The Truth About Cowboys
by Lisa Renee Jones
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Renee Jones. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
CHAPTER ONE
Jessica...
Rain pounds on my window, the wipers on my windshield working fervently to clear the glass and my view. The huge droplets of water from the fierce Texas-style summer thunderstorm seem to mock me with every smack against my windshield, and I’m pretty sure it’s because I just ate an entire jumbo-sized bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups after saying I was on a diet. Of course, there is much to mock right now, such as the debacle that is my life a few hundred miles back in Dallas.
Most people would think it’s crazy to leave everything (newly defined as “nothing”) behind to live in a cottage that I’ve never seen outside of a few Zillow photos. And yes, it’s a decision I admittedly made rather spontaneously, and from a hotel room, but desperate times demand desperate decisions. I need to breathe air that my ex isn’t breathing and, even more so, sleep in a bed that his secretary hasn’t been rolling around in with him.
My fingers clutch the steering wheel, and I force myself to remember the events that got me here on this dark, rainy highway, and then I focus on the bright side. It’s true that my ex hijacked my bank account. It’s true that I told the largest corporate client of my firm, my client, that he’s a loser and a cheater and did so while in divorce court. Of course, in my defense, that was a mere hour after finding out I was almost engaged to a man who is nicknamed “Oh God” by his secretary. Despite said good reason, that outburst ensured I’m no longer about to be the twenty-eight-year-old youngest partner in my firm but rather on a forced leave of absence. I do however have an offer to write A Girl’s Guide to Divorce, and it comes with a healthy advance. Thank God I got the publisher making the offer a heck of a divorce settlement last year.
And so here I am, on my way to a cottage retreat to write my book, so darn eager to get started that I’m driving in a storm in the middle of the night. The rain keeps falling, but at least my wipers keep wiping. The rain is never ending, though, as I reach for my bag of peanut butter cups to find it empty. Terrific. I need more candy. Thankfully, my GPS chooses that cheerful moment to alert me to my upcoming exit, and I slow to a crawl while my gaze cuts through the haze of the downpour, seeking my destination in earnest. I’m nervous in this weather, and I manage to hydroplane by the time I spy the turn, which, with a slow maneuver, I discover is—oh God—a really dark, spooky country road. Apparently, I’m auditioning for the role of the stupid girl in a horror flick who gets killed before everyone else, the one no one remembers. Lord, help me. Just let me get to my little cottage safe and well.
As if assuring me that’s not going to happen, the rain continues splattering and pounding my windows. It’s like someone is throwing buckets on top of my car. I’m already out of my element, I decide, as I hit a pothole and then bump my way down a muddy path while the sexy voice of my GPS says, “Travel approximately one mile, then turn right.” I don’t know why the GPS voice has to be so very blonde and beautiful-sounding, but she reminds me of the “other” blonde. I don’t approve. She also has me driving a very long, winding road.
I check my locks, thinking of a horror movie again, certain that this is where the girl’s car breaks down and a crazy monster stabs her to death. It’s right in that moment, with that thought, that I hit another pothole and yelp. My hands momentarily lift from the steering wheel and I quickly grab it, slam on the brakes, and halt, which probably isn’t smart on this dark road. I panic. I hit the accelerator and my tires spin. I accelerate again, which goes as well as the first attempt. It doesn’t go at all.
I hold down the brake, grab my phone to call for help, but I have no idea who to call. I shift the car into park and try to look up AAA, only my phone says I have no service. Okay, think. Think. 911. This is an emergency of sorts. I might be close to being stabbed to death. I dial 911 and eye my phone, which still has no bars. It’s right then that truck lights flicker in my direction and travel toward me at a rapid pace. The truck cuts to the side of the road right in front of me. It’s official. I’m about to die and I can do nothing but sit here and wait for the end. And watch it coming, watch him coming.
A big man exits the truck and starts walking in my direction, a raincoat lifting behind him with a gust of wind, boots splattering in puddles of water and mud. In the romance novel I just read, this man would be a hot hero who would never in a million years stab me to death. He’d kiss me crazy. He’d make me crazy, in all the right ways. I’d like to linger on that fantasy, but unfortunately, I did just watch the Ted Bundy documentary on Netflix, which makes me consider another option. Instead of kissing me crazy, this man could be crazy. He could charm me, kiss me, and then kill me. I jolt as the would-be killer, who could be a hero, knocks on my window.
