With her celebrity status, Lana knew there would be a certain expectation for fans and the zealous paparazzi who followed her everywhere she went. They wanted to know what foods she ate, what drinks she preferred, and even how she slept. A blanket she’d used in a motel had been sold for five thousand dollars, and Lana had publicly donated the same amount to her chosen charity to make light of the tabloid article. After modeling for four years, she knew the ropes. But, as she held another deadly letter between her fingertips, she wished the world didn’t expect so much from public figures.

You belong to me.

Every minute you don’t believe that makes me want to die. We fell in love in Paris, remember? You looked at me and smiled so sweetly, and I knew you felt the same. I know the public can’t know who we are, but did you have to touch him? Did you have to kiss him?

We’re going to die together, you and I. After we finally make love and you whisper that you love me. We are going to end it, so we’ll always be together. It’s almost time.

Lana read the words again, her stomach rolling. She hadn’t dated, ever. It was one of the best-kept secrets in the industry. The men she was seen on the town with were friends, and the kisses they shared were platonic visions of her persona. Her life was too chaotic to stop for love, and she didn’t want to risk a pregnancy to end her career. Later, when she’d gone long enough and her modeling shelf-life closed in, she’d think about a marriage and a family. The concept of having a life outside of modeling was something she’d kept to herself when she’d chosen to model in order to escape the low-rent life she’d lived in Harlesden, London. A life of love, marriage, and a family couldn’t be a factor.

To the public, she stood for women’s freedom and expressions of love, the right to be larger than the status quo and not apologize for it, and to live life the way they wanted to. The fact she’d chosen to be celibate until she found the right one was her business. She sold sex appeal behind the camera or on a runway, and her agency had made it abundantly clear that a clean lifestyle wouldn’t appeal to the everyday woman. Despite her silent disagreement, Lana had complied and went with the flow. No one knew what she’d done to hide her true choices, except for the select men she’d chosen to help in her charade. Reading another death threat made her regret it. She tossed the letter to the floor and jumped to her feet.

“My name is Lana Augon, and I survived poverty, hate, and discrimination. I showed the word world that an ethnic size eighteen could be a runway model and loving yourself is key. I’m going to beat this, too,” she told herself.

Sure, it scared her witless to be dealing with this, but she didn’t want to run and hide. It was why she’d come up with the idea to visit to the country her stalker had followed her from and try her best to weed him out. She needed to face this head on or she’d never live a normal life again. Stalker laws had changed in 2012 in the United Kingdom, by the Protections of Freedom Act, and cover unwanted attention. Her stalker had gone into the land of harassment by threatening her with bodily harm recently, but he—or she—couldn’t be found. To combat the laws in the Unites States—because she couldn’t get a restraining order on a person she couldn’t identify and no conviction could be made without a trial—she’d hired a bodyguard to protect her while she was here.

Lana glared at the most recent letter on the floor. Coming to Montana, no matter what others around her thought, was the best option. At least here she had a fighting chance. Finding Brotherhood Protectors after talking with Sadie McClain had been the best news for Lana in a long time. Sadie, a Hollywood starlet and America’s sweetheart, had helped Lana get into a film in her fledgling modeling year. That film had paved the way to her successful modeling career, and Lana had been forever grateful. She could have kissed the woman when she’d called Sadie to catch up—after being out of touch for eight months—and told her about her stalker and Sadie had offered the services of Brotherhood Protectors. Being guarded by a former member of Special Forces sounded like the perfect solution to her problem, and Lana had jumped at the chance.

Sighing as she left her room, she closed the door behind her. Trying to desensitize herself to the threats by reading them every day wasn’t working out the way she’d hoped. In fact, it had the opposite effect, and she figured she should probably stop reading them altogether. She padded down her stairs barefoot, once more in awe of the rustic design of her temporary home. She’d purchased a large ranch, opting for a traditional two-floor ranch home built of wood and stone. It had taken her breath away when she first saw it. Lana was used to the glitz and glamour of high-fashion modeling, so the rough gem of her new property stood against the backdrop of mountains, and belonged. Inside she admired the exposed beams and high vaulted ceilings with a roaring fireplace going to chase away the chill. But commotion outside took her away from admiring, and her heart kicked into overdrive.

Was it her stalker?

Lana glanced around the room, but Bear, the big, burly guard who’d been staying with her while Hank waited for her personal bodyguard to arrive, was nowhere in sight.

“You touch that horse like that again, you won’t like my response.”

She froze on the landing at the bottom of the stairs. That wasn’t a voice she recognized.  Whiskey-smooth and deep, the voice filled the room, but she heard the threat contained within it.

