Page 1 of Rain or Shine

1

HARLOE

I pictured my wedding day involving a shorter walk.

Specifically, one down the aisle.

As I cross the three-mile marker on my way out of town, it occurs to me that I stepped outside for air and never turned back. A quick circle around the courtyard became a stroll down Main Street, and now here I am, wandering the road that leads out of Lanceleaf Valley. Toes crushed and possibly bleeding in my never-before-worn, rhinestone-studded boots.

The sun beats down, slowly burning my shoulders.

Pausing, I glance back at my small hometown in the distance, where cattle and horses outnumber people a thousand to one. It’s swallowed up by the nothingness surrounding it. A speck of buildings at the center of miles of ranch land.

It’s funny how such a small place can bring about so much trouble.

I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sky. My wedding dress billows out behind me with the breeze. The long train dusts the road as a gust of wind offers a cool break from the muggy humidity.

Maybe it was too much to think I could live the fairy tale. To think that marrying Zander Cross would solve all my family’s problems. But it’s been one thing after another since I moved back to Lanceleaf Valley last year, and all I wanted to do was fix things.

Between my oldest brother’s ranch struggling to stay afloat after the drought and Dad’s bar, Ransack, slowly drowning in debt, there’s no break from the problems lately. So when Zander walked back into my life, sweet-talking me like he hadn’t broken my teenage heart and offering to help ease the burden, I wanted to believe him.

After all, Zander deals in oil, not cattle like the rest of us. His land bleeds money without him lifting a finger. He has the means to help.

Little did I know that Zander had other plans for gaining my trust.

As the youngest of four siblings, and the only girl, I’m used to being treated like I’m naïve. But this is the first time I’ve actually felt like it.

I take a deep breath and tug my dress, staring at the road ahead. At the promise of a slow, hot death if I keep going. Maybe I should turn back. At the very least, I owe my family an explanation for why I walked out on my wedding.

What a mess I’ve made.

I continue down the road, wondering how long it will take Zander to notice that I’m missing. Once he does, he’ll send his men out in every direction looking for me. I might be his fiancée, but God forbid he actually do something himself.

Sunshine beats down on the hot cement, slowly deepening my tan. I tug my hair free from the pins and let it fall over my shoulders to shield my skin. Sweat beads on the back of my neck, and I’m about to give up when the sound of an engine cuts through the empty plains.

Deep, steady, and loud. Nothing like the quiet grumble of a truck.

I glance over my shoulder, shielding my eyes as a motorcycle peels down the road. Humidity makes ripples in the air, and for a moment, I wonder if it’s a mirage.

Lately, Lanceleaf has been crawling with bikers.

Rumor is they’re setting up a base—or clubhouse—or whatever they call it. They’ve taken over a corner of acreage at Ironside Ridge, Dean Graham’s ranch. Construction crews have been working on something.

My brother Will has his men helping with the day-to-day cattle operations at Ironside Ridge, but even he’s been tight lipped about what’s happening over there. All I know is that Lanceleaf is the kind of town most people pass through while going anywhere else, so I’m not sure why this particular group of bikers wants to stick around. Especially when the town’s more prominent ranching families, including my ex-fiancé’s, want them out.

I watch the biker, hoping he’ll drive past so I can continue to wallow alone on my wedding day. But he doesn’t.

The bike slows as he pulls to a stop at the edge of the road.

Just what I need. Some biker up on his high horse, thinking I need saving.

I cross my arms over my chest, raising my voice so he can hear me over the noise of his bike. “I don’t need your help.”

He cuts the engine, and I catch the faint hum of his chuckle, slightly muted by his helmet. When he finally peels it off, I get a good look at his disarmingly beautiful face.

Everything about this guy screams lethal. From his many tattoos, like the snake inked up one arm, to those nearly black eyes that hold me hostage the second he meets my gaze, he’s a walking red flag.

The biker’s dark jeans hug his thighs as he climbs off his motorcycle. He’s wearing a leather vest littered with patches. A skull, a dagger, a crown with wings on the front. There’s no way they represent anything good.