Chapter 1
LOGAN MCCORMACK HAD to have been drunk or out of his goddamned mind to have agreed to let a movie crew film on his ranch.
Why he thought it had been a good idea was beyond him. But Martha, the ranch cook and house manager, was starstruck, and when she’d heard who the lead actress was—some name Logan had already forgotten, alongside some freakin’ hunk of the month as her costar—Martha had gone all melty and told him it would be good for business.
Plus, the production company had offered a buttload of cash, and he wasn’t the type to turn down extra money. Since they’d be filming on the east side of the property, which was mostly hills and grassland and nowhere near their cattle operation, they’d be out of the way. So at the time it had seemed like a good idea.
They’d come in a week ago, a convoy of semis and trailers and black SUVs. Logan had been working the fence property and had seen them driving in. Hell, it was a Hollywood parade. It looked like the whole damn town had showed up at the gates to the ranch to witness it. He’d gotten all the gossip about it when Martha had served up dinner. She’d talked it up nonstop, her voice more animated than he’d heard in a long time.
“I’m pretty sure Desiree Jenkins and Colt Stevens are on our property as we speak,” Martha had said as she’d laid the salad on the table. “Are you going to go check it out, Logan?”
“Why would I want to do that?” he’d asked, way more interested in eating than he was in the goings-on at the east property.
“You rented them the land. It’s your responsibility to make sure they’re settled in.”
He’d said no, and Martha had argued. And when Martha argued about something, it was best you just do whatever she wanted because she wasn’t the type to let a topic die.
“I’ll go see about it in a few days.” That few days had turned into a week, and Martha had been nearly apoplectic that he hadn’t stopped by the movie set yet. Which could affect what she served for dinner, since Martha in a snit meant she could take to her room with some kind of mystery ailment, and he’d end up eating baloney sandwiches for dinner instead of a hot meal.
So after he was done with his work the next day, he climbed into his truck and drove over to the site. Crews had already finished building the set for . . . whatever movie it was they were filming. Some post-apocalyptic-futuristic something or other, supposedly set on another planet. The sparse vegetation, scrub, and hills of the east property would work just fine for it, he supposed. He’d signed the contracts and deposited the check, but hadn’t bothered to pay attention to the name of the film. He wasn’t much of a moviegoer. To go to the movies meant heading into town, and he’d rather sit on the porch and have a beer at night. He liked the quiet. If he wanted to see a movie, he had a television and one of those subscription accounts. That was good enough for him.
Martha was right. It already looked like they’d built a small town on some of the flatlands out there. He parked his truck on the rise, popped open the beer he’d shoved in his cooler, and leaned against the hood of his truck to watch the hustle of people moving back and forth. Trailers had been set up as living areas, though these trailers looked way more expensive than anything Logan could ever afford. They were more like big houses on wheels. Probably what the stars lived in while they shot the movie.
An SUV came up the road, dust flying behind it. It stopped in front of Logan’s truck and a couple of sunglass-wearing burly guys who looked like a more casual form of the Secret Service dressed in black camos and black T-shirts rolled out of the vehicle and stalked toward him.
This should be good.
“This is a closed set,” one of them said, trying his best to look menacing.
Unruffled, Logan stared at them. “Okay.”
“You aren’t supposed to be on this property.”
“I own this property.”
One of the guys in black frowned at him. “You’re the property owner?”
“Yeah.”
“Got ID?”
Logan let out a short laugh. “I’m not about to show you my ID. Like I said, I own this land and you’re renting it.”
“We’ll still need to see ID,” burly guy number two said.
Logan folded his arms. “Yeah, and you can kiss my ass.”
His attention turned to a slight woman—a girl, really—running up the hill. Technically she appeared to be jogging because she wore tight pants that went just past her knees and a sleeveless top that hugged her slender body. She had raven black hair pulled back in a braid, and the guys suddenly stepped in front of Logan as if he were about to pull a gun on the woman.
When she reached them, she stopped, drawing in several deep breaths.
“What’s up, Carl?”
“Saw this guy parked up here and came to check it out. He says he’s the property owner, but he won’t show ID to prove it.”
She finally straightened and stretched her back. “Is that right? And are you the property owner?”
“So it says on the ranch deed.”
She looked him over. “I don’t see any cameras on him. Do you?”
The one named Carl shook his head. “No. He was just leaning against his truck drinking a beer.”
“Then he’s probably the property owner.” She walked over and held out her hand. “I’m Des.”
Logan shook her hand. “Logan McCormack.”
“Nice ranch, Logan.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you been down to watch filming yet?”
“Why would I want to do that?”
She quirked a smile. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d find it interesting.”
“Are you working on the film crew, Des?”
Her lips curled into a smirk. “You could say that.”
One of the big guys stepped forward. “Miss Jenkins?”
“It’s okay, Carl. You and Duke can take off.”
Carl shook his head. “Not a good idea.”
She shot him a look. “And I said I’m fine.”
With another serious death glare, the guy named Carl and the other one got into the SUV and drove back down the hill.
“Are those your bodyguards?”
She laughed. “Sometimes.”
“So you must be the star of the show.”
She shrugged. “Well, I’m the lead. I don’t know about star.”