Wild Hearts

  The line

  Fool Me Twice

  by Mandy Hubbard

  Wish You Were Italian

  by Kristin Rae

  Not in the Script

  by Amy Finnegan

  Wild Hearts

  by Jessica Burkhart

  Red Girl, Blue Boy

  by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  (coming soon)

  Everything but the Truth

  by Mandy Hubbard

  (coming soon)

  An IF ONLY novel

  Jessica Burkhart

  I couldn’t have finished this book without the support and cheerleading of Bri Ahearn. Bri, thank you for welcoming me into your home and your city!

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cowboy proverb: The bigger the buckle, the better the cowboy.

  Mom shrieked as Dad slammed on the brakes. Behind us, tires squealed, and several people blew their horns. I twisted to look out the back window and counted four pickup trucks.

  “My God, Michael, you don’t have to speed everywhere!” Mom said, smacking her hand on the gray dashboard.

  Rolling my eyes, I leaned around her to see what was in front of us. I loved my parents, but we had spent excessive amounts of time together over the past several days. Being trapped in the car 24/7 with parents wasn’t anyone’s idea of fun. Welcome to another one of the Carter-Brooks family’s permanent vacations, otherwise known as a move. The current destination: Wyoming.

  I pulled out my earbuds and paused the music I’d been listening to. “What is it?” I asked, looking through the windshield. Eight bison lumbered across the pebbled road. I stared. Real live bison that weren’t in a zoo. The massive brown animals didn’t glance up once or hurry away from cars. One by one, they walked in front of our SUV and into waist-high grass in the field on the other side of the road.

  Truck engines rumbled and two cars joined the lineup. Tourists eagerly piled out of the cars, their cameras in hand or hanging by a strap around their necks. Almost all the tourists wore some form of WELCOME TO WYOMING hoodie or sweatshirt. Their trunks were probably stuffed with knickknacks—mugs, key chains, shot glasses—for friends and family back home. Locals stayed in their trucks and I could almost feel the drivers’ impatience. I imagined that they were bored with the bison after living here for however long.

  I shifted in my seat, trying to decide what to do. I wanted to get a closer look at the bison, but I didn’t want the locals—my new neighbors—to lump me in with the tourists. “Dad, can I get out?” I tapped the back of his seat.

  “For a minute,” Dad said. “Stay close to the car, Brie.” He eyed me in the rearview mirror. “Never know what those animals will do.”

  Unlike Mom and me, Dad had a strong distaste mixed with annoyance for animals and anything wildlife related. He was much more of an office-chilled-to-sixty-five-degrees type of guy. Dad had three trademarks: tasseled leather loafers, sunglasses, and his phone. If he had to spend six months on a deserted island, I knew those would be the three items he’d choose to bring.

  “I’m going to take a photo,” Mom said.

  She rooted around for her camera, and Dad dug through the SUV’s cup holders.

  “You see my phone?” he asked Mom.

  “Daaad,” I said. “You’re not going to get reception here. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  Dad, ignoring me, found his BlackBerry, held it up in the air, and moved it around until his arm was outside.

  “I pay enough for this damn service,” he grumbled.

  Time to get out of the car.

  As soon as Dad did get reception, he’d be on the phone with the provider, chewing them out for the minutes of service he’d lost. Mom and I had been around for a zillion of these conversations. We’d pointed out that despite how much Dad seemed to hate the service, he kept renewing the contract. Every. Year.

  I left my Canon T3i, Mom’s old camera from last year, in the backseat. I wasn’t in the mood to take pictures—I just wanted out. I glanced through the window before opening the car door, letting in a rush of cold March air. There was even some snow on the roadside—the one-lane roadside. “Road” was maybe giving the path we’d been driving on for hours too much credit. This road was practically nonexistent and in desperate need of a pave.

  I looked far beyond the bison and saw a scattering of tops of houses and buildings. Somewhere down there, at the base of Blackheart Mountain, was our new home.

  Mom, beside me, held her camera. Her sandy-brown hair was twisted into a messy bird’s nest.

  The huge animals moved with surprising grace across the road. Their shaggy coats had prickly burrs and there were dreadlocks around their hooves. A few wagged their stubby tails at buzzing flies.

  Now at least ten cars had halted behind us and people were crowding forward snapping pictures. I chuckled to think of the poor friends and family members who would no doubt be subjected to a slide show upon the travelers’ return.

  “Look at that little guy,” Mom said, pointing to a cute bison calf. “He’s perfect for a wildlife magazine.” Mom frowned at me. “You should have brought your camera, honey.”

  I shrugged. Mom’s photos always made mine look like cheesy glamour shots. Eccentric and creative, Mom could take a photo of anything and make it frame worthy. She had been teaching me about photography for years. After growing up with Annie Leibovitz as our family friend, photography was something that I liked to dabble in. I wasn’t ever going to be good enough to make it professionally like Mom, but I was okay with it being just a hobby.

