The Truth About Cowboys

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “Thank my grandmother,” he says, looking at me. “She’s why you’re here.”

  He uses the words like a knife, sharp and cutting. I feel them with the appropriate bite, but I don’t back off. “I need to be here. I can’t be in the city right now. I’ll stay out of your way.” With that, I open the door and try to grab my bags. I have too many, though.

  “I’ll be right back for the rest,” I say, settling on the inevitable. I have to walk to the door, trying not to fall again, while he watches.

  Loaded down, I start walking, and a gust of wind blows leaves in my face. Of course. Why wouldn’t I have leaves smashing into my face while I try to walk gracefully toward the cottage on a cratered-out driveway of dirt and mud? About that time, my foot hits the step and the other stays in the mud. A strong hand catches my arm and I glance up to find Jason standing there, holding my MacBook and my boots, and the jeans, too, I believe.

  “Thanks.”

  His eyes burn into me, and what I find there—heat and I don’t know what else, judgment perhaps—is confusing in every possible way. There is something about this man that I feel everywhere when he looks at me, in ways I don’t even understand. His grip tightens on my arm, and he leads me up the steps. Once we’re on the porch, he sets my items on the table in front of the chair I was sitting in earlier. I set my other bags in the chair.

  I turn to him and he’s so damn tall; he’s always towering over me. “I’m going to send one of my men over to get your car out of the mud before this storm buries it deeper. But if you get in that car and try to drive out of here in this storm, you will end up stuck again. I’ll have to come save you again.” With that, he turns and walks away.

  I watch him, all that lean, denim-clad wonder of a man that he is, with rapt attention, my focus on his backside. I decide then that it’s his nice, tight, baseball-created ass in those jeans that makes the idea of being rescued yet again by him oh so appealing. Sanity prevails, though, and I remind myself of his personality, all arrogant and abrasive, and remember that I don’t need a man at all. I don’t want a man at all. I most certainly do not need or want to be rescued by a man, and most certainly not by the cowboy driving away right now.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jessica…

  I’m staying in Sweetwater.

  And that decision, that perhaps life-changing decision, comes down to one thing: it’s all about the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup creamer.

  I unpack my purchases and then brew a pot of coffee, which I sweeten with my favorite creamer because I clearly haven’t finished expanding my wardrobe by way of expanding my backside. Really, truly I’d been shocked the country store carried it, and while Jason hoped that store would be an experience that encouraged me to leave, finding my creamer here felt like a sign.

  I’m supposed to stay.

  I mean, it’s the only flavor they carried.

  It has to be a sign.

  With my cup steaming and sweet, I sit down on the chair on the porch, my MacBook in my lap, cord connected just inside the door (in case I lose power later, I want it to be fully charged) and I’m ready to start the big book project. Alone. I’m alone and it’s oddly right. I really never do the whole alone thing, and here I am, in my ugly brown boots, doing it quite well, I think.

  Timed perfectly with me settling into the cozy spot, rain begins to fall, a splattering of droplets that’s not much more than sprinkles. It’s a perfect working environment. I sip my sweet beverage, set it down, and finish off my book’s cover page—name, title, and that’s all for now. I’m really born to write a book about the perfect divorce because this really is what I do. I’m passionate about never becoming captive to a relationship, perhaps because I always felt captive to my mother’s relationships.

  I type out a detailed introduction about my credentials, why divorce can be a girl’s best friend, including a particular favorite story about a client. Cheryl had been miserably married for ten years but didn’t believe in divorce. Her husband cheated and forced her to step out of her comfort zone. When something feels wrong, it usually is wrong. Cheryl knew her marriage was wrong, but she didn’t act until she had proof, and as a result, she lost years of life and had so much misery. She divorced and a year later remarried. For the past five years, she’s been married to the love of her life and never seems to stop smiling. Her ex has remarried twice and divorced twice.

