Prologue

Cormoran Island rises from the Mediterranean like a forgotten sentinel, its limestone cliffs carved by millennia of wind and waves. Time moves differently here. Days blend into years, years into centuries, marked only by the changing angles of sunlight on stone and the steady rhythm of tides.

Fishing boats drift past, yachts anchor before it, but they always depart, leaving the island to its solitude.

Only the goats remain. They appeared one day, carried perhaps by some long-forgotten shepherd or escaped from a passing vessel, and found their kingdom. They make paths where none existed, winding trails that spiral up steep slopes,and traverse impossible ledges. They understand what the island knows: that plans are fleeting things, as temporary as footprints in sand.

And so the island simply exists beyond the reach of progress and civilization. While cities of glass and steel climb ever higher into distant skies, the goats continue their sure-footed dance across its heights, and the sea will go on shaping its shores until the end of days.

Chapter 1 – Evelyn

The taxi lurches forward, jolting me out of my jet-lagged haze. Palma de Mallorca unfolds outside the window—a postcard-perfect blend of historic architecture and sun-drenched modernity. It’s warm, but with the sea breeze, it’s a welcome respite from New York, where the stuffy summer heat has been clinging to the skyscrapers, turning the city into a concrete sauna.

“Primera vez en Mallorca?” the driver asks, his weathered face crinkling into a smile in the rearview mirror.

I blink, my brain sluggishly translating. “Sí,” I manage, exhausting a good third of my Spanish vocabulary. I should have paid more attention in my Spanish classes. After covering The US, Italy, Hawaii, The Maldives, and Greece, it was only a matter of time before business would take me to a Spanish-speaking country.

He launches into what I assume is a well-rehearsed tour–guide spiel, and I nod politely, catching maybe one word in ten. He’s rolled down his window, and although I prefer air con, I lack the energy to communicate, so I roll down my own window too.

The long-haul flight has left me feeling like a wrung-out dishrag. My tailored suit, usually a source of confidence, now feels constricting and slightly rumpled. I long for a hot shower to wash away the stale air of recycled cabin oxygen and the feeling of time zones blurring together. The thought of peeling off these clothes and slipping into something soft and comfortable is almost enough to make me groan out loud. Almost, but years of boardroom poker face prevent such displays, even in my exhausted state.

As we leave the city behind, the landscape transforms. Rolling hills blanketed in olive groves give way to craggy cliffs that plummet dramatically into the Mediterranean. The sea stretches out, a sheet of liquid sapphire that merges with the sky at the horizon. It’s breathtaking, I’ll give it that. But I’m not here for the view.

My phone buzzes. It’s New York.

“Evelyn Rothschild,” I say, my voice crisp and professional.

“Ms. Rothschild, it’s Derek. Just wanted to confirm you landed safely.”

I suppress a sigh. I’d left explicit instructions not to be bothered unless it was urgent. “I’m fine, Derek. Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. It’s just…well, with Jessica on maternity leave, we wanted to make sure you were okay. It’s not too late to send over a temporary PA.”

My jaw tightens. I’m surrounded by some of the most capable businesspeople in New York, and they’re treating me like a lost child at summer camp. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own,” I say. “Unless the board has any objections?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that your father always—”

“I’m not my father,” I cut him off, perhaps more sharply than necessary. I take a breath, soften my tone. “I don’t trust temps, I already told you that. Now, the Mallorca plot is a significant opportunity for us. I need everyone focused on their roles, not worrying about whether I remembered to pack sunscreen, so let’s just stick to our scheduled meetings. Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Rothschild. Sorry for the interruption.”

I end the call, catching the taxi driver’s curious glance in the mirror. Great. Even with the language barrier, my irritation must be palpable.

My phone buzzes again, and Dad’s smiling face lights up the screen. He’s changed his profile picture to one that’s totally ridiculous, his Hawaiian shirt screaming late mid-life crisis. I let it ring out; I’m not in the mood for another lecture on work-life balance or whatever wisdom he’s peddling these days.

A moment later, a message notification pops up. It’s a picture—Dad on a yacht, his arm around a much younger woman who could easily be my contemporary. They’re both grinning into the camera, sun-kissed and carefree. The text reads: Having a blast on Ibiza! Can’t wait for you to meet Candy!

Candy. Of course her name is Candy.

I stare at the image, a knot forming in my stomach. This man, beaming next to his child-bride—as I’ve taken to calling her in my head—is barely recognizable as the father I knew. The business titan who taught me everything, who was my mentor in the cutthroat world of luxury resort development. Now he’s gallivanting around the Mediterranean while I’m left to uphold our legacy alone.

At least the company’s safe now that it’s under my control. I’ve made damn sure the gold digger can’t sink her French-manicured claws into our assets.

I type out a response, my fingers stabbing at the screen with more force than necessary: Looks lovely. Unfortunately, I’m quite busy with the Mallorca acquisition. Perhaps another time. Enjoy your trip.

I’ve managed to dodge meeting Dad’s latest squeeze for four months now, expertly maneuvering around family dinners and impromptu visits. If I have my way, I’ll stretch that streak indefinitely. The last thing I need is to watch this Candy character bat her eyelashes at my father over some overpriced tapas.

I lean back, trying to relax, and my hand drifts to my necklace. It’s a delicate gold chain with a small diamond pendant—a gift from my mother when I turned fourteen.

The taxi rounds a bend and suddenly, there it is. The Hotel Cala d’Or Royale rises from the coastline like a white mirage, its clean lines and expansive windows reflecting the sea. It’s beautiful, objectively speaking. The kind of place that would feature in luxury travel magazines. The kind of place I’ve stayed in a hundred times before.