  I zipped up my jacket to ward off the late March chill that seemed to tumble down the mountain. A fresh breeze, smelling of flowers and, ugh, farm animals, blew gently in my face. Mom aimed her camera at a bison as it plodded across the road and headed for the grass. She took her time, zoomed in on its head, and waited for the right moment. Just as the bison turned to face the cars, Mom snapped its picture. Click.

  “Good timing,” I said quietly.

  Mom crouched down on the road and swiped at a stray lock of hair that flopped in her eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up on her stomach and crawling toward an unsuspecting bison. I admired her dedication. Once, she had waded through a horsefly-infested swamp to capture pictures of a northern bog violet for Flowers Monthly.

  Then she stood and put
her camera in my hand.

  “Mom,” I protested. “I don’t feel like taking a picture right now. Let’s just get to our house.”

  “One,” Mom said, holding up her pointer finger. “Then we’ll go.” She didn’t wait for me to argue—she walked around the front of the SUV and got back into the passenger seat.

  Mom would know if I rushed it just to get done. Then we would be here even longer. Sighing, I gazed around for the perfect shot. The tourists had begun to go back to their cars. Like Mom, I crouched low and rested my elbows on my knees. I adjusted the lens, turning it until it was just right, and waited for the bison I’d focused on to—

  An engine revved hard behind me. Still on the ground, I turned and a rusty black Ford revved at me again. Against the sun, I couldn’t see the driver, but I shot him my index finger in the universal wait-a-sec gesture before turning back to the animals.

  “We have an entire corral of these in town for tourists to photograph!” a guy’s voice shouted from behind me.

  That did it. The bison scattered, moving awkwardly through the brush and disappearing over a small hill.

  I got up, slapped dust off my jeans, and walked over to the driver who had just ruined my photo. “What is your problem, jerk? Do you really have somewhere so important to be that you couldn’t wait five more seconds for me to take a picture?”

  Eyes the color of dark chocolate met mine. A guy who couldn’t be much older than me sat behind the wheel.

  “And FYI,” I continued, my voice a little less angry than I wanted it to be. “I’m not some tourist trying to cause a traffic jam. I’m moving here.”

  His eyes widened a bit and he tipped his chin in a nod.

  God, his chin was really chiseled. I took in his long-sleeve plaid shirt, jeans, and leather belt with a large silver buckle. I squinted to read the inscription.

  “It says ‘Triple M.’” The guy’s voice was deep and playful at the same time.

  “What?” I asked. I yanked my eyes from his waist to his face.

  “My buckle,” he said, grinning. His tanned skin set off his beautiful white teeth. “Sorry to disappoint you, but it doesn’t say ‘jerk.’”

  A blush crept up my neck. “Oh, well, maybe you’ll get another one for Christmas.” Really? I yelled at myself. That was the best you could do?

  “I’ll have to try and be good for the rest of the year. I better find some way to apologize to you so Santa doesn’t give me coal in my stocking.” He smiled easily.

  I fought to keep my angry, nonchalant posture—a hip jutted out with my hand casually resting on it, head held high, and narrowed eyes. But he was making it insanely difficult. Just looking at him made me want to forget this whole thing and promise him that Santa wasn’t going to give him coal this year.

  “I’m Logan,” the guy said, shifting in his seat. He stuck a hand out of the window.

  I clasped his rough, hardened hand in mine. His tan skin made my own look almost translucent.

  “I’m—

  “Brie, let’s go!”

  I released his hand and rolled my eyes. “I don’t even have to introduce myself now. My dad did that for me.”

  Logan smiled again.

  “See you around, Brie,” Logan said. “Welcome to town. I work at WyGas, so I’m sure I’ll see you around. It’s the only station in town.”

  “Oh, cool. See you.”

  I turned away from his truck and sauntered—really, walked; I had no idea how to saunter—back to our Explorer. Once I got inside, Logan’s truck rumbled past us, barely scraping by on the narrow road. A giant red piece of paper in the back window caught my eye, but the tires kicked up too much dust to read it.

  Dad grinned at me in the rearview mirror. “Remember that we’re going to be living here for a while. Try not to chew out every person in town on our first day.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said. “Ironic, coming from you.”

  Dad shrugged, feigning innocence. We both knew where I got my temper.

  My dad, the Michael Brooks of Michael Brooks, Inc., developed land. His projects ranged from condos to strip malls. The jobs usually lasted a year or less, and his work required him to be constantly on the job site. Mom and I moved wherever Dad’s work took him.

  I’d been measuring my life in 365-day increments ever since I could remember.

  In the backseat, I pushed my books and iPod out of the way. The drive from Houston to Wyoming hadn’t been an easy trek. After nearly twenty hours in the car and days of driving, I couldn’t wait to see our new home. Lost Springs was about to become another one of Dad’s projects.

  Sixteen years ago, when Dad had first started his company, Mom, Kate, and I had lived in Seattle. Dad had flown back and forth between his job sites and home to visit us every month. Soon Mom had grown tired of raising a baby and an eight-year-old daughter on her own; and with her career in photography flourishing, she needed Dad back.