He’s right here, right by my side. I have to make a decision. My options are either ignore him or beg for help, but my heart beats to a song that has only two lyrics—run. Run fast. Only there’s nowhere to run. He knocks again, escalating my need for a decision, which comes quickly, considering the weather. I can’t leave him in the rain. I roll down the window, but not far enough for him to yank me through it.
“Hi,” I say, taking in his black cowboy hat pushed back from his thirty-something handsome face. Check. He has the looks to be a killer or a hero. He’s actually vaguely familiar, which is silly. We’re on a country road, hours from Dallas. I don’t know him unless—did I handle his divorce?
“You need help?” he asks, his voice this raspy, low, masculine tone that could seduce me right to death.
“Hi,” I say in a brilliantly formed sentence, because you know, despite years of law school, apparently the storm killed my brain cells. “I—ah. I don’t know you.”
He arches a dark brow, his lips—quite full, firm lips with droplets of rain clinging to them—flatten. “Your point?”
“We’re on a dark road and—”
“All right, then,” he says and just walks away. Cranky. So very cranky, and this doesn’t seem to fit my romance hero or Bundy killer theories.
I roll down the window, and thankfully, the rain has eased. “No!” I call out. “Wait. I need help.”
He doesn’t stop walking. Crap. I get out of the car. “Wait.”
Thankfully, he does. Or really, he just chooses to halt in front of my car where he inspects my tire. I rush to meet him, but only a few steps from reaching his side, one of my high-heeled boots lands wrong. I wobble, my ankle turning left, and panic rises inside me as I desperately try to stop what happens next. I fail. My heel has sunk deep in the mud and I start to fall. I try to balance, but it’s just not happening. I don’t even know how it happens, but I go down, my attempt to catch myself with my hands making things worse. The next few seconds are a blur that land me in a puddle of mud, the lights of the cowboy’s truck smacking me in the eyes as thick, wet goop slips and slides all around me, all over me.
And good lord, I’ve known Texas mud, of course I have; in a parking lot, when my family dog got out in the rain, or at a ballgame, but those things are expected. This—this is not. Not here. Not on the side of a road I shouldn’t be on. Stupid heels I wore for a meeting with my stupid ex right before leaving town.
The cowboy steps to the edge of the puddle, his big body blocking the sharp ray of headlights, shadows masking his entire face, and he stares down at me. He could be laughing. God. I bet he’s laughing. How can he not be laughing?
I lift a dripping, muddy hand. “I guess you now know that I’m having a really bad night?”
He doesn’t reply. Clearly he’s not a man of many words. Instead, he simply rounds the puddle and squats to offer me his hand. I consider how dangerous touching him might be. Maybe this is when he grabs me and stabs me. Maybe this is where I dream of a romance hero and he dreams of a blonde that says “oh God” as low and raspy as my GPS says “turn right,” but I forget that thought as I start to sink. Do we have quicksand in Texas? Oh crap. I’m sinking and I have only one option. I grab the cowboy and hold on for dear life.
“I’m sinking!” I cry out, a plea to be saved. “Help. I’m sinking! Oh God. I’m—”
He stands and takes me with him, and yep, of course, I manage to trip again and land smack against him, which might seem romantic except I now have mud all over me, meaning he and all of his many muscles now do as well.
“Sorry,” I say, gripping his raincoat. “Sorry. I’m unsteady and—”
His big, strong hands come down on my waist, and he lifts me out of the puddle and sets me firmly on the ground. He doesn’t immediately release me; he just stands there, towering over me, a good six feet four inches to my five feet four, a dark ringlet of hair on his brow. His eyes are hooded in that cowboy way—I don’t know how else to describe it—for a moment that seems to stretch forever before he abruptly drops his hands. “Don’t move.”
It’s an order, which I’d take exception to if I wasn’t A) trying to recover from his hands being on and now off my body, and B) afraid to move and end up in that puddle again. In other words, I do as I’m told. I don’t move. Now, I’m the one just standing here, attempting to master that skill as he has, and watch as he walks to my car to do something inside. Considering he grabs the roof and door then rocks the car forward and out of the hole, I assume he placed the gear in neutral.
