Long Hard Ride
Adriana French
Long Hard Ride Copyright © 2020 by Adriana French.
This book is a work of fiction. You have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored without express permission. Any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events or locations are purely coincidental.
Contents
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
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Chapter One
March
I can’t fucking breathe. That damn fireplace is spitting and crackling, putting off so much heat, and the only thing I can do to escape this shitshow is stare out the window. I manage a deep breath and focus on three spindly pines in the distance.
“Let’s get started.” The preacher steps in front of me and cracks open his Bible.
Fuck. My heart pounds so hard I think it’s battering my ribcage. I can’t believe I’m actually going through with this.
I need to concentrate on calming the fuck down. As soon as I get this over with, I can get back to what’s important, my cattle business.
I’ve never lived with a woman, never mind married one. Hell, I’ve never even been in love. But when I do fall, you can bet your ass it will be a woman of my choosing. It will only happen once, because I’m possessive as shit, so I’ll never let her go.
My wife will be at least my age, thirty-six. But I prefer older women. I’ve tried messing around with younger fillies before, and they only gave me a pain in the ass.
Brooke Carlisle is fifteen damn years younger than me, so this is not good.
Christ. I loosen my tie because I’m suffocating. I don’t know why I even wore one. This is barely a ceremony, no one’s here.
Chuck Carlisle, who’s out of bed for the first time in months, nudges my leg. He’s in a wheelchair beside me, acting as my best man. Best? Really? The old codger fucking trapped me into marrying his granddaughter, and he damn well knows it.
Chuck bumps my leg again.
I lean down. “What?”
“Thank you, son. You’ve made me very happy. Now I can die in peace knowing the ranch will stay in the family and Brooke will be taken care of.” His crinkly eyes smile back at me. And shit, I can see he’s sincere. I like it better when he’s bullshitting me. “If they don’t put that son-of-a-bitch boyfriend of hers back in prison before I croak, at least I’ll know you’ll be around to protect her.” Chuck starts hacking as if he needs to emphasize that he’s dying.
I shift my stance, but there is no position on earth that’s going to make me feel more comfortable. Chuck bumps my leg again.
“What is it this time?” I growl, losing my patience. How the fuck long am I supposed to stand here waiting for a bride who doesn’t even know me anymore? A bride who’s going to annoy the living hell out of me.
“You didn’t have to make me your best man.” Chuck cackles. “But it’s a nice touch, I’ll give you that.”
I bend close to his ear, keeping my voice low so the preacher doesn’t hear me. “I only asked you to be my best man because I’m too fucking embarrassed to tell my family about this crock-of-shit circus act.”
Chuck narrows his eyes and pouts. “Now that’s no attitude to have on your wedding day.” He starts hacking again. The tubes stuck in the top of his hand shake and wiggle. Crap. It looks like the IV stand is going to tip over.
I move to straighten it, but his nurse beats me to it. Chuck finally clears his throat. “Live together in this house for six months, which is more than enough time for the law to track that little shit down, and you’ll walk away with one hundred grand and one hundred acres, just like I promised. Stay married for ten years, and you two will get everything. Seven hundred acres, five million in cash—my entire estate is yours. Who knows?” Chuck’s crinkly eyes light up. “You just might like being hitched.”
“I’m not doing this for your goddamned money, Chuck, and you fucking know it. I’m only going through with this insane ceremony so you can die in peace.” Hell, giving six months of my life to the man who taught me everything I know is the least I can do. But I’m not happy about him asking.
The preacher clears his throat and I straighten, giving him my attention. The song “White Wedding” blasts from someone’s phone. I scan the room and freeze.
Holy hell.
Brooke Carlisle.
