Beautiful Mine Read online

  Published by Velvet Pen Books

  Copyright © 2016 Jordyn White

  ISBN 978-1-945261-28-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. You must not circulate this book in any format. Thank you for respecting the work of the author.

  Cover Design: Sara Eirew

  Cover Photography: Lindee Robinson Photography

  Models: Shannon Lorraine and AC Parker

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Beautiful Mine (Beautiful Rivers, #1)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  BOOKS BY JORDYN WHITE

  Beautiful Mine

  by Jordyn White

  Chapter 1

  Whitney

  I’ve met a lot of people on the Camino del Santiago over the past thirteen days. Some I’ve loved, and some I’ve merely tolerated, but this is the first time I’ve wanted to punch anyone in the nose.

  I’m not the punching type, either, to be clear. I’m pretty even-keeled and have never so much as slapped a guy on the face, but oooooh these idiots behind me!

  I’ve been walking along a dirt path sheltered by towering trees I can’t identify, enjoying the gently swelling, green hills and eucalyptus forests in the distance, and this group behind me has been slowly catching up.

  At first, when I’d hear their occasional burst of laughter, I just figured they were a lively bunch. There’s nothing wrong with that. I’ve met all types on this trip, and the lively ones have actually been my favorites. They’re the ones that pull me out of my shell and remind me that I’m only twenty-five, and not the old lady I sometimes feel like.

  But if you’re going to do something like walk the Camino del Santiago, you should probably try not to be an asshole. Do they really need to compare the nether regions of all the girls they’ve “mounted”? And so damned loudly?

  The metal tinging of an empty can scuttles over the dirt road not far behind me. They’re kicking cans down the road. Cans. Here!

  I try to block it out. I’m not going to let them, or anybody else, spoil a once-in-a-lifetime experience like walking the Camino del Santiago.

  The Camino is that famous five-hundred-mile walk that cuts across Spain and ends at a cathedral in Santiago de Compostela. It was a popular religious pilgrimage during the Middle Ages, fell into a bit of a lull, then enjoyed a resurgence back in the 1980s. There’s even that movie with Martin Sheen, The Way, where he walks the Camino and takes the ashes of his dead son along with him.

  I never thought I’d do anything like this. I mean, here I am, walking hundreds of miles across Spain on foot. Who does that for real?

  But I guess everyone here had something that pushed them to do something like this. For many, it still is a deeply spiritual experience. For others, it’s a test of athletic endurance.

  For me, it was how I felt when I happened across a blog about the Camino on one of my dark days. I sat hunched over my tablet, silencing my emotions with an entire can of cheese-flavored Pringles, wishing I could tumble into the screen and escape into the peaceful paradise in the picture.

  I’d heard of the Camino before, and had always been vaguely and noncommittally intrigued. But that time?

  I sat on my sofa with cheesy dust on my fingertips and thought, “I need this.”

  So here I am, my frazzled, overloaded self somehow reborn into this one. This me walks with a slow and steady pace that feels in tune with both my body’s natural rhythm and the broad, green fields unfolding peacefully beside me.

  Well, what would be peacefully were it not for the unpleasant rumbles of the guys behind me.

  But I am determined not to let that ruin things. They’ll move on and I’ll be able to go back to my almost Zen-like state.

  My Camino gait is calm and centered, in spite of the ever-present, dull ache in my feet and legs, or the damp heat in my shirt where my massive pack presses against my back.

  I am a version of myself I hardly recognize.

  I’ve traversed narrow, crumbling roads in old Medieval villages, navigated noisy, bustling Spanish cities all by myself, and drank from public faucets that dispense sweet red wine instead of water.

  I’ve allowed myself the luxury of watching a tiny, old woman who looked straight out of the last century as she drove her band of cattle up the Camino pathway. Back in San Francisco, I did not know the cure to my ailments was the scent of sixty-plus dusty, brown cows, their gentle moos resonating through the dewy, early morning air.

  As foreign as that experience was, it was just as unfamiliar as being in no particular hurry at all, even though I still had hundreds of miles to go.

  I ate my first Camino meal while talking with a middle-aged couple from Germany who are walking the Camino for the third time; Maggie from Ireland (who I keep running into); and Roy from Tennessee (who keeps running into me).

  I’ve mastered the ninja art of blister care. (I’ve only had three minor blisters this whole trip, so yeah, ninja.)

  I’ve walked past a field of bobbing sunflowers with not another soul in sight. Sometimes the Camino is crowded, and other times it’s like you’re the only pilgrim on it.

  Oh, and I get to call myself a pilgrim.

  Ninja pilgrim. That’s me.

  It’s been incredible.

  But the asshole guys behind me are seriously killing my Camino mojo. A partially crumpled Pepsi can goes skittering by, bouncing on the dirt path until it comes skidding to a stop.

  I glance back. The group of four is exclusively male, all around my age, and (I think) all American. This is such a rare sight among the potpourri of international travelers on the Camino, I can only assume they’re on this journey together.