Relief washes over me. My car is free. I’m free. The cowboy, my cowboy now, I decide, parks my car again, and then saunters back toward me, somehow missing every puddle and hole in his path, of which there are many, without ever looking down. He stops in front of me. Close. Really close. This is where my mind goes crazy. I need romance. I need a kiss. I need an escape that makes me forget what I left in Dallas. Maybe a man isn’t the right escape, but this man, this cowboy, is rugged country hotness, while my ex was such an arrogant pretty boy.
“What’s a city girl doing on a country road in the middle of the night?” he asks, but his tone isn’t seduction like it would be if it matched the fantasy in my mind right now. No. Not all. It’s more of an accusation.
Brows furrowing, my defenses prickle. “It’s nine o’clock, which is hardly a time that qualifies as ‘the middle of the night,’ and how do you know I’m a city girl?”
“The BMW.” He eyes my boots. “The heels. No one from around these parts wears high-heeled boots. They know they’ll land them in a puddle of mud or worse.”
“Worse?”
“Worse,” he confirms, but he offers no further details. If only my clients would do the same in a courtroom or mediation room, but they never do.
I don’t want to know what he means anyway, and I’m certainly not going to defend my heels that my ex didn’t deserve in the first place. Proven by the fact that he didn’t show up to actually notice the boots. He stood me up, because why wouldn’t he cut me one last time? “Are you always judgmental of people who are wet and clearly alone and—” I can feel the blood run from my face. “Can we forget I just said those words?”
He gives me a three-second deadpan stare before he says, “I think that’s a good idea.” And while his tone might be dry, even removed, I know that tone means he’s laughing inside. I know. I feel it.
“You’re laughing at me now?” I accuse.
“I didn’t laugh.”
“You laughed.”
“I don’t laugh.”
“You don’t laugh? As in ever?”
“It’s not my thing.”
“Everyone laughs,” I argue. “I know some real assholes and even they—”
“And to answer your question,” he says, cutting me off, “yes. I do judge everyone wet and alone in high-heeled boots on this particular road, at this time of night, which has happened all of one time. Now. So that means you. Where are you going anyways?”
I bristle all over again. “Why should I tell you where I’m going? What if you’re a serial killer?”
“Because even if I were a serial killer, I’m the only person you have right now. And if I know where you’re going, I can make sure you get there safely. And despite the boots and the mud puddle, I think you’re smart enough to know why you need me.”
I don’t know how he thinks he knows anything about me, but I’m done arguing. Safe sounds good. “Sweetwater,” I say. “I’m staying there for a few months.”
“Are you now?”
I frown at the odd reply that says a million words and yet says nothing. “Yes,” I confirm, giving him as little as he’s giving me.
“Who are you staying with?”
“Why do you assume I’m staying with anyone?”
“It’s a small town.”
“I rented a place.”
“For what?”
“To live,” I say. “Why else?”
“Huh. Okay. It’s a mile up the road. I’ll follow you to the edge of town.”
I frown. “What does ‘huh’ mean?”
“It means I’ll follow you.” He eyes my boots. “Need help to your car?”
“You’re an asshole, cowboy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and I swear the corners of his lips just barely hint at a smile. His voice, however, is as dry and irritated as ever. “Need help or not?”
“No, I do not need help walking to my car”—I point—“that’s right there.”
“Suit yourself.”
I’m no longer fantasizing about a kiss but rather a stomp on his toe or a kick to his shin, which would most likely be more about my ex than him, and a bad idea. I charge toward my car and do so without falling, thank God. I open the door and turn to him. “Thank you very much for your help, because despite you being a judgmental asshole, cowboy, you saved me and didn’t kill me, and that makes you all right in my book.” I don’t wait for a reply. I climb into my car, and good grief, I splatter mud everywhere. The cream-colored leather seat is now a mess, as is my floorboard.
The cowboy, whose name I never got, is already in his truck. I pull out onto the road, and he follows behind me. With the rain in check, the drive is fast and easy. I reach the town’s welcome sign almost immediately, and just as immediately, the truck lights behind me cut around me and fade away. Gone. I sigh, a little disappointed for no good reason. I turn onto the country road that my GPS orders me to and drive down another winding road that is rough and bumpy but thankfully without holes.