I always stay in the best hotels; they’re a measure for the competition, a baseline we’ll surpass. By the time I’m done here, the resort my company will build is going to be far better, prettier, and more luxurious than this one, quite frankly, putting it to shame.

The blast of air conditioning as I enter the lobby is a welcome relief from the heat. The space is a study in understated luxury—all soft lighting, gleaming marble, and strategically placed orchids. A massive crystal chandelier dominates the center of the room, casting prismatic patterns across the floor. It’s nice. Professional. Exactly what I’d expect from a five-star resort.

I approach the reception desk, where a young woman with a painfully bright smile greets me. “Bienvenida! Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes,” I reply, sliding my passport across the polished desk. “Evelyn Rothschild.”

Her eyes widen slightly at the name. Good. Reputation still counts for something.

“Of course, Ms. Rothschild. We’ve been expecting you. I hope your journey was pleasant?”

I nod, impatient to get to my room, have a shower, and start preparing for tomorrow’s viewing. “It was fine, thank you.”

She taps away at her computer, the clickety-clack of manicured nails on keys setting my teeth on edge. “I see you’ll be staying with us for…oh my, two months? That’s wonderful. We don’t often have guests stay quite so long.”

I force a smile. “I’m here on business.”

“Ah, of course. Well, we have you in one of our premium ocean-view suites. I’m sure you’ll find it most comfortable. Would you like an overview of our amenities? We have a world-class spa, three restaurants including a Michelin-starred—”

“That won’t be necessary,” I interrupt, holding out my hand for the key card. “I’m familiar with the property.”

She blinks, momentarily thrown off her script. “Oh. Well, if there’s anything you need during your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask. We’re here to make your time with us as pleasant as possible.”

I take the key card, already turning toward the elevators. “Thank you. I’m sure it will be fine. Could you send a pot of strong, black coffee up to my room, please? A pot, not a cup.”

Chapter 2 – Val

The ice-cold cerveza slides down my throat, and I let out a contented sigh. After twenty-plus hours of travel from San Francisco, this feels like pure heaven.

I’m perched on a wooden stool at the edge of a small, open-air hotel bar. It’s nothing fancy—just a rectangular platform built right into the rocky coastline. The bar has a thatched roof and is surrounded by a few dining tables that look out over the vast Mediterranean. Rough-hewn steps carved into the rock lead down to the water, and the whole setup is delightfully rustic.

“Otra?” the bartender asks, gesturing to my nearly empty glass.

I grin at him. “Por favor.”

As he pours me another, I take in the view. The sun is setting, painting the sky in a riot of pinks and oranges that reflect off the water. A few small fishing boats bob in the distance. It’s postcard-perfect, sure, but there’s an authenticity here that you can’t manufacture. This is the real Mallorca, not some sanitized tourist version. And best of all, I can see Cormoran Island from here, a small, inhabited island that has recently been opened for commercial development through a government-initiated Request for Proposals. The local authorities have designated the island as a Special Economic Zone for tourism, inviting developers to submit plans for resort projects. The winning bid will be granted a long-term lease and various tax incentives, and I have my eyes on the prize.

“How long will you stay in Majorca?” the bartender asks as he slides my fresh beer across the bar top.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure yet. I’m here for work, actually. But when work looks like this…” I gesture to the stunning view, “it’s hard to complain.”

He laughs, a warm, rich sound. “I’m Mateo,” he says, extending a hand.

“Val,” I reply, shaking it.

“So, Val,” he continues, leaning on the bar. It’s a quiet evening, and he seems in the mood to chat. That’s fine by me—talking to locals is half the reason I love what I do. “What kind of work brings you to our little corner of paradise?”

I take another sip of my beer, considering how to explain. “I’m in sustainable resort development,” I start. “Basically, I create eco-friendly resorts that work with the environment instead of against it.”

Mateo’s eyebrows rise. “Interesting. We don’t see many of those around here. We are one of a handful on the island. Are we going to be in competition?”

“Not quite,” I say. “No offence, but our price points will be quite different. That is, if I manage to secure the plot. I’m here to pitch a project for that island over there.”

Recognition dawns on Mateo’s face as I point to it. “Ah, Illa Cormoran. Yes, there’s been much talk about that. Some are excited for the jobs it might bring, others…” He trails off, shrugging.

I lean in, genuinely curious. “Others?”

Mateo glances around, then lowers his voice slightly. “Some worry about outsiders coming in, changing things. We’ve seen what big resorts can do to our coastline.”

I nod, as it’s a concern I’ve heard before. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid,” I explain. “Although my resorts are high end with the emphasis on privacy, they’re designed to blend in, to enhance what’s already there instead of replacing it. We use local materials, employ local people, and most importantly, our resorts are sustainable. The goal is to create something that benefits everyone—visitors and residents alike.”

“And this is your own business? You look so young to be doing such big things. More like a surfer girl than a businesswoman,” he adds with a chuckle.

“I’m twenty-eight.” I smile proudly. “I built my first resort with the help of crowdfunding in Hawaii six years ago. Then I opened my second resort on the Greek island of Santorini, and hopefully, Cormoran Island will be my third.”

“And your resorts are turning a profit?” Mateo asks.

“They’re doing very well. And not only that, but we’ve got a ninety-five percent average approval rating from the local community.”

