Ride Rough

by Tessa Layne

  Ride Rough

  A Roughstock Riders Novel

  Tessa Layne

  Contents

  Welcome to Prairie!

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Tessa’s Newsletter

  The heroes are here

  The Bad Boys have arrived

  Also by Tessa Layne

  Copyright © 2020 by Tessa Layne

  Paperback Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-24-1

  EPUB Edition ISBN-13: 978-1-948526-23-4

  Cover Art by Sunset Rose Books

  Published by Shady Layne Media

  * * *

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of copious amounts of wine, long walks, and the author’s overactive imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Movie star Trace McBride is in a bit of trouble. More than a bit. He’s taken his bad-boy image too far, too many times, and when he gets arrested for skinny dipping in his producer’s pool – with his producer’s wife, it’s the last straw. His agent comes up with a plan to revamp Trace’s image – by going incognito for a cowboy movie on location - far away from the prying eyes of the Hollywood tabloids. Spending six months in the middle of nowhere sounds like an awful idea, until he runs into Cecilia Sanchez. Literally. Trace is irresistibly drawn to the nosy, sarcastic journalist, even though getting close to her is more than risky- it’s downright dangerous.

  * * *

  Investigative journalist Cecilia Sanchez is one good story away from getting out of the backwater town where she grew up. Forced to return home when her first big-city job backfires – note to self, it’s never a good idea to write an exposé about your boss's son, even if it’s Pulitzer Prize-winning material - she’s determined to put Prairie on the map for something besides rodeos and tornadoes. CiCi is definitely not interested in cocky newcomer Trace, and doesn’t believe a word out of his sweet-talking mouth, but she can’t seem to resist his kisses.

  * * *

  When CiCi uncovers the story of a lifetime, she’s forced to confront her feelings for Trace, because letting the cat out of the bag this time might cost them both everything. Including each other.

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  Chapter One

  June

  * * *

  "What do you mean, I'm fired?" Cecilia Sanchez blinked once, twice. Surely, she hadn't heard right? She was great at her job. Like, really great. The strongest journalist her paper had. And she loved what she did. They'd been picking away at Tribune readership for the better part of a year, thanks to her ongoing series regarding bribery and potential embezzlement at the school district. Her investigative reporting had resulted in two school board members being recalled. There was no way she heard him right.

  Bob Collins pulled at his collar and adjusted his tie, looking everywhere in the room but at her. Was that sweat between his eyebrows? "I'm sorry Cecilia, but when your article implies that the son of the Board President is involved in-"

  "I didn't imply," Cecilia bit out. "I have evidence."

  Bob carried on as if she hadn't interrupted. "Potentially illegal-"

  "There's no potentially about it."

  "Activity," he continued over her, "there will be consequences." Bob's volume ticked up a notch, and for the first time he met her gaze head-on.

  Cecilia's stomach plummeted. This couldn't be happening. Not after the months, and months, and months of work she'd put in - nearly a year, piecing the story together bit by painful bit, going on dates with handsy businessmen, biting her tongue until it hurt when they made comments that coming from anyone else would have caused her to dump her drink in their lap. This story was supposed to net her a Pulitzer, not a pink slip. "Who's seen the story?" Hard as she tried, she couldn't keep the tremor from her voice.

  Bob ran a puffy hand through his thinning hair, jarring loose a thin strand that flopped dangerously close to his eye. He sighed heavily, all the answer she needed.

  "You could have just run the story," she accused, disappointment pressing against her sternum like a bowling ball.

  "Like hell, I could have," he snapped. "We both would've been sacked."

  "So you sacrificed me." Disappointment quickly transformed into something darker. Her chest flushed as a flash of rage colored her vision. How dare he throw her under the bus to save his own skin?

  "You don't understand, Ce-"

  "Damn right, I don't."

  "I'm six months from retirement. I promised Janet a trip to the ocean."

  "Don't give me that line of shit, Bob. Everyone knows you could have retired a year ago." The office pool was up to $300, but so far no one had guessed right. "Come on, Bob. You have no idea what I've sacrificed for this story. My boyfriend dumped me, for Chrissakes." Her heart twisted painfully. That was only the tip of the iceberg. She'd been couch surfing for the last two months.

  For a split second, regret flashed in his eyes. "I'm sorry kiddo." He spread his hands. "Once they read the accusations-"

  "The evidence. And don't call me kiddo."

  Bob kept going as if she wasn't even in the room. "There was no way they weren't burying this at the bottom of Lake Michigan."

  How many other stories like hers had been buried at the bottom of Lake Michigan? "I-I'll take it to the Tribune."

  When he laughed there was a bitter edge to his voice. "Be my guest. They won't touch it with a ten-foot pole."

