The Truth About Cowboys

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “I am,” I say. “Which is why you’re playing my game.”

  “Your grandmother’s the one in charge, or I wouldn’t even be in this truck right now.”

  “You think you have this all figured out,” I state. “You don’t.” I eye that damn computer and it tells a story, the story of a woman who wants a damn story. I reach for it, fully intending to ensure I don’t become fodder for her keyboard.

  “What are you doing?” she demands, rotating and catching it with both hands, her fingers touching my fingers, and holy fuck, my cock twitches. “Let go,” she orders, all fierce and lowered voice, her blue eyes blasting me with wicked-hot fire.

  “Why do you need this to see my grandmother?” I demand.

  “Why are you touching it? You don’t just touch people or—people’s electronics.”

  “Why do you need it?” I narrow my eyes on her. “What do you really want?”

  She scowls at me, and damn it’s an adorable scowl. How is it adorable? “Want?” she asks. “Cookies. I was promised cookies and I want cookies. Cookies matter. Food matters. I can’t exactly get to a grocery store right now, and furthermore, I don’t have a grandmother to bake for me. I’m borrowing yours. I like her. She’s lovely to chat with.”

  “Cut the crap.”

  Another scowl. “You cut the crap, Jason Jenks. Are all pitchers this full of crap?”

  “No one takes a computer for a cookie.”

  “I was afraid you’d leave while I put it inside, and I wasn’t going to let it get stolen.”

  “You think a bird’s going to fly up and snatch it away?”

  “No, smart-ass, I don’t think a bird is going to fly up and snatch it away. A person might, though. I’m not leaving it sitting out.” She yanks at it, and I let it go.

  “Because you think you’re in the city where you belong,” I murmur, facing forward, and placing the truck in gear.

  “Spoken by the man who was all about the big city when he pitched for the Yankees. Weren’t you engaged to a model or something?”

  Actress, I think, but that’s not a topic I’m entertaining. “What does a big city attorney need with our little town anyway?” I ask.

  “Peace,” she says, “I need what everyone who leaves the city needs. Peace.”

  “What about your job? Surely you can’t divorce people remotely.”

  She cuts her stare, her jaw flexing as she says, “I’m writing a book.” She turns back to me, raising a finger. “And before you start thinking it’s about an arrogant ex-Yankees pitcher with an attitude, it’s not. Well, then again, maybe it is. It’s A Girl’s Guide to Divorce. Tip number one will be don’t marry an asshole, especially if he’s a cowboy and an ex-athlete.”

  “Aren’t you funny?” I ask, turning us toward the ranch.

  “No, actually. That’s not something I’m accused of. At least, not intentionally. My jokes are flat. My skill with contracts and inside courtrooms quite good. My loyalty to my friends complete. My house messy. My feet clumsy”—she glances at me—“as you noticed last night.” She laughs. “You got lucky. I didn’t pull you into the mud puddle with me.”

  She’s mocking herself, and while she does it with laughter, there’s a raw, real quality beneath the surface I know a little too well. Like maybe, just maybe, the peace she seeks has something to do with recovering from a mistake. Something else I know all too well. “Did you intend to pull me into the mud puddle with you?” I challenge.

  “No, but that’s usually when I’m most dangerous. You know, when I’m not aiming for you, but you somehow end up exactly where I aimed. It seems that’s where we’ve found ourselves these past twelve hours. I’m not here for you. That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  What I think is that there are about ten reasons I can’t risk bad press right now. In other words, I’m not letting she who has a book deal and publisher stick around. “You’re clumsy and you just thought the country was the place to go?”

  “And this seems illogical, why? Because I’m more likely to get hit by a horse here than a car and several million people there?”

  “Where is there?”

  “Dallas.”

  “Then the drive home won’t be long,” I comment, turning us down the path to the main ranch house.

  “Especially since home is here now,” she quips, eyeing the sign arching over the gate we’re about to pass through. “The Flying J Ranch,” she says, giving me a sideways look. “That’s how you got your nickname on the mound.”

