by Jennie Marts
Also by Jennie Marts
Cowboys of Creedence
Caught Up in a Cowboy
You Had Me at Cowboy
It Started with a Cowboy
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2019 by Jennie Marts
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks
Cover image © Rob Lang Photography
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Excerpt from A Cowboy State of Mind
Chapter 1
Back Cover
This book is dedicated to my mom,
Lee Cumba.
Thanks for always believing in me
And for always being there.
I love you, Mom.
Chapter 1
The crisp mountain air bit her cheeks as Harper Evans stepped off the Greyhound bus and gazed around the town where her son had been living for the past two months. She inhaled a deep breath of air that was better than the stale, canned stuff she’d been sucking for the last nineteen hours. It felt good to stretch her legs, and she rubbed at her hip, trying to get the feeling back into it. She swore her butt had fallen asleep two hours ago. Too bad the rest of her hadn’t.
She’d spent the time staring out the window, alternately replaying the mistakes she’d made in the past and brainstorming ways she could fix them now and avoid making more in the future. Unfortunately, her brainstorming yielded few results. She couldn’t accept that she was destined to make the same mistakes again and again—trusting the wrong people, trying to count on anyone other than herself—but the same piles of poo kept appearing in her life, and she kept stepping right into the middle of them.
It wasn’t true that she couldn’t count on anyone. She could count on Floyd—but he was only eight years old, so he wasn’t that great in the support department. Although her son did have a way of dispensing fairly sage wisdom sometimes. She had been able to count on Michael and her grandmother. But now they were both gone. And so was Floyd.
But not for long. Because she was finally here. The small town of Creedence was barely a blip on one of the highways that crossed the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. They’d passed through Denver about an hour ago and had been steadily climbing ever since. Harper pulled the edges of her jean jacket together and sucked in another breath. The air felt different here—thinner and drier. She was definitely not in Kansas anymore.
Hitching her faded backpack further up her shoulder, Harper let out a sigh as she regarded the truck-stop diner the bus had dropped them in front of. A tall red-and-white-striped sign heralding the Creedence Country Café: Home of the best chicken-fried steak in the county nestled among a grouping of regal pine trees that rose against the backdrop of a snowcapped mountain range. The grand beauty would normally have struck her harder—she had always loved getting away to the mountains—but this wasn’t a getaway, at least not yet. Not until she had her son.
Then they’d get away as fast as they could.
The air brakes squealed and hissed as the bus pulled away. Harper coughed through the cloud of exhaust and followed the other passengers across the asphalt toward the lure of the diner. A light dusting of snow swirled around the soles of her scuffed and worn black military boots. Well, to be fair they weren’t really her boots. They’d been Michael’s, but they were hers now. They were a little big, but along with being tall, she had clodhopper feet, so with a couple pairs of socks and a little cotton stuffed in the end, the shoes worked fine.
And Michael didn’t need them—not anymore. She’d gotten rid of most of his clothes, saving some of her favorites, but she’d held on to the boots and just felt a little stronger when she wore them. As if he was still with her.
She swallowed, stuffing down the grief that burned her throat every time she let herself think about Michael and what they might have had, and fell in behind a mother and son, the towheaded boy clinging to his mother’s hand. Harper knew the feeling of a small child’s hand wrapped in hers—the tiny, sometimes sticky fingers twined through hers—so trusting, believing that their mom wouldn’t let them go.
Except sometimes moms have to let them go. Do let them go.
Stuff. Stuff. She couldn’t think about that either. No sense reliving the past. This was the time to focus on the future. She was here now. That’s what mattered.
She pushed through the door of the diner. The sparse Christmas decorations and limp tinsel clinging to the side of the register with a piece of curled tape conveyed about the same amount of enthusiasm and cheeriness she had for the upcoming holiday.
The air smelled of stale coffee, hot grease, and despair. Not the kind of despair that came from being locked in a small cell that stank of urine and body odor, but despair just the same. She’d known that feeling. Had spent the last two months floundering between misery and rage, switching between the dull, constant ache of missing her son and bright-hot fury at her mother—and herself—for putting her in that cell.
Like mother, like daughter. No matter how hard she’d tried to fight it, she’d ended up just like her mom—flat broke, busted, and staring glassy-eyed at the world through the cold steel bars of the county jail.