He whistles low. “That’s not easy to achieve.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “I’m proud of it. But here in Mallorca, I’m up against some big resort chains, so it won’t be easy. I can only hope the local authorities prefer my approach of preserving the island.”

Mateo nods. “So you’ll be staying with us?”

“Yes. I’ve booked a room here for a month, but who knows? If things go my way, I could be here much longer.” A gust of wind sweeps through the bar, carrying with it the scent of salt and sunbaked earth. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing it in. This. This is what I want to capture, to share. When I open my eyes, I catch Mateo watching me with an amused expression.

“You look like you belong here,” he says.

“Sun, sea, nature… What’s not to love?” I smile. “Do you know where I can rent a boat to check out the island tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Mateo pours himself a small beer and takes a sip. “I can take you, if you want. I start work at midday, but I’m free in the morning. My parents have a small boat—my father uses it for fishing. Unless you’re looking for something fancy?”

“No, that would be fantastic,” I say, clinking my glass against his. “I’ll pay you, of course.”

“No need. I like being on the water. I don’t do it often enough.”

Sensing there’s no point arguing with him, I shoot him a grateful smile. “Fine, then I’ll pay you in tips. I have a feeling I’ll be spending a lot of time on this barstool.”

Mateo laughs and taps the piggy bank on the counter. “Tips are always welcome.” He greets a Spanish-speaking family who take their seats at one of the tables by the water and heads over to bring them menus.

I’m tempted to get my laptop from my room and do some prep work for tomorrow, but I refrain. I’ve been traveling and I’m tired, so I deserve a break, and besides, there’s not much I can add to my already polished business plan until I’ve seen the island firsthand. No, everything can wait, I decide. For now, I just want to soak up the atmosphere and work up the inspiration for what will be a challenging and exciting time ahead.

Mateo gestures in my direction as he chats to the family, no doubt passing on what I just told him, and they nod, smiling at me. There’s curiosity in their looks but also a hint of wariness, and I don’t blame them. They’ve probably seen their fair share of developers come through, making big promises and leaving even bigger scars on the island. I resist the urge to go over and introduce myself properly. It’s best to wait until I win the pitch. Because I will win.

A group of young women takes up residence at a nearby table, and I my gaze lingers on one of them, appreciating more than just the local scenery. When she meets my eyes, I quickly look away, reminding myself that I’m here to work, not to get distracted by beautiful women.

More patrons arrive and someone produces a guitar. Soon, the air is filled with the strains of Spanish music, mingling with the chatter and laughter of the crowd. Immensely pleased with my choice of accommodation, I hum along as I pick up a menu from the bar. The descriptions are in both Spanish and English, and I’m particularly drawn to the unfamiliar local dishes.

“What do you recommend?” I ask Mateo. “I’m looking for something typically Mallorcan.”

He pauses, reading along. “For a true taste of Mallorca…” He taps the menu. “I’d suggest the Tumbet. It’s a traditional vegetable dish—layers of potatoes, eggplant, and red peppers, all locally grown, topped with a rich tomato sauce.”

“Sounds delicious,” I say, already feeling my mouth water.

“Or,” he continues, “if you’re in the mood for seafood, try the Llampuga amb Pebres. It’s mahi-mahi fish with red peppers. It’s a seasonal dish, and it’s the perfect time for it.”

I consider for a moment, torn between the options. “You know what? I think I’ll have both.”

Mateo grins. “Excellent choice. I’ll let the kitchen know.” He hesitates for a second, then adds, “And maybe a small plate of bread with olive oil, tomato, and a bit of salt? It’s a staple here.”

Chapter 3 – Evelyn

The purr of the engine fades to a whisper as the luxury speedboat slows to a stop. I stand at the bow, my eyes fixed on the chunk of rock rising from the azure waters before us. Cormoran Island. My future masterpiece.

“This is as close as we can get, Ms. Rothschild,” the captain calls out from behind the polished helm. He’s a grizzled old sea dog, all leathery skin and salt-and-pepper beard, probably been navigating these waters since before I was born.

I nod, not taking my eyes off the island. It’s smaller than I expected, a jagged silhouette against the cloudless sky. A handful of pine trees crown its peak, but apart from that, it looks quite bare from here. Bare is good, though. There will be less to remove.

“What can you tell me about it?” I ask, leaning on the boat’s railing.

The captain joins me, his eyes squinting against the glare of the sun on water. “Not much to tell, really. It’s uninhabited, except for the goats.”

I turn to him, one eyebrow raised. “Goats?”

He nods, a hint of amusement in expression. “Yes, mountain goats. No one knows how they got here, but they’ve made the place their home. Hardy little buggers.”

“How many?”

He shrugs. “No idea. Not many people visit the island because there’s no beach or pier. It’s a popular spot for yachts to anchor, though. It’s great for snorkeling around here.”

I file that information away. Snorkeling? Great. I already knew that, though. Goats? Not so much. I wonder how the local authorities would feel about us removing them, but there’s no space for goats in a luxury resort.

“And how am I supposed to get onto the island?” I ask, eyeing the distance between our boat and the rocky shore.

The captain’s lips twitch. “You’ll have to wade a bit, I’m afraid. I can’t get any closer without damaging the hull.”

I look down at my outfit—crisp white palazzo pants and a sleeveless blouse. Not exactly wading attire. I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. Suppressing a sigh, I bend down to roll up my pants. The fabric resists, clearly not designed for such treatment, but I manage to get them just above my knees before giving up. It’ll have to do.