“Hawk,” Hank said, his tone filled with warning. Relief flooded her, and she raced to the door.

Standing on her wraparound porch were four large men. She knew three of them, but one, with a sheet of dark hair falling down his back, was new. Hank, Swede, Bear, and the newcomer faced Lana’s foreman, who was red in the face.

“Tell them what you did,” the newcomer demanded. He stepped off the porch, the horse behind her foreman shuffling on trembling legs.

“Mawáȟwala,” he whispered. The horse’s eyes were open wide, exposing the whites, but he lowered his head at the sound of Hawk’s voice.

Hawk, that’s what Hank had called him. She didn’t know what language he spoke, but the sing-songy notes filtered through the air. He lifted a large, tan hand toward the horse and spoke in a calm, even tone until he could grip the bridle and ease the horse away from the foreman. When he finally turned around, all Lana could do was stare.

His long, black hair hung straight as a pin around his angular face. Deep-brown eyes glared at the foreman with an intensity she couldn’t fathom. He had to be over six feet tall, his build leaner but no less strong than the men on the porch, and his Native American heritage was evident.

He’s beautiful.

“I’m not going to ask again,” he told the foreman.

“I don’t know who you are, but you don’t come onto anyone’s ranch and tell me how to train horses. He’s wild, and he needed breaking.”

“Then his spirit is stronger than yours.”

“You assh—”

“Enough!” Hank roared. “Someone tell me what the hell is going on, right now.”

“I’d like to know, too, since it’s my horse,” Lana added.

“Ma’am, it’s just training for a headstrong horse.”

“Jake, that’s your name?” Hank asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“That horse is scared out of its mind, and if I yelled too loud it’d bolt. What training were you doing?” Hank inquired.

“I tethered him,” Jake answered.

“Come again?” Hank asked, but his voice had changed.

“What does that mean?” Lana asked, not wanting to be out of the loop.

“It means he tied him in a small enclosure, like his stall, and hooked his halter to a chain up in the rafters. Tethering like that lifts the horse’s head up to an awkward angle, and they are lifted almost on their toes, best way to describe it. He shuffles, even tries to rear to ease the pain, but he can’t. He’s left that way, all night, away from his food and water. By morning, he’s too sore and exhausted to fight back when he’s being trained. You’re not training the horse, you ignorant fool, you’re abusing him,” Hawk explained, never looking away from Jake.

“Jake?” Lana said.

“I promise it sounds worse than it is. He doesn’t know how to deal with horses,” Jake argued.

“Get stuffed. You’re fired,” she finished.

“You can’t do this. I’ve been training these horses for years, and they compete. It keeps money coming into the ranch.”

“And you, I’d assume. There’s evidence of soring, too,” Hawk added.

Lana felt like a knob, not understanding what they were talking about at all.

Hawk glanced at her and smiled softly. “It’s okay. Everyone doesn’t know about competition or ranch horses. Jake here has been training the horses on this ranch for show. Soring is when they put diesel or some other substance on a horse to cause pain as it seeps into the skin. When a horse’s legs hurt, they tend to paw. There’s a high step called ‘The Big Lick’. A higher step like that can win competitions. It’s big money.”

“I think I just found my new foreman, haven’t I?” she asked.

“I’d assume so. As for you, Jake, we’ll be heading down to the sheriff’s office,” Hank stated.

“I’ll come with. Bear, get Hawk up to speed while we’re gone,” Swede ordered.

“Will do. Let me put the horse up for you, Hawk. He knows me. Introduce yourself to the client,” Bear said.

Hawk nodded, and just like that, Lana stood alone on her porch with the man. He probably thought she was an idiot for standing on a ranch in Montana, with a former foreman who’d been abusing her newly acquired horses right under her nose. The unfamiliar burn of embarrassment sizzled in her belly.

“Hey,” Hawk called. She glanced up at him as his heavy booths thudded on the porch. He stood close to her, his dark eyes warming to a chocolate brown, and that same lopsided grin. Jesus, a smile like that should be illegal. Or photographed.

“You came here to save your life, not run a ranch. It wasn’t expected for you to know how to handle one.”

“Maybe not, but I’m still ashamed to have someone like that in my employ. We should have strung him up like that horse,” she said.

Hawk’s chuckle made her toes curl. What was wrong with her? He was her bodyguard, and she was his boss. She shouldn’t have thoughts about how sexy he was, or what it would feel like to have his hair slide over her.

Definitely not.

“We may as well go inside so I can show you the letters,” she told him, turning to lead him inside.