  I’ve just reached the point where I’ve finished the introductions and typed “Chapter One” when a pickup truck pulls in. I set my MacBook aside and watch as a cowboy, not much older than eighteen, decked out in western wear, exits and heads toward my car. “Howdy there, ma’am,” he shouts, lifting a hand. “Name’s Cody. Just going to get your car out of that hole.”

  I step to the edge of the porch and wave. “Thank you.”

  Thunder rumbles loudly overhead, a groan that signals the explosion of the pitch-black clouds at any moment. Retrieving my cup, I lean a shoulder on the banister, watch the cowboy work, wishing away the rain until he’s done, and surprised that he doesn’t need my keys. He basically uses his bumper against my bumper and shoves it forward. Craig would freak about a BMW bumper and a truck bumper colliding. Screw Craig, or rather, let his secretary screw him. I’m just glad to be out of the hole, free to leave, with no desire to flee.

  Cody saunters up to the porch, shoving his cowboy hat back from his young face, a splatter of red freckles on his cheeks. “All set, ma’am. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, but thank you. I really appreciate your help. I guess you work for Jason?”

  “Me, my father, and my uncle. It’s kind of a family tradition.”

  “No college and big city in your future?”

  He shrugs. “I’m needed here.”

  I wonder how many people who live here never leave. Maybe it’s like a Stephen King novel. Once you enter the mysterious town, you can’t leave. I open my mouth to ask, but the sky erupts suddenly and violently in another shout of thunder. Cody pulls his hat down, no explosion of action on his part, despite the explosion around him. “I better get going!” he shouts over the rain. “Jason said to tell you not to drive in this mess. That’s an order. If you get stuck, you’re on your own tonight.”

  My mouth parts in shock. He turns and hurries to his truck. That’s an order? Is he serious? I scowl into the downpour and start mumbling under my breath. Who does this man think he is? I plant myself in a seat, snatch up my MacBook, and start typing:

  Once you’re to the point in your relationship that divorce is on the table, you need to grab that bull by the horns and control the outcome. Be empowered. See this as the beginning of happiness. Everyone wants to avoid divorce, but that’s not what this book is about. I’m not a relationship expert. I’m not going to save your marriage. I’m going to help you get out of a bad one.

  I pause and Jason flashes in my mind, as does the piece of advice I promised him he’d inspired. I start typing again, knowing I’ll have to delete this part of the chapter, but I just need to type it: My one piece of advice when it comes to preventing divorce: never fall for an arrogant asshole cowboy. Consider yourself warned.

  Consider me warned.

  Not that I need to be warned.

  There is zero chance of me falling for a cowboy, especially Jason.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jessica….

  Sitting on the porch of the cottage, in a cozy chair in Sweetwater, Texas, allows me the chance to remember how much I really do love a good Texas thunderstorm. I don’t know when the last time was that I just watched it rain, but that’s how I spend my evening on the porch, relaxing into the storm. Well, it’s not really a storm as much as steady, wonderful, relaxing rain. There’s no power outage. There’s just lots of water, the areas surrounding the porch now a river where there was once only dirt and mud. After yesterday’s flooding, I wonder about the
condition of the ranch, quite certain it must be underwater in places. Certain Jason must be in hell managing it all.

  Yes, I’m thinking of Jason. Often. Randomly. It just keeps happening. In fact, four chapters into my book, I have yet to erase my first page that warned readers away from cowboys. Why? I think I’m the one who needs to be warned away from cowboys. Come bedtime, I lay in the massive sleigh bed, and Lord help me, I wonder if Jason ever naps while he works here. I wonder if he’s ever slept in this bed. And then I sleep. I don’t remember falling asleep, just the moment I wake up to the sound of pelting rain on the windows. It’s the first night since finding my ex with his secretary that I’ve truly slept well.

