The Truth About Cowboys

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  She’s not mine.

  Those words punch me in the chest with a force that all but tilts my chair.

  “Now, if you want to change that,” Roarke says, “change it. If not, back the fuck off. Otherwise, you’re coming off as an asshole to her and your men.”

  Leave it to Roarke to put things in perspective.

  She’s not mine.

  I’m an asshole.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jessica…

  Jason disappears while we’re serving, and when Martha’s feeling tired, I decide, rather than call him, I’ll walk back to the house and get my car. I make it to the door to exit the farmhouse and come face to face with Roarke. “Where are you off to?”

  “I’m going to jog up to the house and get my car to give Martha a ride. She’s tired.”

  “I’ve got my truck. I’m headed out anyway. Grab Martha and we’ll get her out of here.”

  “Oh well, if you don’t mind?”

  “Martha helped raise my rebellious ass. She and my grandmother were close. I’d do about anything for that woman.”

  “There he is,” Martha calls out. “My second grandson. I just talked to Jason. There’s another busted pipe down at the orchard. He’s going to be a while. Can you hustle a grandma home, son?”

  Roarke winks. “I’ll do more than that.” He scoops Martha up and carries her toward the truck. He’s charming and good-looking, a man acting like a romance hero. I tell myself to swoon over him and not Jason, who doesn’t even like me. It doesn’t work. He loads Martha into his shiny black pickup truck, and she scoots into the center.

  Roarke holds the door for me, and when we make eye contact, there aren’t butterflies in my belly, but Jason, Jason gives me butterflies. Maybe I’m turned on by men who just don’t want me. Point in case, my ex and Jason. “Thanks, Roarke.”

  I climb into the truck, and before long, Martha and I are back at the ranch house. “Come in and get some cookies for your men,” Martha orders him. “I made extra.”

  “I’m not going to argue,” Roarke says, and we all end up in the kitchen as Martha packages up the cookies.

  “You don’t have a dinner for your men?”

  “My operation isn’t the same labor intensive operation Jason has here.” He leans on the banister and tips his hat back. “Medical services and horse training is it for me.”

  “For how long?

  He grabs a Tupperware container from Martha and helps her with the lid. “Always been this way for us. My father was a horseman and a vet, and so am I. Unlike Jason, I went off to school and came right back, but also unlike Jason, I travel to train and heal horses. In other words, I’m not so negative on city girls.”

  “That’s Tessa’s fault,” Martha says. “That witchy actress hurt him.”

  My brows furrow. “I thought she was a model?”

  “You didn’t Google her?” Roarke asks.

  Why do I want to punish myself with details about the gorgeous woman Jason wanted more than he wanted baseball? “No. No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, let me tell you, honey,” Martha starts.

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t say anymore. The man already thinks I’m going to write some sort of tell-all about him. I don’t want to know about Tessa, because I already know who she is. Famous and beautiful and—I don’t want to know more.”

  Both of them stare at me, and Roarke picks up the bag Martha has now filled with Tupperware. “Thank you, Martha.” He eyes me. “Walk me out.” He doesn’t wait for a reply. He starts walking.

  Obediently, I follow him, and he’s waiting for me beside his truck. I walk down the porch steps and join him. “Are you going to lecture me on distracting the men, too?”

  He laughs. “He did that?”

  “Oh yes. He did.”

  “Interesting. I just wanted to say two things to you. Tessa was a mistake. Pushing you away because of Tessa is a bigger mistake. He’ll come around.”

  “Who says I want him to come around?”

  “Me.” He winks and gets in his truck without saying another word. He just drives away.

  …

  It’s a few hours later when Kelly and I enter the scorching hot cottage and try to cool it off. An hour into it, I go online and order two window units that promise cold air. Yes, please. I need cold air more than I need Jason’s hands on my body again, and apparently both are on my mind, since I just had that thought.

  I make a TV dinner and aspire to forget the heat and the man, diving into the book I’ve officially titled A Girl’s Guide to a Happy Divorce, but for short, my divorce guide. An hour later, I’m on edge and punching the keys harder. I think it’s safe to assume that I get angry and bitter when I’m writing this project. Like, so angry that I can’t decide if I want to call Craig or Jason to yell at one or both. Thankfully, Shelley calls me from Europe to check in and talks me off the Craig ledge. I don’t share the Jason scenario. I just really can’t take talking about another failed moment with a man.

  “This book is negative,” Shelley declares. “Because divorce is negative no matter how you want to paint it as something positive. Write the romance novel. Go on a few dates. Seriously. Get back on the horse and ride, baby.”

  It’s like she and Martha are channeling each other. “I’m not getting on any man and riding.”

  “Jason’s pretty ride-worthy.”

  “Where is your man when you say these things?”

  She laughs, and we chat a few more minutes and disconnect, leaving me alone with my computer again. I set it in my lap, and somehow I start writing about a girl in a rainstorm, saved by a brooding cowboy. Lord help me, I have a thing for Jason, and even when he’s looking at my breasts, I’m pretty sure he’s wishing me back to the city. I abandon the books and email my agent about my advance, as well as send Craig a forceful email. I try three times:

  Dear Bastard:

  Dear Jerk:

  Dear Manwhore:

  Finally, I rein myself in.