  After spending the last couple of miles slowly catching up to me, I’m now lucky enough to be able to make out every word of their juvenile conversation over the sound of their heavy boots scuffling along in the dirt behind me.

  I feel badly for any female who’s ever dated a single one of them. In between bouts of obnoxious laughter, they’re comparing notes about how many girls they’ve laid, how many cherries they’ve popped, and who’s had the most girls at one time.

  Now they’ve moved on to tips about how to “convince an unwilling female.”

  One Prince Charming in the bunch says, “All you have to do is tell her she’s beautiful, even if she looks like a hag.”

  Someone else groans. “Who wants to do a hag?”

  “They’re all the same where it counts. Between the legs.”

  Cue more raucous laughter. My skin crawls. There’s no ignoring
this anymore. They’re too close, too distasteful.

  If it weren’t for the pilgrims about a quarter mile behind us on the path, I’d be scared to be around a group of men like this by myself. As it is, I’m just pissed.

  “There’s always a way to get ’em,” the first guy continues. “‘No’ is only for chumps who don’t know how to turn it into a ‘yes’.”

  I’m tempted to spin around and give them a few choice words, but that doesn’t seem in the spirit of the Way. Instead I step to the side so I can kneel down to re-lace my hiking boot. It doesn’t need it. I just want them to pass me and get the hell out of my sight. I’m not going to listen to these disgusting boys anymore.

  Their conversation has me more rattled than I realized, though, because I somehow forget to mind the massive pack I’m balancing on my back.

  Or rather, not balancing.

  The whole overstuffed apparatus rocks first to one side, then to the other as I overcorrect to keep it from knocking me over.

  This damned thing hasn’t given me this much trouble since I abandoned a bunch of stuff at a hostel five days into the trip. All I have left are the bare essentials and this behemoth is still big enough to waylay me if I’m not careful.

  As the entire monstrosity heaves to the side, threatening to take me with it, I drop one knee to the ground and plant two hands in the dirt to try to stabilize myself.

  It works, thank god, but now my cheeks are burning with embarrassment and my palms are stinging from their abrupt introduction to the rough path. There’s an accompanying burst of harsh laughter, but that’s been the norm for the last mile, so I can sort of hope they’re not laughing at me.

  Desperate to salvage what’s left of my pride, I resume my original charade and reach for the laces on my boot. But I wasn’t as stable as I thought because I have to plant one hand in the dirt again.

  There’s a fresh burst of laughter from the boys who are now walking by. I leave my hand on the rocky ground, along with the remnants of my ego, and give a hearty scowl (a ninja scowl!) to the guys in front. They’re sniggering too heartily to notice.

  Just as I hear the crunching of a hiking boot on the ground, I see someone come next to me.

  “Need help?” a rich, deep voice asks.

  I turn just enough to see one of the guys reaching for my elbow. But I don’t need help from the likes of him!

  “No, thank you,” I say, jerking my arm away and sending my army green turtle shell swaying again.

  This time, I’m in no position to argue when his hand firmly goes to my bicep and easily brings me to my feet. I sense, more than see, that he must have one hand on my pack to help steady it.

  While I’m still orienting myself to my new, more stable position, I’m knocked unsteady in a different way.

  Much as I hate to admit it, this dude is hot. Like, crazy hot. Soft scruff covers his angled jawline and he’s got blue eyes that are so vivid they’re a little unreal.

  He’s not one of those beefcake guys, but has that masculine, athletic build that I find so sexy. He’s wearing a navy-colored shirt, and as the wind rushes through, it presses the soft fabric against his chest.

  As the fabric rustles in the breeze, it reveals the firm outlines of hard pecs and broad shoulders. The sleeves are short, leaving bare his tanned skin and taut biceps.

  I take him in and our eyes lock. A shiver runs down my back.

  It’s hard to imagine any malice behind those brilliant eyes. In truth, it’s a little confusing for a moment. His eyes make me want to trust him, even though I heard what they were saying and know better.

  Our feet shuffle slightly, the gravel grating under the hard soles of our boots. I catch a whiff of his scent, a mixture of sweat, dirt, and citrus, as though he’d just peeled and eaten a fresh orange.

  I’m aware, too damned aware, of his hand steadying my elbow.

  Against my will, my skin heats up under his touch. I don’t want to find this guy attractive, but I do. Which is the very thing this kind of male uses against unsuspecting females.

  Dangerous.

  That’s what sexy jerks like him are.

  Having determined that I’m now able to stand without toppling over, he releases me. “Are you all right?”

  I take a step back, needing some distance from the intensity of his presence. I lift my chin slightly and narrow my eyes. “Fine,” I answer curtly. Or try to answer curtly.

  Okay, yeah, his hotness took the wind out of my scowling sails, I admit, but I can’t help that I’m female. Any straight woman on the planet would soften at the sight of such male perfection. It’s written into our biological code.