Finally, I’m parked in front of a cottage in the middle of nowhere with no cowboy to save me this time, but that’s okay. I’m saving myself. I’m climbing out of my own mud puddles, and I can do it without a cowboy with an attitude.
In fact, if I never see him again, it will be just fine with me.
Why did I even want that man to kiss me? I don’t know him. Then again, I didn’t even know the man who was in my bed for three years.
I may not kiss another man ever again. Nope. Never kissing a man again.
Decision made, I open my door and step into the darkness, rain beginning to fall once more, and I pretend that it’s the only reason my cheeks are wet. I’m not crying. I don’t cry, but if I did, at least no one would know. Not here, not alone in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.
CHAPTER TWO
Jessica…
What could go wrong?
Those had been my words when I booked the Zillow rental. After all, I was chatting with the sweetest old lady ever, and she was renting me the home her husband had built for her fifty years before—remodeled, of course, she assured me. Famous last words, I think now, considering all that has gone wrong. I mean, I’m homeless for God’s sake, if not for a cottage in the middle of nowhere, otherwise known as Sweetwater, Texas. Otherwise known as the place where I’m presently standing in ankle-deep mud. No more crying into chocolate martinis with the internet and Zillow nearby for me. Apparently, that’s dangerous.
Yes.
What.
Could.
Go.
Wrong?
I walk to my trunk, pop it open with the clicker, and grab one of my suitcases, a puddle forming inside the interior before I can shut it again. I love a Texas rainstorm, but this is nuts. Then again, so was coming here without ever seeing the cottage first. Committed—because what else am I going to be right now?—I start trudging toward the said unseen cottage that is my temporary home. The one I can barely make out. I can’t even see the porch through the downpour. What I do manage to spy is my tire that I’m pretty sure is once again stuck in a hole in the dirt road that is my new driveway. So are the wheels of my suitcase.
My God, what is happening to me? Did I sin in another life? Probably. Apparently.
But sinner that I am, I can’t leave it here, in the drive, in the rain. It’s a hard-shelled case, but much more of this, and it will be a mess. I’m a mess.
Awkwardly, I lift my suitcase into the air and stomp my way toward the porch, panting as I hike up to the first step. Trying not to think about the panting of that woman while she rode my fiancé. Those sounds she made, those moans. His groans. Oh God. Why did I go there again?
Why?
I continue tugging the case upward, but I stop before I reach the dark porch. The really dark porch. A good reason to hurry inside, which is why I waste no time climbing the remaining stairs. Once I’m there, I look under the mat, where Martha, my new landlord, directed me to look, and bingo. I have an open door. I reach for the light, find the switch, but the bulb burns out immediately, the crackling sound jolts me, my fist balling at my chest. Good grief, I’m on edge. It’s a blown bulb. I’ll take the dark cottage over the dark porch any day. Hurrying inside, I drag my bag behind me and shut the door, immediately suffocating in darkness. I open the door again. That does nothing. I reach for the wall, find the second switch I remember feeling before, and thankfully, the porch light floods the exterior of the cottage and overflows into the foyer.
I scan what I can see of the living room, find a lamp, and flip it on, giving me a brief glimpse of a floral couch in rose colors with two matching chairs on my way back to the door. I seal it shut, eye the small space that is rustic and, well, rustic. That’s all I can say about it. I’m not going to think about just how rustic yet, not with water pooling at my feet. I’m soaked and I pull off my boots, dash toward the one doorway I spy to my right, and into what I hope is a bedroom. I flip on the light to scan the giant sleigh bed with not much more in the room. A wooden nightstand. A dresser. No TV, but I have a book to write anyway.
I dart toward the door in the far right corner and enter the bathroom, where I find a giant old-fashioned, barrel-style tub. I open one of the white cabinet doors and also find a towel, but I’m just too wet for it to help. Like that woman was for Craig. Oh God. There I go again. No. No. No. I will not think those thoughts. No more. I’m done. With him. With her. I strip down naked, wrap the towel around me, and hunt for my suitcase, which I hope like heck has the other bag of chocolate I packed.