  Craig:

  You have a morals clause in our contract. You don’t get to keep your secretary and my money. I need ten grand now. You have six weeks to get me the rest, or I’ll go to the partners and tell them why I was so out of my mind the day I went off on their largest client.

  And just so you know, I’m better now. So much better without you. I just want my money.

  Jessica

  I pull up the business plan I created for the cookie project, scan the numbers, and then order the supplies to start taking samples to nearby stores mid-week. Once that’s done, I make a target list of stores to visit. Based on the numbers, we do need to sell a ton of cookies to make money, but if Martha and I do the baking and use the ranch facilities, we can do this. The Flying J Bakery is going to kick ass. I’m going to make sure of it.

  …

  Monday, I call ahead before going to Jason’s house and make sure Martha is already there. I don’t take Kelly. I don’t want her running around Jason’s bedroom.

  Martha notices immediately. “Where’s Kelly?”

  “I couldn’t find her this morning,” I say, which is the truth, but I also didn’t look very hard.

  “Too bad,” Martha says as we sit at the island and prepare to work on the business plan. “I love her.”

  “She loves you, too.”

  She slides a pastry in front of me. “For you and for me. I need a favor.”

  “Anything,” I say.

  “Jason’s prideful. Let’s be really careful about not telling him about our little business.”

  “Eventually you’ll have to tell him, and if we sell locally, he’ll find out.”

  “That can be played off as a hobby. I just don’t want him to think that you’re this city girl turning the ranch into your city society.”

  “Oh,” I say, a bit st
unned.

  She touches my arm. “That’s not what I think at all. I don’t want him to know that we know about the money issues. That’s what I should have said.”

  “Of course,” I say. “I won’t say anything. Martha—”

  “No. I don’t think you’re trying to do anything bad for us. He was just really burned by Tessa. He’ll think the worst of you, if we aren’t careful.”

  I nod and try to ignore the stab wound that I don’t really understand, but it’s there, festering all day long while Jason is noticeably absent, as we work on the business plan and bake.

  That night I write a chapter of my romance novel, in which the heroine tries to fend off the hero with a flashlight while dropping her towel. I don’t write anything in the divorce guide.

  Tuesday morning, I repeat what I did Monday, leaving Kelly behind, digging into our business with renewed morning energy, and it goes well, making the calls to find out what licensing we need to actually fill orders. I go home early that day to write, and the more time between now and when I last saw Jason, the more nervous I get about when the inevitable moment happens. The more I decide he’s avoiding me as well.

  Wednesday, I go to Pilates with Martha and she’s right. It’s a fabulous class. The instructor, Lori, is about my age, and we connect, even talking about meeting up for coffee later in the week. “I’ll teach you how to survive small town politics, but Lord help me, introduce me to a man that doesn’t wear a cowboy hat. I need a weekend in the city soon.”

  I don’t make any promises in that department, but coffee and small town politics, those are a go for me.

  After class, I head to the town diner with Martha’s good friend Evie, who is as fit and active as Martha and runs a store in Sweetwater. She’s also a redhead with a loud personality that’s quite funny to the point that she was practically turning the Pilates class into a comedy routine.

  Once we’re seated at a cute wooden table, I meet the forty-something owner, Stanley, who turns out to be the son of the cook at the ranch, with a belly and a friendly personality to match. It’s not long before I’ve convinced him to put Martha’s cookies on the menu starting next week.

  Martha and Evie are giddy with excitement. “This is thrilling,” Evie says. “Of course I want some for my store. Why next week?”

  “We need a license first,” I explain. “Which I’m going to get today and then after that, I’m hitting the road to get us more orders.”

  Both woman clap and there are more exclaims of, “This is exciting,” in various formations of the same sentiment. We’re about to leave, and I run to the bathroom, and good Lord, I need a shower. I’m a mess and look like I haven’t slept. It’s the heat, I tell myself, but I know it was really me thinking about Jason and that fight we had and Roarke’s “he’ll come around” comment.

  Unable to look at the mess I am right now, I tighten the tie around my ponytail and exit to the hallway, turning back toward the seating area, only to smash into a hard chest. I gasp, and my arms end up in the grip of big hands, familiar big hands. My gaze jerks upward, and I find Jason staring down at me.

  “Hi,” I say, and the butterflies are back, swimming butterfly laps in my belly.

  Something warm flickers in his eyes, and his lashes lower a notch as he responds with, “Hi.”

  “Sorry I ran into you.”

  “Are you?”

  I swallow hard. “I’ve been staying out of your way.”

  “At my house.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “No, Jessica, it’s not a problem.”

  Why oh why did my nipples just pucker when he said my name?

  “You’re holding my hands.”

  “I know.”

  “Are you planning to say something to piss me off, and you’re ensuring I don’t hit you? Because I still have a knee.”

  “How’s the book coming?”

  “Which one?”

  “Either.”

  “Slow.”

  “I was a jerk Sunday. I can’t tell you or my men who to date.”