  My parents decided we would move with Dad to each new development site. It sounds crazy, but it works for us. I grew to like moving. Although it had become a little lonely since Kate had moved to LA. My big sister had always been obsessed with Hollywood news and gossip. Now, at twenty-four and after graduating from UCLA, Kate had managed to land her dream job as an entertainment reporter at Star Access—the top-rated nationally syndicated entertainment news show. She was already eyeing the anchor chair.

  It helped that we still talked on the phone several times a week. She had made me promise to tell her everything about Dad’s new job, building an extended-stay hotel for tourists at the edge of town. Dad had said the closest hotel was over an hour away.

  Dad started the SUV forward, and gravel crunched under the tires as the vehicles behind us started moving. In all our years traveling for Dad’s job, we had never been to Wyoming. Still, the excitement of getting to see someplace new never faded. I glanced up at Blackheart Mountain. It looked like something you’d find on the cover of a calendar featuring the country’s best mountains. The mountain reached thousands of feet into the air—the black rock was snowcapped, and jagged peaks jutted out at all angles. Thick fir trees covered the mountain’s base, and a lone buzzard circled high above the trees.

  Virginia had been hilly when we’d lived in Roanoke, but that had nothing on the Breeze River mountain range. This looked like a movie set.

  The tiny U-Haul we pulled behind us swayed as Dad drove slowly along the road that spiraled down into the valley near Blackheart Mountain. Guardrails were bent or missing on most of the road; it would be a long way down if our car skidded off. Gulping, I redirected my gaze forward.

  “Can you get any reception, Nicola?” Dad asked Mom as he squinted at his cell phone screen. “I called the company yesterday and they swore we’d get reception out here.”

  “We’re in a valley, Michael,” Mom said, shaking her head. “You really expected to get service here, did you? We’ll be in town in minutes.”

  “I expected service because I was promised service everywhere. Now I’ll have to call again and speak to a supervisor.”

  The road started to level off as we pulled up to a lopsided, rough wooden sign. “Welcome to Lost Springs,” I read aloud. The words were burned into the wood, and the sign was nailed to four wooden posts that weren’t exactly even.

  “Please be alert of the wildlife and don’t call emergency services to report bear sightings.” I shook my head. “Sorry, but I’m disregarding that last part if a bear comes near me.”

  Mom and Dad nodded, laughing.

  We were finally here. This time, I vowed to make the house and town feel like home even if I only lived in Lost Springs a short time.

  The Explorer started up the narrow street. According to Google Maps, there was only one road, Main Street, which went straight through the town’s center. We passed a boxy building, its white paint yellowed with age. Unvarnished wooden planters filled with deep-purple and light-blue flowers lined the building’s front. Brown trim framed the large, spotty glass wi
ndows. A black Lab wearing a red collar sat on the building’s stoop and wagged its tail so energetically it thumped his body up and down. Painted above the door was a red sign with white block letters. LOST SPRINGS RUGSTORE. With the D missing, it looked completely archaic. Like something out of a black-and-white film.

  Across from the drugstore, an archaic-looking gas station, complete with attendants dressed in hunter-green jumpsuits, was servicing two pickup trucks circa the late 1960s, while the truck owners chatted with the attendants.

  “Can we get a soda?” I asked, the words surprising me as they tumbled out of my mouth. Dad probably wouldn’t stop. His number one priority was always setting up computers at home. He always connected the Internet before he moved in anything else so that he could start working right away.

  “Yeah,” Dad said, whipping the SUV into the desolate parking lot. “Go get us a few drinks, and I’m going to find a pay phone.”

  I blinked, surprised. I almost regretted my request. I reached into my purse for my compact mirror and cosmetics bag. I looked into the mirror at my green eyes. They were lightly lined with black kohl liner. This morning, I’d used my Naked 2 palette and had done a brown smoky eye that was perfect for daytime. I touched up my lashes with CoverGirl mascara. My cheeks didn’t need blush—they were lightly tanned. I swiped on Lip Buxom in a peachy shade and snapped my mirror shut. I ran my fingers through my shoulder-length light brown wavy hair, catching a few tangles.

  “I’ll wait here,” Mom said, rubbing her hand across her makeup-free forehead. She did that when she was exhausted.

  At least we didn’t have much to unload from the U-Haul. The rental house was already fully furnished—it was too much work and cost to move furniture of our own.

  Dad parked, and I tossed my flip-flops onto the parking lot and stepped into them. There were actual wooden hitching posts on the edge of the parking lot. Did people still use horses for transportation around here? I walked away from the Explorer and headed inside the gas station. The smell of honeysuckle filtered through the air. The reddish brick building looked dim inside, and the front door was held open by a chipped concrete block. This was the first gas station I’d seen with a wooden porch and rocking chairs out front. A WYGAS sign hung crookedly above the door, but the porch and store were swept clean. I’d half expected the station to be full of straw and horsehair or something.