Except that her mom wasn’t in county lockup. She was in the federal penitentiary, which was where they sent the real
criminals. Harper shook her head, trying to dispel the images of the last time she’d seen Brandy. She couldn’t blame everything on her mom. She’d been the idiot who’d let herself get roped in by another one of her mom’s schemes. By the time she figured it out, it was too late. And she and Brandy had both gone down.
Thankfully, Harper had only been charged with a misdemeanor, but the county attorney she’d been assigned couldn’t get her out of jail time. She’d missed Thanksgiving with her son, but Christmas was a few weeks away, and regardless of how festive she failed to feel, she was determined to have them both home for the holidays.
Because unlike Brandy, she was a good mother and was doing everything she could to get her kid back. And she was out now. Free.
And starving.
She dropped her backpack on the floor and slid into a seat at the counter as she mentally calculated the last of her money. She’d found a college student to rent the basement of her house for the winter break and had barely a hundred dollars remaining after she’d used that money to pay the December mortgage and the utility bill. Of that hundred, she had about eight dollars left after she’d purchased an apple, a jar of peanut butter, a cheap loaf of bread, and the bus ticket to Creedence. To her son.
Harper hadn’t seen Floyd in two months—two months and fourteen days, to be exact—not since the night she’d been arrested, and her chest ached with the pain of missing him. She missed putting him to bed and smelling the sweet scent of his freshly washed hair. Missed smoothing down his cowlick, his goofy grin, and the sparkle in his hazel-brown eyes. His dad’s eyes. He looked so much like Michael, a mini-me of the only man she’d ever loved.
Her unruly, curly dark hair and colossal stubborn streak seemed to be the only traits Floyd had inherited from her. That boy could dig in his heels like nobody else. Well, nobody except her.
She knew Floyd’s similarities to Michael contributed to the reason Michael’s mother, Judith, had taken him. And the reason Harper was here. To get him back.
Harper pulled the last of her money from the front pocket of her jeans, noting how the pants, which had been snug when she was arrested, were a little looser around her still ample hips. She’d lost several pounds while she was in lockup, but it wasn’t a weight-loss program she’d recommend.
A sigh escaped her lips as she inventoried the cash—a five-dollar bill, two singles, and some assorted change. She’d been close. She smoothed the bills onto the counter. The sign above the register listed the day’s specials: pot roast and potatoes for eight dollars, the cheeseburger and fries plate for three ninety-nine, and a cup of Creedence Corn Chowder for ninety-nine cents.
Fingering the corner of the bills, she knew she should save her money and order the soup, but her stomach howled in protest. She hadn’t had a real cheeseburger in months.
“That hamburger sure smells good,” Harper heard the towheaded boy say as he climbed onto the seat next to her. He was younger than Floyd, probably five or six, and his mother held her hand protectively behind his chair as she sagged into the stool on his other side.
“I know, baby, but the soup will be good too,” she said as she pulled three crumpled dollar bills from a small coin purse. Its leather was faded and soft from wear, and Harper could see the few remaining coins left in the bottom.
A waitress appeared at the counter, her blond hair pulled into a messy ponytail and a friendly smile on her face. She held an order pad, the skin of her hand dry and chapped but her nails neatly painted a cheery pastel pink that matched the color of her uniform dress. Her name tag read Bryn. “Hi there. Welcome to the Creedence Country Café. What can I get you?”
“We’ll have the soup,” the mother said, “and...”
“A cheeseburger for the boy,” Harper interjected, pulling the five-dollar bill from the stack and laying it on the counter in front of the child.
The mother jerked her head up, her expression guarded as she lifted her chin.
Harper knew that feeling—that gut ache of wanting to feed your child and still hold on to your pride and not accept charity. She gave a slight nod and looked directly into the woman’s eyes. Their gazes locked as she tried to convey a message of understanding instead of condemnation. “I have a son too. I’ve been there.” I am there.
The other woman glanced down at the boy, then back at Harper.
Harper offered her a sly grin and held up a fist. “Girl power. We girls got to stick together.”
A smile tugged at the corner of the woman’s lips. Then she nodded to the waitress and repeated the order. “Cheeseburger for my son, and a cup of soup for me.”
“I’ll have the soup too,” Harper said. “And waters all around.”
“You got it.” The waitress scribbled on the pad, then ripped it free as she turned and snapped it into the order carousel for the cook.
“I’m Harper.”