“I don’t suppose you have any water shoes on board?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

The captain shakes his head. “Afraid not, Ms. Rothschild. Would you like a life vest?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

I slip off my sandals, hooking them onto my fingers along with my phone, and with as much dignity as I can muster, I climb down the retractable steps and into the water. It’s cooler than I expected, sending a shock up my legs. The seabed is uneven, rocks and pebbles shifting under my feet with each step as the water reaches up to my thighs, soaking my pants despite my best efforts.

By the time I reach the shore, I’m wet and my feet are scraped and sore, but I’ve made it. I turn back to the boat, raising a hand in a brief wave to the captain. He returns the gesture, then settles back into his leather captain’s chair and lights a cigarette, apparently content to wait out my exploration.

The climb up is steep and treacherous. Loose rocks skitter away under my feet, and holding my phone, I have to use my free hand to steady myself against larger boulders. My clothes, damp with seawater and now streaked with dust, cling uncomfortably to my skin. I can feel a blister forming on my heel where my wet foot is rubbing against my sandal.

This had better be worth it, I think grimly as I haul myself up over a particularly challenging outcrop. Building sites are never a walk in the park, but I can’t say I’ve had a viewing quite like this before.

Finally, mercifully, the ground begins to level out. I straighten up, brush off my hands, and take stock of my surroundings. The vegetation is sparse up here, mostly scrubby bushes and the occasional stunted tree. But the view… The view is something else entirely.

I turn slowly, taking it all in. To the east, the coastline of Mallorca stretches out, a patchwork of sandy beaches and rocky cliffs. To the west, there’s nothing but open sea, blue fading into deeper blue, and the morning sun bathes everything in a golden light.

A smile tugs at my lips. This is why I do what I do. This untamed beauty, this raw potential. I can already see it in my mind’s eye—a series of luxury villas cascading down the hillside, each with its own infinity pool mirroring the sea. A discreet funicular to ferry guests up from a small, private marina, and maybe a helipad. It would be the ultimate getaway.

I snap a few photos to send back to the design team. They’ll need to see this, to understand what we’re working with. The terrain will be a challenge, but that’s what makes it exciting. Anyone can build a resort on a flat, sandy surface, but this? This will be something else.

Lost in my vision, I don’t notice the soft sound of hooves on stone until it’s too late. A sudden chorus of bleating makes me whirl around, nearly losing my footing on the uneven ground.

There, not ten feet away, is a small herd of goats. They’re shaggy, wild-looking things with curved horns. For a moment, we just stare at each other, equally startled by the unexpected encounter.

“Well,” I say, trying to regain my composure. “I suppose you must be the mysterious inhabitants.”

One of the goats—the largest, possibly the leader of the herd—takes a step forward, lowering its head slightly. Is it challenging me? Greeting me? Is it curious? I don’t know anything about goats and find myself at a loss.

“Listen,” I continue, feeling slightly ridiculous for talking to a goat but unable to stop myself. “I know this is your home, but things are going to be changing around here. Progress, you understand? It’s nothing personal, so please don’t look at me like that.”

The goat bleats, a sound that seems almost dismissive. Then, as if on some silent signal, the whole herd begins to pick its way up the hill, leaving me alone.

I watch them go with a touch of amusement at the absurdity of the situation. But also, unexpectedly, a twinge of…something else. Guilt? Regret? I push the feeling aside. I’m here to do a job, not to worry about the feelings of a bunch of feral goats.

Turning back to the view, I force myself to refocus. I need to survey the entire island, get a feel for the topography, the best sites, the potential challenges. Other developers will be circling like sharks, eager to snap up this prime piece of real estate.

I start to make my way along the ridge, my eyes scanning the landscape, my mind racing with plans and possibilities. Every so often, I catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye—a flash of fur, the glint of a horn in the sunlight. The goats are following me, I realize. Observing from a distance, silent and wary.

I ignore them and crest a small rise, struck anew by the beauty of this place. The way the sunlight glints off the water, the rugged charm of the unspoiled landscape. For a brief moment, I allow myself to see it through different eyes. Not as a developer sizing up a potential goldmine, but as…well, as a goat, I suppose. As a creature who calls this place home. I notice the way certain plants cling tenaciously to seemingly barren rock. The complex network of paths the goats have worn into the hillsides. The unexpected splash of color from hardy wildflowers pushing up through a crack in the stone.

A patch of lusher vegetation catches my attention, standing out against the scrubby bushes and stunted trees that dominate the landscape. Intrigued, I make my way toward it, carefully picking my path. As I get closer, I hear it before I see it—a faint trickling sound that grows louder with each step.

Pushing aside some dense foliage, I find a small, hidden grotto. There, emerging from a crack in the rocky face of a cliff is a spring. Clear water seeps out of the stone, forming a pool before trickling down in a narrow stream.

The area around the spring is vibrant green. Ferns and moss cover the damp rocks, and small, delicate flowers dot the surrounding area, adding color to the scene. The pool itself is no larger than a generous-size hot tub, its surface mirror-smooth except where the water bubbles up from the rock. It’s deep enough that I can’t see the bottom clearly, the water taking on a mysterious, dark-blue hue in its depths.

Excitement causes a flutter in my belly. I knew the island had a water source, but this is seriously charming. People with money like this kind of stuff. They want their luxuries, but they also want to feel like they’re part of something special.

After snapping more pictures, I head back to the ridge, mentally running through the possibilities. A luxury spa built around the spring, perhaps? I’ll have to ask my team to amend the plans in the next twenty-four hours. Or maybe we could bottle the water as an exclusive amenity for our guests. The marketing potential alone is enough to make me smile.

