A traumatized young woman held hostage for years.
The rancher who comes to her rescue.
The crime boss who will kill them both if he finds them.
JENNY’S VOICE is Book 1 in the Redheads & Ranchers Series.
Sexy redheads and the ranchers they can’t resist.
Jenny Stone’s voice was silenced the horrific day ruthless crime boss Victor Sorkin executed her parents in cold blood and took her as his personal good luck charm. Now she’s his pet, at his mercy when he summons her to warm his bed. Or the beds of his more esteemed business associates.
When she sees her chance to escape, she takes it, hitching a ride with an unsuspecting cowboy, horse trainer Cole Caldwell. Cole’s stunned to find the terrified young redhead hiding in his horse trailer. She’s as skittish as some of the horses he works with, and she’s apparently mute. But the nurturer in him wants to shelter her, to protect her. He’ll do his best to ignore the attraction he feels, content to help her know she’s safe with him.
When Jenny first escaped, her only thought was to get away. But now she’s worried. She’s put Cole in unspeakable danger. Should she leave before Victor finds them? Could it already be too late?
If you like your romance filled with hot cowboys, suspense, and happily-ever-afters, you’ll love JENNY’S VOICE.
Here’s a special bonus scene from JENNY’S VOICE.
What am I going to do?
The question hasn’t stopped swirling through my head for the last few hours. Not since I arrived back at the ranch with my new client’s horse and found her hiding in my trailer.
Jenny.
At least that’s what she tells me her name is. Maybe tells isn’t the right word. Because apparently, Jenny doesn’t speak.
She won’t write, either. I found that out quickly enough when I tried to get her to jot down her name on a notepad I found in the kitchen drawer.
Somebody has scared the utter shit out of this girl, that much is clear enough. Maybe the same asshole who gave her the black eye and the busted lip. The one I’ll kill if I ever get the chance. I may be out of the Marines now, but I know how to handle myself.
Hell, I undoubtedly scared the shit out of her when I snatched her up off the floor of the trailer. All covered up in my old barn jacket like she was, I couldn’t tell who’d stowed away in the empty stall beside Dahlia. When I grabbed the front of the jacket and slammed her against the wall, it felt like lifting up a bag of nothing.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget my first glimpse of her face, with her left eye all purple and swelled shut, her lips battered and split. Her good eye was the clearest green I’ve ever seen, and she stared at me with a terror that pierced my soul.
She was shaking like a leaf, but whether it was from the cold or from fear, I couldn’t say. Her legs and feet were bare, and I had to wonder if she wore anything at all under my old jacket.
I didn’t even hesitate. I scooped her up and carried her to the cab of the truck where I put the heat on blast. At least she could warm up a bit while I got Dahlia sorted out in the barn.
It gave me a little time to think, too. How did this girl get in my trailer? And when? I only made two stops. Once to pick up the horse, and once to grab lunch at the truck stop.
That has to be it. The truck stop. She ran away from whoever was hurting her. That’s the only thing that makes sense.
With Dahlia squared away, I drove us to the house. Blue greeted us at the door, and he took to the girl right away. She seemed to like him, too, so that’s a good thing, I figure.
When she slid the hood down, I was surprised to see that her hair was long and red. In the light of the kitchen, her bruises were more obvious, too. I didn’t want her to feel self-conscious about it, so I tried to keep things light. After a while, it became clear that she doesn’t talk. It was a hell of a realization.
Two thoughts hit me at once: one, that makes things more complicated communication-wise, and two, what the hell happens to a girl that takes away her ability to speak? I’ve seen combat veterans who have been through hell on earth, but they could all speak.
When I offered her the chance to take a hot shower while I heated up some leftover beef stew, she jumped at it. She went upstairs with me and waited with Blue outside the hallway bathroom while I went to my room to try to find something for her to put on. I grabbed some old sweats and my softest flannel shirt, along with a pair of grey wool socks.
I handed her the clothes, and it nearly broke my heart when she tried to smile and her lip split again. She set the clothes on the bathroom counter and slid off my old jacket.
Underneath, she was indeed clothed, but only in the most basic sense of the word. The dress she wore was a skimpy club dress made out of some shiny kind of material. It left little to the imagination, and I deliberately looked away.
But when she turned to go into the bathroom, I caught something on the back of her shoulder. It was a raised circular mark about the size of a silver dollar. A second or two ticked by before my brain caught up.
Somebody has branded her.
Downstairs, I stirred the pot of stew and did some deep breathing exercises trying to tamp down the rage I felt. Somebody motherfuckin’ branded that girl!
When she came back downstairs, she seemed pleased to be clean and warm. I was shocked to see that she’d cut her hair. When I left her, it had hung all the way down her back. Now, it just brushed her shoulders, and despite her battered face, she was a pretty girl.
Now that’s the kind of thought that can just go back where it came from.
Favoring her busted lip, she carefully devoured her bowl of stew like she hadn’t eaten in weeks.
When she’d finished, I took her up to my sister’s old bedroom. It’s nothing special. In a lot of ways, it’s kind of a time capsule to back when Beth was in high school, but she seemed to like it. I said goodnight and went to close the door, but she wasn’t having it. Without words, she made it clear to me that she wanted the door left open.
I called Blue to come, but he’d already curled up on the rug beside the bed, so I figure that’s a good thing. I think he senses her brokenness and has appointed himself to be her canine guardian.
Now, downstairs in my office, I swirl the bourbon in my glass and wonder what comes next. When I mentioned calling the police, the stark terror in her good eye returned. So I guess that’s out. For now. Maybe as I gain her trust…
I wonder where she came from and who hurt her. I have a million questions. But I guess the most immediately pressing was her name.
Standing there in the kitchen, dressed in an old pair of my sweats and a faded plaid flannel shirt that swallows her whole, she finally trusted me enough to trace the letters with her finger on the kitchen counter.
J-e-n-n-y.
It’s progress, right? I suppose it is. But now what?
JENNY’S VOICE by Pandora Spocks
Pandora Spocks 