  I rise and shine, even if the sun is not, then shower and dress in my new jeans, boots, and a lacy pink top that shows a little cleavage. It’s not cleavage intended for Jason, not really. It’s more because of him and his commands. No this. No that. He might as well have told me to dress like a zombie or a homeless person if I wanted to stay. I’m staying. The end. He’ll find that out. So me and my mildly-there cleavage make coffee and then settle into my new home. My home. I embrace those two words. I do. By the time I’m at the kitchen island with my MacBook, alone is the word I find instead. I stand up and open the front door, hoping that helps smash this empty feeling.

  I hate that I have a problem like this. Alone is good, not bad. Alone is better than being with a man I didn’t love who only filled empty space. I need to be alone to get my work done. I need to focus on me and being comfortable with me, trusting in me. I always knew that Craig and I weren’t the perfect match. I ignored every sign to avoid one thing: being alone. I’ll get used to this. I’ll get better at this. By the time I return to Dallas, I’ll be an expert at being alone. And according to the internet research I do when I should be working, that will make me stronger and better when I do decide to date again.

  As if she heard her name, the queen of dating rings my phone. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Why am I at your apartment and there’s a blond bimbo in a sheet at the door?”

  I grimace, bile rising up in the back of my throat. “Mom—”

  “Do I need to yank her out of the doorway?” she demands and then shouts, “Ed! I need you.” Ed being her newest husband, this one twenty years her junior. There are muffled voices, thick, gruff, muffled voices followed by a shriek.

  Oh crap.

  “Mom. Mom, wait.” More muffled voices. Oh God, what is happening? “Mom!” I try again, only to have the screen door burst open.

  I gasp with the intrusion and grab a knife from a knife block, dropping my phone as I do, only to realize it’s Jason standing in the doorway, water dripping from his black cowboy hat and raincoat. His boots are covered in mud. “You can’t just walk in!” I exclaim. “I could have been naked. Again.”

  He sets his hat on the coat rack and starts peeling off his jacket. “If you’re running around naked with the screen door open around these parts, you want to be seen.”

  “I pay rent. I get privacy.”

  “This is still my office,” he says, now down to his jeans and a T-shirt. “I told you I’m not giving it up.” He starts peeling off his boots. “And I have a situation. I need something from my desk.” He starts walking toward the desk in the corner of the room, just beyond the couch.

  “Your office is my living room?”

  “That’s right,” he says, moving past me while I hear, “Jessica!” from the floor.

  Oh crap. My mom. I bend down and grab my phone. “Jessica!”

  “Yes. Mom. I’m here. Please tell me you didn’t touch her.”

  I can almost feel Jason’s eyes on me.

  “She says she lives here. What the hell is going on, baby girl?” she demands.

  “You have a lot of experience in these matters,” I say, trying to avoid saying too much with my present company. “You can guess.”

  “He cheated with that bimbo.” The phone shifts and she shouts, “You’re going to end up in hell, I tell you. Hell.”

  “Mom! Stop! Please.”

  “Hell, I tell you, wench!”

  Wench? I squeeze my eyes shut. “Mom?” I whisper.

  “I want to scratch her eyes out. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “As these things are, it was unexpected and sudden. I’ve—” My voice cracks. “I’ve been trying to just process, you know?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do know. I have two divorces over cheaters. It sounds so bad, married four times, but two of them cheated on me. Where are you? At work? I’ll come to you.”

  She’s right. She was cheated on. I’m perhaps a bit hard on her at times. Not really, but a little. “I’m not in the city. I needed to get away.”

  “What about your work?”

  “It’s on hold,” I say as Jason walks into the kitchen and helps himself to a cup of coffee, crowding me to the point that I have to scoot over or rub shoulders with him. I give him a dirty look he doesn’t see, not unless his back and broad shoulders have eyes.

  “On hold? Your job is on hold? I’m confused.”

  “Are you standing in front of her right now, Mom?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Please back away from the door and leave. I don’t live there anymore.”

  “I like the way she scowls.”