Another boat, smaller and less ostentatious than the one I arrived in, is heading toward the island. On board is a young couple, by the looks of it, and the woman is undressing, perhaps about to go for a swim.

Then, a familiar sound stops me in my tracks. Bleating. And it’s close.

I turn slowly to find the herd of goats I saw before and some more, right behind me. I thought they were wary of me, but they don’t seem intimidated at all anymore.

“Easy now,” I say. I take a step back, and they take a step forward. One of the larger goats, a particularly shaggy creature with impressive horns, approaches me boldly. It stretches out its neck, sniffing at my clothes, then suddenly butts its head against my thigh. Is he attacking?

Panic overrides reason, and I clumsily start climbing down as fast as I can. It’s madness, I know. These sure-footed creatures have a clear advantage on this treacherous terrain. My feet slip and slide on the loose rocks as I half stumble down the slope.

The sound of hooves on stone follows me, and I don’t dare look back, focusing all my energy on not falling. I’m almost down. Safety. Without breaking stride, I plunge into the sea, fully clothed, and swim with desperate strokes toward the boat.

Only when the captain’s helped me back in do I risk a glance back. The goats have stopped at the water’s edge, watching me with what I swear looks like smug satisfaction.

“Everything all right, Ms. Rothschild?” the captain asks, poorly concealing his amusement.

I push my wet hair out of my face and muster what dignity I can. “Perfectly fine, thank you. I just…” I glance at my phone, clenched in my fist. “Fuck. My phone is wet.”

“It will be okay. They’re sturdy these days.” He takes it from me, dries it off on a towel, then hands me a fresh one. “I’ll leave it to dry in the sun.”

“Hey, lady! Are you okay?” the woman in the other boat yells.

“Yes, thank you,” I say, thoroughly embarrassed as I dry myself off. I don’t feel like socializing, and I certainly don’t need strangers worrying over me, but it’s too late. They’re already making their way over to us.

Did you enjoy this sample? The Turning Tides of Us is on pre-order and scheduled for release 24/01/2024

Chapter 1 – Dakota

“Come on, Henry. You can do this.” The engine of the old pickup truck protests, and although I’m ever the optimist, something tells me I may not make it to Vegas. The plan was to drive there with my belongings in the back, then sell the truck and buy a smaller, more practical car. All I need is to make it to the city. My friends warned me against arranging the move myself, but Henry’s never let me down before, so I thought I’d take a chance and save myself a ton of money.

“Please, Henry,” I beg when he stutters again. “Please, please, please. Not here.”

I shouldn’t have taken a detour, but the desert is supposed to be beautiful during sunset. I wanted to take in the scenery while driving toward my new life, so I made the stupid decision to turn off the desolate highway onto a narrow dirt road.

It was spectacular indeed. The sun, a fiery ball of orange, glowed low on the horizon while the sky was ablaze with color. But then the engine light started blinking, and now my eyes are fixated on the dashboard instead. It’s been red for a few weeks, but it never blinked until five minutes ago. I’m miles from the highway, and I haven’t seen a car in the past twenty minutes. Why did I go into the desert today of all days? I could’ve booked a tour from Vegas once I was settled or driven here after I bought a new car.

I turn and head back in the direction I came from. If I break down, the chances of someone passing are much better closer to the highway. Besides regretting my decision to venture off-plan, my eyes feel dry, and my muscles are aching. The thought of stopping for a rest is enticing, but I’m afraid Henry will give up the ghost entirely if I do so. I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I doubt anyone will find me here tonight.

The low sun casts long shadows across the barren landscape, and darkness is falling way faster than I anticipated. My satnav doesn’t work here, I have zero bars on my phone, and although it seemed pretty straightforward to navigate the few roads, in the darkening landscape, it’s not so simple anymore. Was I driving toward the sunset, or was the sun to my right? Reaching one of the crossroads, I’m confused, and through my growing unease, I can’t remember which way to turn.

Think, Dakota.

I turn left, following the road, but I don’t recognize anything. I suspect I went the wrong way, as I should have reached the highway by now. Didn’t I pass a weird rock formation that looked like an elephant? There was a single shoe in the middle of the road too, but I don’t see it. Realizing I’ve lost all sense of direction and that I have no clue how to get back to the highway, panic takes over.

It’s crazy how dark it gets once the sun has set, and even with my lights on, I can barely see anything. Am I still on the road, or am I literally crossing the desert now? I suddenly feel a sharp jolt, and then the truck starts pulling to one side. The steering wheel vibrates while I step on the brakes until we stop. What was that?

Startled and shaky, I turn off the engine and blow out my cheeks. I can hear it through my open windows; there’s a hissing sound coming from the right back tire.

Getting out and using the torch on my phone to inspect it, I see it’s been ripped or punctured by something and it’s completely flat. “Fuck!” I curse out loud, then wince at the sound of my voice cutting through the silence.

I have a spare tire with me, but I never bothered to buy a new jack after a friend borrowed mine. Even if I did have a jack, I’ve never changed a tire before; I always relied on roadside assistance in California. Would they come all the way out here? And where is here, anyway? Even if I could call for help—which I can’t, I establish when I check my network again—what would I say when they ask me where I am? Somewhere in the desert near Vegas? It couldn’t possibly get any vaguer than that.

