling the woman that Dunrovin Ranch was a beautiful and majestic place, but it was a long way from the Four Seasons. If the woman had wanted to be catered to hand and foot, she should have picked a resort that would have done that—and not come to a guest ranch.

“If you like,” Whitney said, forcing herself to behave, “and are interested in relaxing, there is a spa about ten miles back down the road. I can set up an appointment for you.”

“Ten miles? Where are we, on the back side of Hell?” The woman glared at her husband, who must have been the one to book their trip.

The man smiled at Whitney, clearly embarrassed by his wife’s atrocious behavior. “Is there any way we could have the masseuse come here?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Whitney said, though she was fully aware the local masseuse, Jess Lewis, would throw a holy hissy fit at the request. Yet if they gave her a few extra bucks she would quiet down in no time.

She took down the couple’s names and got them the keys to their room—the nicest private cabin at the ranch, a two-story, nearly three-thousand-square-foot log home with marble and leather everywhere. “Let me know if there’s anything further I can assist you with,” Whitney said, the forced niceties like sand on her tongue.

“Actually,” the woman said, handing over the rat creature, “I don’t want Francesca to be a bother to me this weekend. I need you to handle her.”

Whitney balked at the woman as she stuffed the dog into her hands.

Handle her? The last thing on her long list of duties was dog handler or kennel master. Whitney had work to do. She slowly lowered the dog to the floor behind the desk. “I... Uh...” she stammered.

“That’s great. Perfect,” the woman continued, clearly not used to her requests being denied no matter how asinine they might have been.

The man opened the door and waited as his wife pranced out, her stilettos clicking on the floor like the shrill impatient cadence of fingers. Whitney just stared at the computer screen for a moment as she reminded herself these kinds of people played a big part in why she had left her home state, and she took some level of comfort in the fact that they were outsiders and going to leave just as quickly as they came.

A cold wind kicked up and spilled through the door, whipping dry fragile snowflakes onto the guest book that sat at the side of the desk. She walked over and touched the door. As she looked outside, running toward the entrance of the roundabout driveway was the little rat creature. Its dark fur sat stark against the snow as it sprinted toward freedom. She stood still for a moment, letting it get away. With an owner like hers, the dog deserved to have one go at escaping.

On the other hand, Whitney would have to answer to said owners, and she could only imagine their response if the dog was actually lost. No matter how softhearted Eloise was, Whitney would probably lose her job, and therefore her room at the ranch. She would have to start all over.

This dog’s freedom wasn’t worth it.

What was the dog’s name again? “Fifi!” she called, but the dog didn’t slow down. “Fredrico!” Again, the dog simply kept running. She ran out the door, her cowboy boots thumping on the wooden porch as she made her way to the driveway. “Lassie, come home!” she cried again.

There was the boom of laughter from behind her. She turned to see Colter watching her. “Did Timmy fall in the well again?”

“Really?” she scoffed. “If you’re not going to go after the dog, at least you can be quiet.”

His laughter lightened, but he didn’t stop chuckling. “All right, all right. I’ll come to little Lassie’s rescue. Where did she go?”

She turned back and looked out at the driveway. A ’90s blue Dodge truck was rumbling down the road toward them.

“No. Stop!” she screamed at the truck, almost as though the driver could hear her through the closed windows and the crunch of gravel under the tires. The man driving didn’t even seem to see her.

He barreled down the road. Just as he was about to cross over the steel cattle guard, the little rat creature ran out. It wove in front of the truck, stopping as it stared up at the blue beast careening toward it.

“No!” Whitney yelled.

The dog took off running toward the truck. Just as they were about to collide, the dog slipped between the bars of the cattle guard that stretched across the end of the driveway, and disappeared. It wasn’t Timmy or the well, but it looked like they would have to pull off their own version of a rescue.

Chapter Two (#ubd0d0969-cbe7-5844-b23d-5f148e0303a8)

He’d been at the save-a-life game for a long time now, but this was the first time Colter Fitzgerald had to save a dog from the jaws of a cattle guard. He waved at the guy driving the truck, motioning for him to go ahead. The guy had dark, oily hair that sparkled in the winter sun. Sitting on the man’s dashboard was a wooden bat, and the sight made chills ripple down Colter’s spine.

