The Truth About Cowboys Read online

  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 get
ting 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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jessica…

  What just happened?

  I don’t know that answer, but I need to know. I double-step, hurrying through the bedroom and into the living room to find him standing in the kitchen. Not just standing; he’s making coffee. “What are you doing?” I step to the stone island across from him, speaking to his back. His shoulders bunch up.

  He pours water in the pot and then turns to face me, both of us flattening our hands on the island. “It’s going to be a long night. I need coffee.”

  There’s something familiar about him again, but I shove that idea aside and focus on the topic at hand. Coffee. That he just made. “You knew where the coffee supply was because you own this place.”

  “Yes. I own this place. I’ve been saying that. I own the entire ranch that this cottage sits on. This is the Flying J Ranch. The main house is a few miles west.”

  “And you own it?”

  “Yes.”

  I crinkle my nose. “But you live here?”

  “No. I use this place, which I own, for an office. An office I have no intention of giving up.”

  In other words, I’m on the street. “Martha doesn’t own this cabin at all, does she?”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “But she leased it anyway,” I say.

  “Yes, she did.”

  His voice is familiar. His face is familiar. It’s bugging the heck out of me. Did I somehow manage to help someone divorce someone he knows and he hates me? Is that what this is? Oh God, did I handle his divorce? Surely I’d remember this man and all his brooding good looks if I did. “Why do I feel like I know you?”

  His expression tightens, a flicker in his eyes of something that I can�
��t quite name and never get the chance to. His lashes lower, and when they lift again, it’s gone, and he’s right back to batting balls with me. “I’m the guy who saved you on the side of the road, remember?”

  “Ah, right. How did I forget the asshole standing in front of me?” I don’t wait for his smart-ass reply. “I didn’t invade your space on purpose, but I did pay. I need a place to stay.”

  Some sort of walkie-talkie beeps on his waistband before a voice crackles through a speaker. “Boss. We have flood waters encroaching on embankment A.”

  “Boss” scowls, grabs the walkie-talkie from his belt, and replies, “I’m on my way,” before he reattaches it to his belt, focused on me. “You can stay the night. I’ll be back in the morning when the rain is over to make sure you’re gone.”

  He rounds the island and strides toward the door.

  “I can’t just leave!” I call out. “I paid rent.”

  He pulls on his coat, turns to look at me, and tips back his hat. “You can’t stay. I’ll be back in the morning with a full refund. You need to leave right after.”

  “Why are you so against me being here?”

  “My grandmother means well, but this was a mistake. You know it. I know it.”

  “I don’t know what that means. I know it? Why do I know?”

  His expression tightens. “This is my office,” he repeats, offering nothing more. “You can’t stay.”

  He opens the door and leaves. I scowl after him, and if I had something to throw at him, I’d throw it. Thunder roars overhead, shaking the walls, and as cranky as my cowboy might be, I wish he were back here right now, while he simply wishes I was gone. Why? What was that I saw in his eyes? It’s almost as if he’s afraid of me, like he thinks I’m here for a reason, like I’m not a squatter, but like I really am using his grandmother in some way. I discard that idea immediately. That’s silly. What in the world could he think I’m after?