  “Please, Mom.” Jason turns and leans on the counter, now facing me. I don’t face him. I stay in profile to him, the island, my island, the one I’m about to fall face forward onto and bang my head against. “Walk away.”

  “After you tell me about your job.”

  “Oh good gosh, Mother,” I explode. “I told a client he was a lowlife cheater and the partners suggested I go on leave, which happened because I’d just found her in bed with Craig. Okay? Can you walk away now?”

  “Oh Jesus.” Her voice is now muffled. “Come on, Ed.” Shuffling, low voices, then, “Where are you?”

  “Staying in a small town in a cottage.”

  “Alone?” she quakes in disbelief.

  “Yes,” I bite out. “Alone.”

  “You aren’t good alone.”

  “That would be you.”

  “And you. You learned from me.”

  That cuts. That hits ten nerves. “I’m hanging up. I love you, but—”

  “Okay. I’ll give you space. I’m headed to Europe anyway. Just don’t stay there. Come back.”

  Europe. Of course. She’s so worried. “Hanging up now.” I do. I hang up and set the phone on the island, gripping the counter, and wishing like hell a set of intrusive blue eyes weren’t focused on me.

  “Stop looking at me,” I order. I rotate to face him. “You listened to my call.”

  “Hard not to,” he drawls, all cowboy-like.

  “Because you barged in here and then stood right next to me.”

  “It’s the country way.”

  “It’s not my way. Don’t do that again.”

  “I had an emergency. I need to call a contractor.”

  I scowl. “You didn’t make a call.”

  “I sent a text.” His phone buzzes and he glances down at it, typing a reply before he says, “And he replied.”

  I have this overwhelming feeling of being shoved and pushed when he’s not even touching me. “Please, just—stop trying to make me leave. I need to stay. I know you know I need to stay.”

  He sets his cup down and closes the one step between us. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  I suck in a breath and let it slowly fall from my lips. “You don’t?”

  “No.” His lips, those lips that I’m forever torturing myself by noticing, thin. “I don’t want you to stay, either, but we’ve covered this. I already agreed that you can stay and I’m a man of my word. I’m not trying to make you leave. You just don’t know our ways yet, but you will.” He refills my cup and the
n moves away. A second later, my creamer is being poured in the cup. “Drink up, sugar cup. I’m not leaving you here alone. We’re going to see Grandma.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jessica…

  I stare at the cup of coffee Jason made for me, complete with my Reese’s creamer, rain pitter-pattering on the side of the house, and his statement “I’m not leaving you alone” weaving and punching through the air. The man obviously overheard both sides of my conversation, which happened because he was in my kitchen, in his socked feet, without an invitation. Well, technically his kitchen, but that’s beside the point. He isn’t even pretending he didn’t hear the content of my call, but then, at least he’s not being fake.

  I don’t like fake, considering you might as well say I just left my fake fiancé, and at this point, I’m remembering what an old professor once told me about actions and reactions. A lesson I’ve replayed in my mind many times during legal battles. In life there are moments when you want to crawl under a rock. There are others when you kick a rock and stub your toe. And finally, there are those when you fall over the rock, land on your face, and break your nose. I don’t like the fact that Jason now knows more about me than most people I’ve known for years, and not by my own choosing, but I decide that making a big deal out of it will turn a stubbed toe into a broken nose I don’t want or need.

  I decide to leave this alone.

  While he’s not leaving me alone.

  “Good choice of creamer, by the way,” he says, refilling his cup and then walking to the fridge.

  I rotate on the stool in time to watch him pour a generous portion into his cup. “I owe you that for your mac and cheese I ate yesterday.”

  “Ah well,” he shuts the fridge, “I keep that around for all our squatters.”

  I glower. He laughs. “I couldn’t resist. Did the lights go out last night?”

  I pick up my cup. “No, the lights didn’t go out last night. You were just trying to scare me.” I sip my coffee. “Not cool.”