In a split second, everything could have really gone downhill. The driver’s grim face and demeanor were far from friendly. So much so, Colter was thankful he had not climbed down to confront them about the dog that had appeared from nowhere in front of his vehicle. He watched in relief as the trucker drove past them with a curt wave and the taillights vanished in the distance. The last thing he needed, especially in his quest to impress Whitney, was a run-in with a hard-edged stranger.

Whitney Barstow hadn’t been his mother’s employee for very long. From his recollection, it had been exactly three months since she set foot on his mother’s porch and asked for any job that didn’t involve the care and maintenance of horses. At the time, he had thought it was odd anyone would want to come to a ranch and not work with the animals, but he had let it go—everyone had their quirks. Besides, every time he caught a glimpse of her gray eyes, they made him nearly forget his name, not to mention any of her faults. To him, she was perfect, even the way she seemed to be constantly annoyed by him.

He glanced over at her as she stared into the grates of the cattle guard. “It’s okay, sweet puppy. We’re going to get you out. Don’t worry,” she cooed, her voice taking on the same soft edge she must have used with small children.

Colter smiled as she looked up at him and the sunlight caught in her hair and made it shine like each strand was spun out of gold. “What are we going to do?” she asked, motioning toward the grate.

The steel bars had been bent, apparently just enough for a small pooch to fall between. Yet instead of staying where they could simply pull it, the dog had wedged itself deep into the corner of the trough beneath. The pup shook as it stood on the collection of cracked ice and looked up at them, its eyes rimmed with white. It had to have been cold down there, and the poor creature was ill-prepared, with its short hair and low body fat, to withstand frigid temperatures for long. They’d have to act fast.

He stood up and rushed toward the barn. “I’ll grab the tractor,” he called over his shoulder.

She nodded but turned back to the dog. “Come here, baby.”

He didn’t know a great deal about the little animal that looked like a Chihuahua, but he did know that no amount of calling was going to get that dog to come to her. A dog like that was notorious for being a one-person animal. According to one guest he’d talked to, who had owned a similar dog, that was the allure—to have an animal that fawned over only its owner. It was like owning the cat of the dog world.

The barn doors gave a loud grind of metal on metal as he slid them open. He took in a deep breath. He loved the smell of animals almost as much as he loved the animals themselves. Most people might have found the scent of feed, sweat and grime too much, but for a firefighter like him, it was the perfume of life—and it reminded him how lucky he was to have the opportunity to live it. It wasn’t like the smell of ash. He’d read poem after poem that likened the scent of ash to renewal, but it never drew images of a phoenix to his mind; rather, it only reminded him of the feeling of what it was to lose and be destroyed from the inside out.

He grabbed a steel chain and the keys that hung on the wall just inside the door, and made his way back outside to the tractor parked just under the overhang.

The tractor started with a chug and a sputter. The old beast fought hard to start, thanks to the cold, but it had been through a lot. He pressed it forward and moved it out of its parking spot by the barn. The vehicle made groans and grumbles that sounded like promises of many more years of service. His parents had done a good job with the place, always setting everything up to last not just their lifetime, but for generations to come. It was hard to imagine that his parents used to have a life before—lives that didn’t revolve around the comings and goings of the ranch, its guests and the foster kids who had passed in and out of their doors.

They had spent their lives giving everything they had to this place. He could have said the same things about his intention as a firefighter; he undoubtedly would give everything he had to his job, and the lives he would affect, but it wasn’t the same. His job and lifestyle were finite. As soon as his body gave out and he was no longer physically able to do the job, someone new, younger would come in and take his place. In fact, as soon as he walked out of the station’s doors, it would be like he had never really been there at all—likely only the people whose lives he’d touched would have any lasting thoughts of him.

He blew a warm breath of air onto his chilling fingers as he drove the tractor around the corner and onto the driveway. Maybe he was wrong in thinking that he had nothing in common with the phoenix. Maybe he had simply already risen from the ashes of a firefighter who had served before him, and when he aged out, another would take his place to renew their battalion.