  I have a cutting flashback to my father and me hanging that sign on my tenth birthday. Damn it, I still can’t believe he’s gone. I still can’t believe he left the ranch, and all the families here, this exposed. What was he thinking?

  “Jason?”

  “No,” I say to Jessica’s prod. “The J is for the Jenks family and my father was the Flying J.”

  “He played ball?”

  “Yes.” I don’t offer anything more. I don’t talk about my father. I don’t talk to outsiders. I learned that lesson the hard way, the lesson delivered by a pretty city girl that came before her.

  “Yes?” she asks, not willing to let this go.

  “Yes.”

  “Then a crazy-fast pitch must run in the family.”

  Right along with letting this ranch run our lives, I add silently. “Let’s talk about my grandmother,” I say, changing the topic as the main house, a sprawling white ranch-style property with a giant red barn and a horse stable to the left, comes into view.

  “What about Martha?”

  “I don’t want her hurt. That cottage—”

  “Is special. I know. She and I talked for like two hours before I rented it. It’s the place your grandfather built for her. Is she your grandmother on your mother or father’s side?”

  “My mother’s.”

  “So your father’s family owned the ranch, but your grandparents from your mom’s side lived here?”

  “Without making it a complicated family tree, my grandfather on my mother’s side died when I was very young. My grandmother married the foreman of the ranch, who became a grandfather to me. They were very much in love.” My fingers tighten on the steering wheel and I glance over at her. “Which is why my grandmother doesn’t need to be renting out the cottage he built for her.”

  “Which is why she wants it rented out. She wants it to have life again.”

  “No,” I say, as my grandmother’s evil plan starts to take shape in my mind. “You talked to her for two hours you say?”

  “Maybe longer. Why?”

  “I know my grandmother. Holy crap, grandma.” I scrub my jaw. “That two-hour conversation you had with her was an interview and not to rent. She knew she couldn’t rent that place without asking me. She’s trying to fix me up.”

  “And I’m the prospect.” She laughs. “Oh my. Okay. This is rather comical, isn’t it? I mean, poor Martha. She had no idea we’d clash like fire and ice.” She twists around to face me. “But all is not lost. I do have a friend that I could contact. She might hate you less than I do.”

  My lips quirk despite myself. “Hate is a throwaway word. Surely an author can do better than that.”

  “How about this?” She turns to look at me. “Last night’s storm has nothing on you. You are the perfect storm of manhood in your snug jeans and cowboy hat. Just the kind I’m in the mood for, in fact. The kind of storm that provides unadulterated inspiration for my A Girl’s Guide to Divorce book. Jason Jenks. You might not be a pitcher anymore, but you’re the rock star of literary motivation. I do believe this is going to work out just the way we both need it to.” With that, she gets out of the truck and starts walking toward the steps, a woman on a mission not to get a story on me, but to eat cookies and stay a while. But will that mission change if someone offers her money in place of cookies and a cottage?

>   My grandmother walks out onto the porch and smiles at Jessica. The two women are embracing before I get out of the truck. I’m in trouble, the kind only a woman can bring with her. In this case, two women. And yet, fuck, I laugh. The rock star of literary motivation. A guy does have to set his goals high.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jessica…

  Martha is a good two inches shorter than my five feet four and young-looking for her seventy years, in jeans and a T-shirt, her thin, sturdy body defying her age. Her gray hair is sleek and long. She also smells like cookies and hugs like an old friend. No, she hugs like everyone else’s mom.

  “You are adorable,” she declares, giving me a once-over before wagging a finger at my high heels. “Though those boots have to go.”

  “My sneakers are covered in mud,” I say. “Both pairs that I brought with me.” I sigh. “And my tire is buried in the same mud.”

  “Oh goodness, honey. We’ll get your tire out of the mud and you into a pair of proper boots. There are snakes and bugs out here. You need your ankles protected.”

  I can feel the blood run out of my face. “Snakes?”