“This is bad, Henry,” I mutter, then let out a long sigh. Leaning against the pickup, I contemplate what to do. Should I start walking and hope to find a sign of life somewhere? Or would that be the worst possible idea? If I lost my truck too, I’d be in serious trouble. At least I have water and blankets in the back, so it’s probably wise to stay here until the morning when I can see where I’m going. Besides, it’s eerie out here in the dark, and I don’t feel safe. The only sound is that of lizards slipping past or the intermittent gusts of wind that send tumbleweeds scurrying across my feet. A vast expanse of nothingness stretches for miles in every direction, only broken up by the occasional cactus or yucca plant, standing tall and proud in the harsh environment. They look like figures, their twisted branches reaching out like arms ready to grab anyone who comes near, and the sight of them is unsettling.

What about coyotes? They live in the desert, don’t they? And scorpions? That thought makes my heart race as I glance down at my feet in the flimsy flip-flops I’m wearing. Rattlesnakes? I curl my toes and point my torch toward the ground, and within seconds, I’m back in the pickup.

I couldn’t have messed up more if I tried. On Monday, I’m supposed to start my new job, and I need time to get settled into my apartment. What if no one finds me over the weekend and I don’t show up for my first day at work? What if no one finds me at all? What if I die out here? My stomach tightens, and I remind myself that doom thinking won’t get me anywhere. Mom will get worried; I promised to call her when I reached Vegas, and if she doesn’t hear from me, she’ll alert the police, so hopefully, they’ll come looking for me.

I’m going to sit here until it gets light, I decide, and if I climb onto the roof in the morning, I might be able to see the highway. If not, I’ll wait until someone comes to the rescue. Yes, that’s better. That’s a safe plan.

Something flashes in the dark, and I narrow my eyes as I focus on the direction it came from. Did I imagine it? I’m getting pretty tired and suspect my mind is playing tricks on me, but then I see it again, and there are two lights this time.

“Help! Over here!” I yell out of the window. “Help!” The lights seem to change direction, so I turn on the headlights and honk the horn over and over, until the lights—there are at least five now—come closer. They move in a funny way, almost in a swaying, drunk motion, and when their silhouettes come into clear view, I realize they’re horseback riders with lights attached to their cowboy hats. Then my relief is replaced by fear. How do I know if I can trust them? Is there such a thing as desert pirates? Could they be bad people? As they near, I see two of them are women, and that brings me some comfort, so I get out and wave at them.

“Hey, ma’am.” The woman who rides up front taps her hat. “Are you lost?”

“Yeah, you could say that.” I point to my pickup. “And I’ve got a flat. I must’ve hit something—I couldn’t see much in the dark. I have a spare, but I don’t have a jack, and there’s something wrong with my engine too.”

“Okay…” The woman glances over her shoulder and addresses the group. “Do you guys mind waiting for a minute?” She turns back to me, comes closer, and glances curiously at the full trunk of my pickup. “Were you planning on vacationing out here or something? Because it’s prohibited to camp in this part of the desert, and it’s also unsafe with all the critters.”

“No. I was on my way to Vegas. I’m moving there.”

“Oh.” She arches a brow. “Why on earth did you go off-road in the dark?”

“I wanted to see the sunset,” I say sheepishly and blush when the group chuckles.

“God, you couldn’t have fucked up worse.” The woman looks amused. “Right. Well, I’m in the middle of something, so I can’t help you right now, but if you go and sit in your truck and lock the doors, I’ll be back for you in about three hours.”

“Thank you.” I cross my heart and give her a smile. “Thank you so, so much. I can pay you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now stay inside with those open-toed sandals. I don’t want to return to find you poisoned or worse.” She turns her horse and beckons to her companions to do the same. “Three hours. I promise I’ll come back.”

Chapter 2 – Frankie

When I return to the stranded pickup after midnight, the woman looks like she’d hug me if I wasn’t sitting on a huge stallion.

“Thank you so, so much,” she says again, smiling with relief. She has a nice, open smile that lights up her face as she shades her eyes from the bright spotlight on my hat.

“Don’t sweat it. Do you have any other shoes in the back? Trainers or something?”

“Yes, I do.” She jumps into action, climbing into the back of her pickup that’s packed to the brim and roots through her cases. I shine my flashlight on her and take in the contents. Boxes, suitcases, bags, a TV, lamps, and even some furniture are piled up in a way that’s definitely not safe for the road. I never questioned her when she said she was moving; she doesn’t strike me as a thief or a drifter, but I’m still baffled at the idiocy of her going off-road in the dark. Everyone knows it’s a bad idea unless you know the desert inside out, like me.

“Found them!” She triumphantly holds up a pair of white sneakers and socks, then perches on what looks like a nightstand to put them on. “Will my stuff be safe here overnight? My whole life is in the back of this truck.”

“I can’t promise you that, but I think it will be fine. We’ll head out early to change your tire and drive it back to the ranch. I’ll have a look at your engine there. It’s easier.” I grin when she jumps off her truck and stares up at me and then Texas, my loyal companion. “Do you ride?” I ask.

“No.” Her eyes widen. “Oh…you want me to get on?”

“Ideally, yes,” I say with a chuckle. “It’s a long walk to the ranch.” Assessing her, I decide she doesn’t look heavy and move to the back of my McClellan saddle, then hold out my hand. “Put your left foot in the stirrup and hold on to the saddle with your left hand. I’ll lift you up.”

“Shouldn’t I be at the back?” she asks, clumsily maneuvering while the purse she’s slung around her neck dangles from side to side.

“No. It’s safer this way.” I groan as I pull her up and she lets out a sigh when she positions herself.