  In other words, his distance was a message. He’s decided I’m bad news, and he’s better off without me. “Okay.”

  “Okay? No snappy comeback.”

  “No. No snappy comeback.”

  He inhales, that big broad chest that my hands roamed over several times, but will never roam again, expanding. “If you have something you want to say to me—”

  “You’re my landlord. I get that.”

  “Jessica!”

  At the sound of his grandmother, Jason steps back. I waste no time moving around him and hurrying toward her. And I have no idea why, but my eyes prickle with tears. I didn’t cry this easily when my ex was naked with his girlfriend while I stood outside the bedroom door.

  A few minutes later, we’re exiting the diner and Martha turns me to face her. “I saw Jason and now you’re upset. What happened?”

  “I’m PMSing in a big, big way. Like I need cookies and chocolate.”

  She and Evie are studying me. “Honey,” Martha says.

  “Please don’t. When I PMS, I get all emotional.”

  Which is true, as of now, because there’s no other explanation for why I feel weepy. Jason and I had sex. We never even liked each other. Okay, he never really liked me. Apparently I had a bigger crush on that asshole of a cowboy than I realized.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Jessica….

  Once I’m home to shower, I step onto the porch to find my window units, but they’re so big I can’t even move them off the porch. I have no clue what to do about this, but right now, I don’t care. I’ve just shut the door when my phone buzzes with a text message. My heart lurches with the idea that it’s Jason, and I grab my cell from my bag.

  It’s my agent: Advance on the way today by wire. It’s in our office.

  “I guess I better write the book,” I whisper, and while I have yet to hear from Craig, now, there’s money in my account. I’ll have to be frugal in case I have no job, but I want to make the cookie business work.

  I shoot a text to Martha: Good news. My advance is in so we’re funded but I better come back here after I get the license and write the book. Tomorrow I’ll go find us some business.

  Martha replies right away: If you need those cookies and chocolate, I can bring them to you if you don’t want to be here.

  Dear Lord, now I tear up, but I manage to type: Good to know, thank you.

  Kelly rushes to my feet, and I pick her up and hug her hard before feeding her. God, I’m glad she’s here and loves me. When she’s heartily eating, I shower and dress in my typical uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. I’m going to the courthouse, not to make sales pitches.

  A few minutes later, I’m in my car for the first time in a week and I’m headed to the courthouse one town over. It doesn’t take me long to snag our license, and with it in hand, I’m feeling better. I head back to Sweetwater and stop by the country store, where I pay off Jason’s bill that I owed him for, and then on a whim, buy the pink boots I wanted because I can.

  I’m just walking out to the car when I come face to face with Darius. “I’ve been wanting to catch up to you,” he says, his brown eyes friendly and flirty. And he’s cute, maybe a few years younger than me, I think, with sandy-blond hair that isn’t covered by a cowboy hat. “I guess today’s my lucky day. How’s country life treating you?”

  “Good,” I say. “I like it. Or I would if I could cool the cottage down, and if that’s my worst complaint, I think I’m doing pretty well.”

  His brows dip. “Don’t you have window units?”

  “Yes, but they don’t work well. I ordered a couple new units that got here today. I think once those are in place, all will be well.”

  “How about I install them for you?” he offers.

  “You’d do th
at?” I ask, because the truth is that I’m desperate to get some air blowing properly.

  “Of course. I can come by tonight.”

  “But it’s not a date, right? This is just you being kind. I mean, I can microwave you dinner in exchange for the help. And I have a stash of Martha’s cookies. But that’s all, Darius.”

  He laughs. “You give me cookies, I’ll bring dinner. How about that?” There’s an eagerness to his question. He really wants me to agree, and considering how Craig and Jason have made me feel, it’s kind of nice. Just not “go on a date” nice.

  “But it’s not a date,” I reiterate. “Right?”

  “Friends,” he agrees.

  “Then yes. Okay. I’d like that.”

  We set a time for seven, and I head to my car. I’m about to get inside, and he glances back at me and smiles. Oh God, it’s not a friendship smile. I don’t know what to do now. I get in my car and scold myself, because why can’t it be a date? Jason told me to date. The world told me to date, but even if I wasn’t all about Jason, which I am, I’m worried about the butterflies I don’t feel with Darius but do feel with Jason. Maybe those aren’t butterflies Jason gives me. Maybe it’s indigestion from his judgmental attitude. That’s got to be it. I’ll make this Darius thing work, one way or the other.

  Once I get home, I start a new book, another romance novel with a cowboy, and this one isn’t going to begin with me falling in the mud. This one begins with a gentleman coming to a girl’s rescue when her air conditioning won’t work, because another asshole cowboy doesn’t care about how hot she is. Ultimately, the heroine is destined to fall in love. And not with the asshole cowboy. The other one.

  …

  Darius arrives with bags of food and a bottle of wine. “If you want to put the food in the oven, I can get the air conditioners going,” he says, offering me the bag.

  “Terrific. Thank you.” I look at the wine. Do friends bring wine? Nope. They don’t bring wine. I was right about that smile.