  She laughs. “Yes, snakes. This is Texas. You act like you don’t live here.”

  “I’m a city girl. High rises and downtown shopping, with concrete that attacks my high heels, not mud.”

  “Right. Of course. Well, rattlers call this place home just like we do. What size boot do you wear?”

  “Seven.”

  “Me, too. You’ll leave properly. Now”—she laces her fingers with mine—“how about those cookies?”

  “Yes, please, but only if they’re as good as you smell. Like sugar and spice and everything nice.”

  She laughs a low, raspy laugh that is warm and wonderful. “Sugar and spice and everything nice coming right up.” She opens the screen door and motions to the truck, where Jason remains. “Get in here, boy!” She eyes me. “I take it you two haven’t learned to play nice yet?”

  “We basically hate each other.” My eyes go wide with the realization that I just said that to the man’s grandmother. “Sorry. I know he’s your grandson. We just didn’t get off on the right foot. More like a muddy foot. Literally. You see—”

  She laughs and waves off my worries. “Stop trying to explain. I hated his grandfather something fierce when we met. The men in this family have a knack for coming out of the gate with a bang.”

  I swallow back a promise that we won’t end as pleasantly, but decide that if I want to stay here, and I do, I need to bite my tongue.

  She motions me forward. I eagerly step around this topic and inside to find myself standing on the edge of a big cozy living area. The distinct scent of cigars laces the air, reminding me of Jason, though I can’t say why, while overstuffed brown furnishings, a large stone fireplace, and big wonderful throw blankets scream of masculinity. The bookshelves on either side of the fireplace scream of temptation and the perfect reading escape for a rainy day or cold night.

  “This way, honey,” Martha instructs, guiding me down a hallway.

  “Do you live here with Jason?”

  “No, he inherited it from his father, my son-in-law, and tried to move me in here, but I wanted him to have a little privacy and I like mine as well. I have my own little cottage right behind the main house. Jason wants me close, or I’d be in your place where I was before.” She cuts her stare and then looks at me. “Before he took over the ranch.” I can almost see her shove aside a storm of emotions before she forces a lighter tone. “He’s very protective.”

  “Boy, is he,” I grumble, and Martha’s darker mood fades into more laughter.

  “He’ll take to you, honey. I should have handled this before you got here. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right.”

  There’s fretting in her voice and something about Martha that makes you want to stop her fretting. I open my mouth to do just that but gape as we enter a square-shaped kitchen that smells like all that sugar and spice and everything nice she promised me.

  “If I knew how to cook, I’d want this amazing kitchen,” I murmur, taking in the centerpiece of the room, a giant island with fancy pans hanging from above navy blue counters.

  She giggles. “If you knew how to cook?”

  “I microwave very well.”

  She smiles. “We can fix that.”

  “Oh no,” I say, waving off the offer. “Let’s not try to fix what can’t be fixed. That said, I’m excellent at sampling if you need any sampling done.”

  She laughs bigger and deeper this time. “So is Jason.” She motions to a stool by the island. “Get comfy.”

  I gladly take her up on the offer, settling onto a cushy stool while she leans on the counter at the endcap of the island. “When we upgraded to a bigger house, the kitchen was my focus. It’s where I do my part of helping around here. I cook for a few of the crew and bake for a whole lot more.”

  I never really thought about what it takes to run a ranch, but now I’m curious. “How many people?”

  “Seven for meals. About fifty when I’m baking.” The buzzer on the stainless steel oven on the far wall goes off.

  “Hot cookies just in time,” Martha announces, rushing toward it and glancing over her shoulder. “Do you want coffee? Grab a cup if you’d like.”

  “I’d love one,” I say, heading to the counter to her left and grabbing a cup off a cup stand. A sturdy blue mug that matches the counters. “Fifty. That’s such a big number.”

  “It depends on the season,” she says, pulling the cookie sheet out from the oven.

  “And Jason runs the show here?”

  “Yes. Jason runs the show here.”