“Oh my God, it’s so high…”

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to gallop. Hold on to the saddle and let me know if you want me to slow down.” Leaning forward, I look over her shoulder and tap my foot against Texas, who immediately sets off. I sense the woman is nervous, so I try to distract her with conversation. “What’s your name?”

“Dakota,” she says. “I’m sorry, I totally forgot to introduce myself.”

“That’s okay. I’m Frankie. So, you’re from California?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Your license plate,” I say humorously. “And your looks. The sun-bleached hair and the tan…you look like you’ve spent a lot of time on the beach.”

“I did. I lived in Newport Beach.”

“Fancy. Do you think you’ll miss the ocean?”

“For sure,” she says. “But a career opportunity came up in Vegas and I felt a little stuck in LA, so I thought I’d give it a go.” She instinctively tries to look over her shoulder as she’s talking to me and almost loses her balance.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. Just make sure you look ahead.” I take the reins in one hand and curl my other around her waist. She’s tense; I can feel her abdomen tighten under the thin fabric of her white tank top. Her hair smells of coconut and a hint of floral perfume wafts from her neck. “I’m sorry, I should have told you to put on something warmer. It can get chilly here at night, even in summer. Are you cold?”

“No, but it’s amazing how much the temperature drops.” She pauses. “And you?” she asks. “You mentioned a ranch. Is that where you live?”

“Yeah. I run a small ranch hotel and provide horseback riding experiences. Desert excursions, mainly.”

“Is that what you were doing tonight?”

“Uh-huh. The desert is beautiful on a clear night. You’ll never see as many stars as you see here.” I nudge her when she’s about to look up. “Not yet. Wait until we get to the ranch. I don’t want you to fall off.”

“Sure.” She chuckles when I speed up a little. “This is fun.”

“You think being stranded in the desert with a flat tire and a broken engine is fun?”

“Not that part, but a midnight horseback ride after being rescued by a cowgirl… That doesn’t happen to me every day.”

A little confused, I furrow my brows. Is she flirting with me?

“Sorry,” she continues. “I suppose it’s not much fun for you. I really appreciate you coming all the way back for me.”

“It’s my pleasure. It’s not every day I get to rescue a beautiful woman,” I shoot back at her, hoping I’m not overstepping. She laughs nervously and I continue quickly to avoid an awkward silence. “The ranch is fully booked, but you can sleep on the couch in my private quarters. It’s pretty comfortable.”

“That’s so kind, but I don’t want to be in your way. I thought I could call a taxi from your ranch to take me to a nearby motel and come back early in the morning.”

“That’s a waste of time. The nearest motel is practically in Vegas, so you might as well stay over or you’ll get no sleep at all. Really, it’s not a problem.”

“Thank you. And your…” Dakota hesitates. “Your husband won’t mind? Or your…”

“Partner? No. I’m single.” It feels weird to have this kind of conversation without being able to look each other in the eyes. “What about you? Is someone special joining you in Vegas?”

“No. It’s just me.” Dakota points to the lights in the distance. “Is that your ranch?”

“Yes, that’s Red Rock Ranch.” I smile with pride. The ranch was renovated a few years ago and it still gets me excited to see how good it looks from a distance.

The main farmhouse stands proud against the starlit sky, its weathered wood siding glowing warmly under the porch lights. It’s a sturdy two-story structure with a wide, wraparound porch that I added a few years back. The roof’s steep pitch is perfect for shedding the rare desert rain, and the brick chimney hints at the cozy fireplace waiting inside. To the left of the farmhouse, separated by a tidy gravel path lined with desert sage, is the guesthouse. It’s a long, single-story building with a covered walkway connecting a series of doors, each leading to a private room. The exterior matches the main house, giving the whole property a cohesive feel. Solar panels glint on the roof, a recent addition I’m particularly pleased with.

The stables and corrals are off to the right, and I can see the shapes of a few horses moving in the moonlight.

“That’s quite the ranch you’ve got there,” Dakota says. “Is it family run?”

“It used to be, but since my parents retired, I’m running it. The farm was getting too much for them, so they moved into a condo in Vegas after I took over. I have a brother, but he was never interested in horses. He lives in California and works for a tech company. I have a great team, though. I could never do it all by myself.”

When we arrive, I hop off and lead Texas through the gate, then help Dakota off. “Welcome. I’ll show you in before I take care of Texas. Do you want to have a shower?”

“That would be amazing.” Dakota shoots me a grateful smile and ruffles a hand through her hair. “I’m all sticky and dusty from the long drive.” She takes in the premises as she follows me to the main house. “You have a beautiful home,” she says when I let her in.

“Thanks. Please, make yourself at home.” We head to the bathroom and I hand her a towel. “Wait, let me get you something clean to sleep in.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that, I can—” Dakota stops herself and winces. “Actually, that would be great. I’m so sorry to be a pain.”

Chapter 3 – Dakota

Dressed in a pair of grey jersey shorts and an old sweatshirt with the logo of some local diner, I feel a little self-conscious. I love to slouch around in garments like these at home, but I always make sure I look presentable when I’m around other people. The couch in the living room is made up and a delicious smell wafts from the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” Frankie asks. “I’ve heated up some leftovers. Figured you must be famished.”

“I am,” I say, gratefully taking the bowl of pasta she hands me.

“There’s a dining table on the porch if you’d like to sit outside.” Frankie holds up a half-full bottle of wine. “I’m having a glass of red. Care to join me?” She opens the door to the porch without waiting for an answer and lights a few candles on the table.