Naked might get a girl in trouble, but I’m alone and it’s not like anyone is going to see me naked anytime soon. I can go right ahead and happily pack a few pounds of chocolate weight on a petite frame that can’t handle a few extra anything. There will be no more men for me. Therefore, there will be no trouble to be found. It’s a great plan and on this one, really truly, I dare to say, what could go wrong? I exit the bathroom into the bedroom and scream at the sight of a man standing there.
CHAPTER THREE
Jessica…
The cowboy who saved me on the side of the road is not only here, minus his trench coat and wearing a snug black T-shirt, he’s bigger and broader than I remember. The bedroom shrinks. My heart races.
“I was right,” I accuse, clutching at my towel, the only thing between me and him besides footsteps. “You are a serial killer.” I search for a weapon and I don’t know why there’s a giant flashlight on the nightstand, but it’s long and strong, and I grab it, my new prize. I also manage to drop my towel. Oh my God, I’ve dropped my towel. Goose bumps lift on my naked body and, Lord help me, my nipples pucker.
I try to grab my towel and almost drop the flashlight, which is a better weapon than terry cloth. I commit to the flashlight and my state of undress. “I will hit you if you come near me,” I warn. “I mean, kill you.” That sounds unrealistic and therefore lacks the bite I intend. “I will hurt you.”
He arches a brow and, to my shock and his credit, he doesn’t so much as blink at anything below my neck. I don’t know if I should be appreciative or offended. Am I not distracting? Am I not worthy of a look? Obviously, my ex didn’t think so and—
The cowboy starts walking toward me.
“What are you doing? Stay back.” I hold up the flashlight, but I’m the one backing up, hitting the wall with a hard thud. He snatches up my towel and hands it to me, his hand brushing my nipple in the process. I suck in a breath, even as the flashlight is removed from my hand and tossed on the bed. “The game is over. Getting naked won’t stop me from calling the police.”
“I’ll knee you. I’ll scream. I’ll—”
“You’re standing in my property, sweetheart.”
“This is not—”
“And yet it is. You picked the wrong house to squat in and the wrong town. I saw where you turned off. I knew where you were headed. Wrong choice, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me sweetheart. And what the hell are you talking about? Squatter? What is a—” A bad feeling hits me. “You think I’m freeloading by sneaking in here and now I’m trying to buy a bed with my naked body? Really?”
“If the shoe fits, sweetheart.”
I scowl. “Stop calling me sweetheart. Since when do women seducing men try to hit them with a flashlight? Then again, we are talking about you here. I’m pretty sure you could make anyone want to hit you. Maybe that’s the only foreplay you know. A flashlight and a—”
“Stop,” he orders, his hands pressing to the wall on either side of me, his big body framing my naked body. The brim of his damn hat hits me in the face. I knock it off his head, a mass of wavy dark hair springing from beneath. “That hurt,” I growl, my anger winning over fear and embarrassment. “Back off. Let me off the wall.”
“Not a chance in hell,” he bites out. His voice is low, taut, anger in the words. “You know why? Because I don’t like getting scammed.”
“Scammed? You’re getting scammed? Are you freaking kidding me?” I shove his hard chest. “Get off. Get off of me. I rented this on Zillow and you’re a knee away from that hurting I promised you.”
He pushes off the wall. “Get dressed. Now.” He grabs his hat and places it back on top of all that wavy black hair.
I wrap my towel around me front to back, in an awkward move that at least covers my most intimate parts. “I need my suitcase. My clothes are inside.”
“Where are the clothes you took off?”
“Dripping wet. I’ll never get them back on. I need my suitcase and I’m not walking out to the living room in this towel. Not unless you leave first.”
His hands settle on his hips. “You want me to get your suitcase for you? Are you serious?”
“I didn’t say that, but if you’re not a serial killer, fetching my case and offering me privacy to dress would be quite gentlemanly. Isn’t that the cowboy way? To be a gentleman?”
His lips purse and he makes a grunting noise before he turns and strides out the door. I run to the bathroom and grab my phone. That’s when I realize I didn’t shut the door. I rush that way, slam it shut, and lock it. I fit the towel around me more fully, knotting it this time, and when I turn my attention back to my phone, I discover that I have no bars. How do I still have no bars? How do people live like this?