  "You don't know that." He was probably right, but it was worth a shot. "I bet they're dying for a story this good."

  Bob snorted, shaking his head. "You're shit out of luck, kid. There's a merger coming."

  For once, Cecilia didn't think to correct him. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Merger? Shit. Shitshitshit. She swallowed. "When?"

  "Press conference at noon today. And you need to be out of the building before then."

  Cecilia blinked hard, this time to keep the unexpected moisture from spilling over. She wouldn't give Bob or anyone else for that matter, the satisfaction of seeing her cry. After everything she'd sacrificed, after her years of hard work getting to this point, it was all up in smoke because some powerful asshole could bury her? Fuck. That. She sniffed, rolling her shoulders, and drawing herself up to her full height of 5'2", not counting her four-inch stilettos. "Don't do something you're going to regret, Bob. You're going to regret this."

  "I already do," he answered quietly, shoulders slumping. "You've got talent, kid. But a word of advice?"

  Heavy silence engulfed them. She didn't have the energy to en
dure a head-patting from a washed-up editor with no courage.

  "You're ah... a strong flavor, Cecilia. You'll go farther in this profession if you tone it down."

  "You mean if I'm compliant," she practically spit. "If I don't make waves, and offer to write puff pieces."

  "There's no shame in writing human-interest."

  She ground her molars so hard they squeaked. "This is when your cowardice is complicit in trafficking," she accused, steel in her voice.

  "Now, calm down a hot second." He raised a finger. "You're only speculating."

  Cecilia slammed her hands down on squeaky clean desk that stood between them, and leaned in. "I. Will. Not. Calm. Down. Sir." Chicago's queen of the Northeast Heights, Bonita Carradine's matchmaking service Until You was involved in trafficking. She knew it with every bone in her body. She just hadn't been able to prove it. Yet. She'd already seen evidence it was an illegal escort service. It wasn't too much of a stretch to move into trafficking, especially when so many young co-eds were on her payroll, and the number of mafiosos on Bonita's client list was staggering. She stared hard at her boss. How had she been so blind? He'd let her chase down the story to keep her occupied and distracted while he was privy to the pending merger. "You were going to fire me anyway, weren't you? This just made it easier." Her stomach churned violently. Stupid, headstrong Cecilia, always crusading for a cause. Only this time, she'd gotten so caught up in her discoveries, she'd been oblivious to everything else - the frenetic energy in the office over the last month, the guilty looks exchanged between coworkers when she walked into the break room. She'd foolishly assumed they'd felt bad that her boyfriend Charlie had dumped her.

  At least Bob had the grace to blush. He dropped his gaze, nodding once. "Trib wasn't interested in someone with your skill set."

  "You mean, someone like me," she said flatly. "Someone who goes after the tough stories. Someone who still has journalistic integrity."

  Something warm flashed in Bob's eyes. "You're too much of a liability."

  "Because I expose the truth?" Her nostrils flared as she huffed out a breath, shaking her head. "I expected more from you Bob. I really did."

  "Journalism's changed, kiddo, you know that."

  Cecilia straightened. "Journalism's dead. And thank God you've saved me from following in your footsteps and dying a slow, pathetic death." The corners of her mouth drew up, though it was no smile. "Have a nice life, Bob. Enjoy the beach with Janet." She didn't bother to remove the acid from her tone. Turning, she stalked to the door, taking care to not rush her steps. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her crack. A hush fell on the outer room as the door swung open, all the evidence she needed that her colleagues knew. Keeping her eyes riveted on the far side of the room, she marched to her desk, swept her messenger bag from her chair, and wove through the eerie silence and down the hall to the bank of elevators. Thankfully, she met no other employees on the elevator ride down. At the security desk, she paused, removing her badge. "I won't be needing this anymore, James," she said with a watery smile.

  The older gentleman's eyes widened, but she shook her head before he could speak. "It's okay. All part of the plan. See you 'round." Her silver gladiator heels echoed across the shiny marble as she propelled herself toward the revolving doors and out onto Michigan Avenue. It was only nine-fifteen, but already the warm summer air held a heaviness that predicted afternoon showers. By the time she'd walked the mile-and-a-half to Grant Park and dropped to a bench, her feet were screaming at her. She didn't care. Right now, the pain was welcome. Better her feet than her heart. She pulled out her phone, took a bracing breath, and called the only person in the world who might possibly make this day suck a little less.

  "Sissy! How's it going?"

  The smile in her little sister's voice knifed right through her chest. Cecilia bit her lip to keep from crying out. "Hi," she said, voice wavering.

  "What is it? What's wrong?" Mariah's voice filled with concern. "Spill," she ordered.

