The Truth About Cowboys Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFITY-FIVE

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments

  Exciting new releases from Entangled...

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

  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.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Liz Pelletier

  Cover design by Bree Archer and Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Cover images by Wander Aguiar

  Interior design by Heather Howland

  Print ISBN 978-1-64063-760-3

  ebook ISBN 978-1-64063-761-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition September 2019

  Also by Lisa Renee Jones

  The Inside Out series

  If I Were You

  Being Me

  Revealing Us

  No In Between

  I Belong to You

  All of Me

  The Careless Whispers Series

  Denial

  Demand

  Surrender

  The Secret Life of Amy Bensen series

  Escaping Reality

  Infinite Possibilities

  Forsaken

  Unbroken

  The Tall Dark & Deadly series

  Hot Secrets

  Dangerous Secrets

  Beneath the Secrets

  The Dirty Money series

  Hard Rules

  Damage Control

  Bad Deeds

  End Game

  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 tim
e. 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.