I haven’t seen her since she was ten. Shit, is she gorgeous—batshit crazy for doing this, sure, but unbelievably pretty. My goddamn heart bucks like a bronco trapped in a cage. Shiny long dark hair, beautiful big brown eyes, and those legs. Is she even wearing a bra? Those nipples—
“Someone told me there was a party in here.” Brooke laughs from the front door way that leads straight into the living room. Her silky voice is a slap in the face, reminding me she’s off limits. There will be consequences if my cock gets anywhere near her pussy. She waves her phone in her delicate hand and cranks up Billy Idol. “You ready to get this dog-and-pony show rollin’?”
Christ. It’s not like me to be speechless, but the way she’s walking—taking extra-dramatic steps with those long, smooth legs—takes every damn thought away, except for the one where I’m fucking her on the table she just walked by. She’s wearing white, but she doesn’t look like any bride I’ve ever seen.
Her white cowboy boots click over the hardwood as she approaches me. My heart is racing so fast I might be having a heart attack, or Christ, maybe come in my pants. She’s wearing skintight white shorts and a white flowy blouse of some kind. She levels me a sly smile under her white-as-snow cowboy hat. And fuck. Those lips.
Brooke stands beside me, and a perfume of oranges, sunshine, and cookies surrounds me. Lord have mercy, she’s edible. I keep facing the pastor but steal a sideways glance at Brooke. She must be at least five eight, because I don’t have to bend much to get a good look. Jesus. She’s so young. Her skin is flawless, smooth, and supple, I can only imagine how sweet her little pussy would taste.
It was her idea not to see each other before the wedding, otherwise I would’ve been more prepared. My head is throbbing, trying to sort out all the wrong feelings from the right.
It isn’t like me to be confused. Not ever. I’m a grown man who knows what he wants, and a twenty-one-year-old filly ain’t it. Yet every fucking bone in my body, including the one between my legs, is telling me Brooke Carlisle is the one.
“Shane McCallum West,” the preacher begins in a somber, serious voice.
I think I’m going to pass out.
I TURN OFF MY PHONE and steal a quick peek at Shane. There’s a bead of perspiration over his left eyebrow. Thank God I’m not the only one sweating bullets around here.
My heart is thumping, but not in its usual pattern. It’s more of a thump, thump, thurumpthurump—probably due to being scared shitless.
On the other hand, Shane McCallum West is pretty thrilling. My body sure as hell thinks so. I haven’t seen him in years, and I’m already wet. Holy shit, did he turn out fine, wit
h that black hair and those killer eyes. He’s built like a tank, with one of those chiseled-to-perfection jaws. All muscles and swagger, he’s every dangerous-cowboy fantasy I’ve ever gotten off to.
“And now, you may kiss the bride,” the preacher says.
Shit’s getting real.
My hands are slicked with sweat. I hold my breath as Shane levels his piercing blue eyes at me from under his black hat. Black. The man wears all black to his wedding. Who does that?
“Are we really going to kiss?” I ask, feeling my face heat. I cannot believe I just said that out loud. What the hell? Just because they kiss every time they say that in the movies doesn’t mean it’s supposed to happen now.
Shane leaves my question floating like a feather in the air, as if he didn’t hear what I said. Then his massive shoulders relax, and he zeros in on me. My heart jumps. I wasn’t expecting him to seriously kiss me. But it looks like he wants to. Oh, my. He’s coming in . . . Shane’s six-foot-a-whole-lot-of-something muscled frame bends.
Warmth pours off his broad chest. He smells like spicy pine, buttery leather, and something scary good. He angles his rugged, dreamy face and brings his beautiful full lips close to mine. Sheltered under his hat, I lean in for the kiss. My whole body is tensed up in knots. It’s like I’m in suspended animation, waiting and waiting, and then . . . his lips rush past mine and he gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
“Well, I can tell right now that this marriage isn’t going to be any fun at all.” Shit, I’m talking again. I remind myself to pull it together and shut up before I make this situation any worse.
He looks surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
But do I listen to myself? Of course not. “You heard me,” I scold, shaking my head with fake confidence. “Can’t even kiss your wife on the lips on your wedding day.”