“You really don’t have to keep me company. It’s late and you must be tired.”

“I’m fine. I’m used to staying up after the late tours, and the temperature is much nicer at night.” She sits and pours us wine. “So…Nevada is a big shift from California. What’s the job?”

“I’ll be managing a spa in one of the hotels on the strip. The White Salon—it’s a chain. I ran their branch in Newport Beach, and now I’ll be responsible for the Vegas branch, which is much bigger.” I slide onto the bench opposite Frankie and only then really take her in. In a state of near panic and desperate to get somewhere more civilized, I didn’t pay much attention in the dark earlier, but she’s a very attractive woman.

She’s changed from her jeans and shirt into sweatpants and a white tank top, and her arms are toned and tanned. Her hair, previously hidden under her cowboy hat, is short and dark, slicked back like she’s just splashed water over her face. She has curious brown eyes, dark lashes, and dark eyebrows that move expressively while she speaks. She strikes me as someone who would tell a good story around a campfire; one of those engaging types who draw people in. She’s certainly drawn me in. I don’t tend to let people see me with wet hair, especially not a single, tall, attractive woman who undoubtedly plays for my team.

“A spa?” She lowers her gaze to my hands. “Forgive me for generalizing, but I thought all beauticians had long nails.” Her voice is a soft whisper, and in the light of the flickering candles, I’m sure I’m detecting a hint of flirtation in her eyes.

“Well, I’m not a beautician, I’m a general manager,” I say, stirring my fork through the pasta. “I used to give massages and that requires short nails,” I add playfully, hoping she’ll take the bait. “But my massage days are over. I’m only focusing on the operational side of the business now.”

“Oh?” Her eyebrow shoots up. “What a waste of a talent. Don’t you miss using those lovely hands?”

My lips stretch into a grin, and I shake my head as I focus on my food. “Are you flirting with me, cowgirl?” The tomato and basil pasta is delicious, but my body reacts to Frankie in interesting ways, and suddenly I don’t feel that hungry anymore. Still, I continue to eat as I don’t want to be impolite.

“Would it be so terrible if I was?” she asks.

I pick up my glass and twirl the wine around while I meet her gaze. Her expression is cocky, like she knows she already has me in her pocket, and although I’m normally not this easy to chat up, it feels like too good an opportunity to pass. She’s sinfully sexy, and if nothing else, it would make for a great story to tell my friends. My move to Vegas: Stranded, saved, and seduced by a cowgirl. It would make a good book title too. “No…” I feel a blush rise to my cheeks but don’t shy away from her eyes.

Frankie holds up her glass in a toast and winks. “In that case, you’re welcome to share my bed tonight.”

Sitting back, I sip my wine and stare at her while a million fantasies rush through my mind. “Is this what you do with all your ranch guests?”

“No. Only some and only occasionally.” She tilts her head from side to side. “Most of my guests are couples, and the singles tend to be straight or not my type. It seems like tonight is my lucky night.”

“How do you know I’m not straight?”

Frankie frowns and studies me. “You’re flirting back and you’re not nervous like straight women when they want to experiment.” She shrugs. “There have been a few here over the years.”

“And your job is to make sure their holiday is memorable?”

“Anything for a five-star review,” she jokes. “I could ensure your move to Vegas is memorable too.”

“Trust me, it already is.” I’m having fun with our playful back-and-forth, and arousal is tugging at me. It’s been years since I’ve had such chemistry with someone, not to mention the opportunity to act on it.

“Can I sit next to you?” Frankie asks. “It’s a little lonely on this side and I prefer to face the stars.” When I nod, she moves around the table. “That’s better,” she says, sitting back and draping one arm over the backrest behind me.

“Smooth. Very smooth,” I say humorously, but I move a little closer anyway. I feel her body heat against me and I’m pretty sure she tenses at the contact. She’s taller than me, and I like how I fit into the crook of her arm. “So, what’s your next move? Are we going to look at the stars together?”

“Yes, and you’ll love it.” Frankie reaches behind her to turn off the porch lights, then blows out the candles. “We’ll need total darkness for this.” She points to the sky. “Let your eyes adjust for a moment.”

I stare into the black, and after a while, millions of twinkling lights become visible. Some are tiny specks, some significantly bigger. Some are clustered together, creating shapes and bright spots.

“Can you see it?”

“Yes. It’s beautiful.” When I feel her eyes on me, I hold my breath. “I’ve never seen so many stars,” I whisper, turning to her.

“Welcome to the desert.” Frankie gives me a lopsided smile while she caresses the back of my neck, and my eyes flutter closed for a beat. Her touch feels electric, and I can hardly believe how such a simple gesture can cause such fire inside me. A flash of heat shoots between my thighs and my gaze lowers to her mouth. Her lips are glistening and inviting, and I feel an overwhelming urge to kiss her.

This is the moment, I think, bracing myself to be swept away. She inches closer, curls her hand around my neck, and pulls me in. I can feel her breath on my face, and it quickens along with my pulse. Just as our lips are about to brush, a loud call pulls us out of the moment.

“Frankie!” A young man comes running up to the house. “Frankie, Sahara is foaling!” He’s panting, steadying his hands on his knees, then suddenly narrows his eyes as he spots me. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”

“That’s okay,” Frankie mutters. “Sorry, Dakota. I have to go.” She continues to stare at my lips, then gets up with a sigh and shoots me a regretful smile. “You’re welcome to join us in the stables. Otherwise, I’ll see you in the morning.”

Did you like this excerpt? You can pre-order Red Rock Ranch here!