A heavy hand knocks on the door. “Hiding in the bathroom won’t make me leave,” the cowboy announces.
“I’m not hiding.” Okay, I’m hiding, but it’s because I’m wearing only a towel, and I’m not reminding him of that fact. “Leave my bag and I’ll happily get dressed.”
He’s silent for several beats before he grumbles, “You have five minutes exactly, starting now.” Footsteps sound and then the exterior door thumps shut, and with it, he’s passed the serial killer test. He’s not going to hurt me or kill me. Just kick me out. I got scammed by a little old lady, and it’s painfully obvious that my unlucky streak is not over. I need to get dressed before I end up homeless in a towel.
I roll my case into the bathroom, shut the door, and quickly pull on leggings, a T-shirt, and dry sneakers. Once I’m dressed, I use my towel to dry my hair, brush it out, and then check my phone again and confirm there is still no signal. Another knock sounds on the door. “Time’s up,” the cowboy bellows. “Open up.”
A moment of worry hits me. What if I’m letting down my guard and accepting defeat too easily? This man, whose name I don’t even know, could be a brilliant serial killer like Bundy. Reel me in. Make me trust him. Hurt me. Kill me.
I eye my useless phone, then the high, tiny window above the tub, just as a deafening crash of thunder rocks the wooden structure around me. I can’t leave. I’m not getting out of here. I look for a weapon and end up with a plunger in my hand. What am I going to do, suction his face off? I toss it aside and walk to the door. I don’t cower in the courtroom. I’m not cowering now. If he’s a killer, I’ll have to fight and the sooner, the better.
I open the door and charge forward, smacking into a hard chest, hard enough that I gasp and then catch myself on a solid wall of muscle. Thankfully, he’s not armed, unless you count his striking blue eyes. Eyes that stare down at me with steely cold precision. And his mouth, that mouth, sets in a hard line that earns way too much of my attention for my own good. It’s hard. He’s hard. So very hard while my own mouth is so very dry. Wait. He’s dry. “Did you change clothes?”
“Yes.”
I push away from him, take a step backward. “How? How did you—”
“I keep a change of clothes here. I own this place.”
It’s official. I’ve been scammed. Or I’m being scammed. “I don’t know what to say to you right now.”
“Now? Now, you confess your scam and I then have to decide what to do with you.”
I bristle, anger coming hard and fast. I can give him the benefit of the doubt, but this is what he gives me? I’m trapped in a tiny bathroom and I don’t care. I’ll push my way out if I have to. “I rented this place. I paid for three months.”
“And who exactly did you rent it from? I own this cottage. I didn’t rent it out.”
“I swear to you, I answered a Zillow posting. I paid to stay here.”
“Right. Why would a city girl answer a Zillow post for a cottage on a ranch?”
“It’s complicated,” I say. “And I didn’t know it was on a ranch. Why does that matter?”
“Because we’re ranchers here. Not rental agents.”
I believe him. Oh my God, I believe him. He owns this place. “I’m not a squatter.”
“You didn’t rent this place.” He steps closer, once again towering over me, his hands on his lean hips
I refuse to cower. That’s not who I am. I need to remember that and so does he. “Not from you,” I snap, “but I rented it. Maybe someone that works with you—”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No,” he bites out. “Stop already.”
My jaw sets hard, teeth clenching. “I can prove it.” I turn away from him, daring to offer him my back to walk several steps, where I dig into my suitcase. I locate my paperwork and stomp back to him, shoving the documents at his chest. “My proof, including a copy of the Zillow listing. Despite your accusations, I don’t think you got scammed. I think we got scammed.”
He takes the envelope from me and I step back, sitting on the edge of the tub. “I should have known when the old lady who rented it to me was so damn sweet. Too sweet. No one is that nice.”
He opens the flap and pulls out the papers, as I add, “Martha. Her name was Martha.” I laugh bitterly. “Even her name was too sweet and perfect. It was all just too perfect to be true, but then that’s so very appropriate for my life right now. Not that you care. You just want me out and—”
“Martha?” the cowboy demands.
“Yes. Martha.” I tilt my head. “You know who she is?”
His jaw clenches and he looks inside the envelope, grimaces, and then walks out of the room. Just walks out, leaving me staring after him.
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