  The fierce love and worry in her sister's voice was her undoing. Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut trying to keep her shit together, but it wasn't enough to stop the water from leaking out, or the cry from exploding out of her throat. She bent against the searing pressure in her chest. "I lost my job," she sobbed. "I don't know what to do."

  Chapter Two

  April - Two months earlier

  * * *

  "No," Trace said flatly, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles showed white. "No fucking way."

  A heavy sigh filled the car speakers. "You decide, Trace. Do you want to be done forever? Or do you trust me enough to let me help you make a comeback in six months or a year?" Portia challenged with an edge to her voice.

  He'd known Portia longer than anyone, and that edge told him he was pushing his luck. But still, he couldn't accept the poison pill she was urging him to swallow. "A year?" his voice cracked. "You want me to spend a year working on a ranch in Prairie fucking KANSAS? Are you kidding me?" He'd been to that backwater a few years before as a favor to a friend of Portia's, Jason Case, and while the people were nice, he vowed he'd never go back. They barely had cell service, and Wi-Fi didn't exist outside of town.

  "Not if you care about working in Hollywood ever again. But if you don't... then go right ahead and hit Las Vegas, better yet, go swing your dick around Nevis, but understand the consequences if you do." Portia's words reverberated inside the car as Trace zipped up the Pacific Coast Highway toward his place above the beach in Malibu.

  He could almost see her lifting a shoulder in an elegant shrug, saying without saying that he was welcome to party himself into oblivion, but that they both knew what would happen if he did. Trace stretched his hands wide and blew out a breath. What he needed right now was a day on the waves. Nothing cleared his head better than feeling the swell of the ocean beneath his feet, riding a wave, being at one with the water. And now Portia was asking, no - telling - him that he needed to give it up. "Do you realize what you're asking?"

  Portia snorted. "Do you want to salvage your career?"

  Trace sighed heavily as he zipped across two lanes of traffic and pulled off the highway, narrowly missing a skateboarder. "Of course I do," he snapped, laying on the horn.

  "Then take my offer and run with it. Even your agent agrees this is the best thing to do, and Emerson's gotten you out of some tight predicaments before. Prairie is the perfect place to lay low. They don't even have a movie theater in town. What they do have is a bull riding school, and the veteran's ranch, among others. They're used to strangers staying a few months and leaving. And after a year-"

  "Six months," Trace interjected.

  "You'll have enough ranching skills-"

  "Rodeo skills," he corrected, mildly intrigued at the thought of learning to ride bulls.

  "Whatever. The point is, if you look at this as study for a role, and you keep your pants zipped, I'll have a plum script waiting for you."

  That meant she already had it and he couldn't resist finding out more. He bit. "Who?"

  Portia's laughter filled the car. "Oh you don't get to know that. At least not yet."

  "I have ways," he challenged.

  She snorted. "Not this time, you don't. This is a top-secret project with a brand-new screenwriter. The script is brilliant. Every leading man in Hollywood will be campaigning for it. It's Oscar material. Multiple Oscars."

  "So it's a Western."

  "I'm not saying."

  Of course it was. Otherwise, why the push to get him to do time on a ranch? "Period piece?"

  "Trace."

  "Who else are you making jump through these hoops?"

  "Is that what you think this is? Some kind of power trip on my part?" The edge returned to Portia's voice. "I thought you knew me better than that."

  "I do, but-"

  She cut him off. "You know what your problem is?"

  "Tell me." She would, too. Portia never sugarcoated anything.

  "You've ne
ver had to work for anything. You've never struggled."

  "That's not true and you know it." How could she say that? Didn't she remember what it was like when they first met?

  "Trace, I've known you my entire adult life. No one... no one has been as lucky as you have."

  "It wasn't luck," he growled, mind spinning back to the first time he met Portia.

  "It was pure luck that we met, Trace."

  "But what happened after wasn't." He'd climbed to the top by sheer determination and hard work... and a healthy dose of charm.

  "That's debatable. You had the-"

  "Have," he corrected tersely. "I still have it."

  "Okay, fine. You have the right combination of good looks and charm that women love, which means producers love it, too. But they were only going to overlook your bad behavior for so long. You had to know this was all going to catch up to you, didn't you?"

  Well... not really. Who was he if he wasn't Trace McBride, life of the party, on and off the set?

  "Didn't you? Trace?" A note of worry entered Portia's voice.

  "I was just taking advantage of the opportunity in front of me," he defended.

  "WHO HAPPENED TO BE YOUR PRODUCER'S WIFE," she shouted. "Look, I don't care if she came onto you, or that the Whelans are swingers, or whatever bullshit line was used. It's time for you to grow the fuck up and start thinking about your future, Trace."