  But I mentally give myself a shake. I haven’t forgotten the conversation I’d been overhearing against my will.

  In fact, from the sounds of it, the rest of the pack has picked up their crude conversation right where they left off. It doesn’t matter how sexy this one is. They just all need to go.

  His blue eyes light up with humor, though I don’t know what’s so damned funny, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

  He swoops down with one strong hand to pick up the wooden walking stick lying at his feet. I’ve never been one to pay much attention to a man’s hands, but even this detail catches my attention. They look strong. Safe.

  Not safe, I remind myself.

  I return to my scowling, which is admittedly not quite as ninja, but should be enough to get my point across.

  And do you know what he does?

  He grins at me!

  That cocky bastard.

  But he won’t disarm this woman with that grin. I cross my arms. “You can keep right on walking.”

  He glances toward the others and I do the same. I wonder if they’re going to leave without him, and if he’ll leave like I want him to.

  Never mind the weak part of me that wants him to stay. The rest of me is stronger, and that’s the part that gets to make the decisions.

  “Hey, no problem,” he says with an easy smile. Then he takes his sexy scruff and broad shoulders and strong hands and simply walks away.

  With the wind roaring in my ears, I stand there with my arms crossed and watch them all go. I let my eyes land on the guy in the navy shirt. Or rather, his impressively small backpack.

  Yeah, all right, I’m not looking at the pack. I’m taking full advantage of the fact that his pack stops just above the world’s most perfect ass. Wouldn’t you look, too?

  But he’s still a cocky bastard.

  Good thing I’ll never see him again.

  Hours later, I dump my pack onto a narrow bed tightly made with a faded blue blanket, and the springs squeak in protest. “Your turn,” I tell it, feeling no sympathy for its new burden. I plant my hands on my hips and stretch out the aches in my lower back and shoulders.

  Next to me, Maggie deposits her backpack on the floor with a heavy thud. One of the things I like about Maggie is her load is even bigger than mine. She drops onto her bed and lies back with a protracted groan of approval.

  We’re in the little village of Arca, my stop for the evening, and ran into each other while we were checking in downstairs. Just in time, too, as this place is about full up and we heard that there are more pilgrims than the town can handle. I’ve seen that happen once before. Some people took to setting up camp out in the open.

  “Looks like we got one’a tha last,” Maggie says in her adorable Irish accent. She’s around my age, with sharp green eyes and bright red curly hair she wears pulled into a ponytail. (Ponytails are pretty standard here, what with no hairdryers and all; I wear my long, dark hair up as well, pulled through the back of my baseball cap.)

  She’s doing the Camino alone, like me. Over the past several days, we’ve walked together a few times and become friends, but our pace is different so we keep saying goodbye, only to run into each other again later. We’ve figured out that even though she walks faster than I do, she takes more breaks and lingers for lunch longer.

  I scan the room, which
is on the smaller side. There are only thirty or so beds, which will accommodate both men and women since most Camino hostels are co-ed. But it isn’t so bad. I’ve been in rooms with over a hundred snoring pilgrims. This place doesn’t even resort to bunk beds.

  “It’s way better than those triple deckers,” I say, referring to the sleeping conditions of the hostel where we first met. The whole bed would shake and rattle every time anyone moved, and I had to perform some pretty interesting acrobatics to climb in and out of that top bunk.

  Maggie laughs, rubbing the top of her head. “I still ha’ the bruises.” She was on the center bed, right beneath me, and two different times I felt the thump when she accidentally sat up too much and hit the board above her.

  I drift over to the old, wood-framed window to look into the rear courtyard. Sure enough, there are six pilgrims with their packs, preparing to sleep under the stars.

  I tense up a bit when I notice who’s out there. “Maggie,” I hiss, gesturing wildly to come over. “It’s those obnoxious guys I was telling you about.”

  Well, three of the four, anyway. Navy Shirt is nowhere to be seen. Maybe he’s using the restroom. Or maybe he’s already seduced some Spanish beauty using that terminally charming, mocking smile. I don’t know. And if he has, I don’t want to know.

  Maggie heaves herself off the bed and comes up next to me. “Which?” She leans closer to the glass.

  She tsks as I point them out. Even her tsking has an accent.

  They’re all in a little group, looking sinister to me even though they’re just sitting around talking. There are two other men out there as well, both much older, and one lone woman. She’s in her early thirties, I’d guess, with brown hair in a short bob.

  “I’d hate to be that lass,” Maggie says in her slight Irish brogue. “Who’d want to be all alone with so many strange men?”

  “Yeah. After all that crap they were saying, I wouldn’t feel safe with those guys.” I turn away from the window and toward my bed. “I wonder if—” but the sight of something stops me.

  Navy Shirt is sitting on the edge of the bed on the other side of Maggie’s. His pack is on the ground next to him, his walking stick leaning against the bed’s metal footboard. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, strong hands laced loosely together, and he’s looking right at me with those stunning blue eyes.