“Rachel,” the woman said, automatically holding out her hand. Her sleeve pulled up, revealing a series of ugly purple finger-shaped bruises circling her wrist. She jerked her hand back before Harper had a chance to shake it.
“I’m Josh,” the boy piped up. “We’re on an adventure. That’s why we took a bus and only have two suitcases.” He grinned up at Harper, his missing left canine leaving an adorable gap in his smile.
“Adventures are good.”
“Are you on an adventure too?”
Not a very good one. “I guess you’d say I’m on more of a quest. I’m here to find my son. He’s a little older than you.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “Why do you have to find him? Did you lose him? Or did he let go of your hand and wander away? My mom always tells me to hold tight to her hand.”
“That’s good advice,” Harper told him around the lump in her throat. Floyd hadn’t let go of her hand or wandered away. She’d been the one to let go. It had only been for a moment. But it had cost her everything.
The bell on the counter dinged, and the waitress hustled by, then plunked three cheeseburger plates on the counter in front of them.
The scent of the crispy pile of fries had Harper’s mouth watering, and she was tempted to snatch a fry and cram it between her lips before the waitress caught her mistake. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “I think there’s been a mistake. I ordered the soup.”
“So did I,” said the boy’s mom.
“I know. But we’re running a special today—three burgers for the price of one.” The waitress grinned and offered them a conspiratorial wink as she held up her fist. “We girls gotta stick together.”
The three women smiled at each other, strangers bonding over life’s struggles.
The boy, oblivious to the situation, picked up the burger and took a giant bite. A glob of ketchup squeezed from the side of the bun and hit his plate. He closed his eyes in bliss. “Best burger ever.”
Harper took a bite of her cheeseburger, the sharp tang of the cheddar blending perfectly with the grilled meat. “I couldn’t agree more.”
* * *
Logan Rivers winced at the string of swear words he heard coming from the kitchen as he stepped into the house. He barely contained a sigh as he looked around the messy living room at the eight or nine housekeeping chores that had been started the day before but still weren’t anywhere near finished. The front curtains had been taken down and were spread across the floor, assorted laundry had been separated into piles on the sofa, and the vacuum was still in the same place it had been left the night before.
He’d thought hiring housekeeping help would alleviate some of his stress, but once again, he’d made a dumb decision and now had an even bigger problem to solve—how to fire her. His house was a wreck, and where he should have had holiday decorations and a brightly trimmed Christmas tree, he had cleaning supplies and dirty laundry. Not that it mattered. He’d barely had time to think the last few weeks, let alone worry about puttin
g up a tree or untangling tinsel.
He hung up his hat and scrubbed a hand across his whiskered chin. His jaw already carried a five-o’clock shadow, and it was barely noon. Forcing a smile, he walked into the kitchen. “Hey, Kimberly, something sure smells good in here,” he told the woman standing at the stove stirring a pan of gravy.
It didn’t actually smell good at all, and the kitchen was a disaster. But he knew the woman had a temper hotter than anything she was cooking, so he tread lightly. But holy cowbells, she must have used every pot and dish he owned. The sink was piled high with them, and crumbs and some kind of brown goop littered the countertop. A blackened glob that he could only guess was a meat loaf sat in a pan on the stove.
“I thought you’d be in thirty minutes ago,” Kimberly said, sticking her lip out in an exaggerated pout. She wore a snug T-shirt and a tiny apron tied around a pair of jeans that looked like they were painted on. “I tried to leave the meat loaf in a little longer, but now it’s burned and practically ruined.”
“Nah. That’s just how I like it,” he reassured her, even though he knew he’d specifically said he’d come in at noon. “The extra char just gives it more flavor.”
She turned to him, and her pout changed into a seductive grin. “You’re sweet to say so. You’ve always been such a good guy. But I was hoping when you came in, you might be interested in a little something more than my meat loaf anyway.” She took a step closer and threaded her arms around his neck, then grazed her lips along his throat. “Maybe I could take off everything except this apron, and we could start a little burnin’ of our own.”
Uh-oh. He’d been afraid this would happen. And he did not need this. Not today.
He’d lain awake most of the night before worrying about the ranch and all the things he needed to do and had barely made a dent in his list. With his dad out of town, all the responsibilities of Rivers Gulch, their family’s ranch, fell to him, and he still had hours of work ahead of him. He’d skipped breakfast, and his stomach had been growling for the last hour. He just wanted to wash up, eat a good meal, drink about a gallon of iced tea, and get back to work.