  At the sound of Jason’s voice, my skin prickles and warms, and I whirl around to find him hanging his hat on some sort of hook on the wall. His eyes meet mine, his alight with arrogance. Eyes that say he runs the show—he can make me leave, but I’m not going to. I want to stay. I want to know things. Things about him I don’t think he wants me to know. Like why he’s not pitching. He makes me want to know and damn it, I want him to stop making me want to know. I don’t even like him. I shouldn’t care why he’s here and not there.

  “Here to ensure I don’t corrupt your grandmother?” I ask, taunting him because I can’t seem to help myself.

  “You need inspiration,” he says dryly, referencing my earlier comment. “I need cookies.”

  Martha sets a tray of delicious-looking cookies on the top of the stove. “Corrupt me?” Martha snorts. “Boy. If anyone corrupted me, it was your grandfather. He wasn’t an angel any more than you are.”

  “I’m a perfect angel,” Jason declares before he snatches a cookie that has to burn his fingers, but he’s without a flinch. He manhandles that cookie and takes a bite. It’s a skill I have to admire. Manhandling a cookie and eating it hot is admirable. I wonder how he admirably might manhandle a willing woman. How easily he might put his mouth on her as he is that cookie.

  His eyes meet mine, an arch to his brow, his eyes glinting with awareness. Oh God. He knows what I’m thinking. I turn away and pour creamer into my coffee, heat searing my back. He saw the look on my face. Damn it. “What inspiration do you need, Jessica?” Martha asks.

  I inhale and turn back to the room as Mr. Inspiration himself finishes off his cookie. “She’s writing some kind of how-to happy divorce book,” he supplies, dusting off his hands. “Her first tip: don’t marry an asshole cowboy.”

  I glare at the asshole cowboy himself, who is clearly trying to get me in trouble with his grandmother, holding my breath for her reply. For all I know, I may be about to get kicked to the mud and the rattlesnakes in my high-heeled boots.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jessica…

  I’m still holding my breath when Martha bursts out laughing. “Very good tip, Jessica. Indeed. Don’t marry an asshole cowboy. My friend Linda did and i
t took her twenty years to get the nerve to divorce the jerk. I can have Linda give you some tips on how to spot an asshole cowboy if you need them.”

  “I think your grandson is doing just fine on that one,” I say, deciding to dive right into the mud all over again. “He’s tried to kick me out of the cottage, not once but perhaps three or four times, in only a few hours. I’ve lost count.”

  “Oh, honey,” Martha says all melodramatic, fighting a smile. “Sounds horrible, like you need a cookie.”

  “Why yes, I do,” I say, crossing to the opposite side of the island from Jason, where I set down my mug and sit on the edge of a barstool. “A cookie sounds perfect. An asshole cowboy does not. How’s Linda now?”

  “Amazing. She married the foreman of her ranch, who’s been madly in love with her since they were kids. He never married until her. He held out. It’s so very romantic.” She motions to the cookies. “Hurry. Try one while they’re hot.”

  I don’t need further encouragement, despite the fact that a certain cowboy is staring at me, apparently eager to watch me either burn or bite my tongue, but I don’t care. I’m hungry and these cookies look and smell fabulous. I pick up one on this side of the pan and take a big bite, which immediately has me moaning in delight. “Oh God. That’s so good. What is that? Sugar and—butterscotch?”

  “Yes. Butterscotch.” Martha beams. “It’s my signature cookie. You like it?”

  I nod without hesitation. “I love it. I’ve never had anything quite like it. It’s like sweet butter on the tongue.”

  Jason picks up another cookie and smirks. I hate how beautiful he is when he smirks. I think he was on the cover of a magazine with that smirk. “In hindsight,” he says dryly, “if I wanted to get rid of you, her cookies were not the way to do it.”

  “Why would you want to get rid of her?” Martha asks. “She seems quite lovely, and she’s paying rent.”

  His eyes flick to her and then land hard on me as he replies with, “She’s a divorce attorney,” as if that answers the question.