Gramps laughs.
Shane clasps my elbow, sending a thousand jolts through my bloodstream.
“What?”
“I’d like a word with you, in private.”
“Fine.” I feel my cheeks heat up with humiliation. I duck my head, so he doesn’t notice how flushed I am, and trail his big boots into the kitchen
Shane leans his hunky-ass self against the counter opposite me. I stay away from him, near the sink. We’re both half leaning, half standing, in a showdown. I had a little crush on him when I was kid. He used to work here in the summers for my granddad. I’m sure I even fantasized about marrying him once or twice, but not like this.
“This is total bullshit,” I say, sounding far more bold than I feel. “I have my own life, you know. I was accepted to Piltson Art School. I was supposed to start class in Chicago tomorrow.”
Shane stares at me. “If you think I asked for this, you are sadly mistaken. And about you wanting me to kiss you back there, I’m sorry to say that won’t be happening, sweetheart.”
“I never said I wanted you to kiss me.” I’m grasping at straws here, but he’s acting like he’s God’s gift to women. Even if he is, he doesn’t have to rub it in. “I was merely asking if we were supposed to kiss. Maybe it was a requirement. How do I know? I’ve never been married before.”
“Neither have I,” he says evenly. “And if we want a clean break after our six months is over, we need to keep our distance. That way, in September we can get divorced and go our separate ways without you having any messy emotional-attachment issues.”
“You think I’m going to become attached to you?” I’m practically stuttering and sound like a shrew, but who does he think he is? “If anything, you’ll be the one who’ll become attached to me.”
“I highly doubt that, baby girl. I’m a lot older than you—you’ll just have to trust me on that score.” Shane straightens, and even though I’m speechless, I can still gawk. I just can’t help it, damnit. My eyes roam up from his sexy black boots to his fitted dress pants and . . . Holy hell. He’s carrying an extra-large piece, if you will, on the left. Definitely.
I quickly catch myself and look away. “You’re not my type.”
“Whatever you say.” Shane gives me a mischievous grin, like he knows he’s exactly my type. He keeps me hooked in his eye-snare as he passes me on the way to Gramps’s old yellow refrigerator.
“You don’t even know me. But while we’re on the subject, you should know I have a boyfriend,” I feel a twinge of guilt about lying. We’ve technically broken up.
“Beer?” He turns back from the fridge and tosses me a can of Bud. Shane resumes his alpha male lean against the counter and pops the top on his beer. “Oh, I know all about that piece of shit, darlin’.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong.” No one understands Steve, and I’m sick and tired of it. I take a long guzzle and savor the cool malty taste as it trickles down my throat. This beer is the best thing that’s happened to me today.
“Am I wrong about him serving time for assault?”
“It was a misunderstanding.”
“I guess there was a misunderstanding about his drug possession charge too?”
“It was fucking mix-up,” I shout.
“Nice language for a young lady,” Shane sneers and goes back to his beer.
I let the comment slide. I can use whatever words I want, and I don’t need him correcting me.
“Gramps was just worried that the ranch wouldn’t be kept in the family,” I explain calmly. “He shouldn’t have forced you to marry me. He kept saying that you’d keep me safe. From what? I have no idea. It’s not like I’m in any danger.”
“And you know why he was worried?” Shane’s eyes burn into mine, and my heart does a flip. “Because he thinks that good for nothing boyfriend of yours is going to worm his way back into your life and steal this ranch out from under you.”
“Steve would never do that—”
“Not now that we’re married, he won’t.” I notice a trace of a smile before Shane takes a big gulp. “Don’t worry, Brooke. I’ll keep you safe.” His half-smile is gone, the energy in the room has turned deadly serious. “Whatever comes your way, I promised your grandfather I’d take care of you, and I will.”
The protective tone in Shane’s voice hits me like a bullet, and takes me right back to those summer days when I used to hang on his every word. Even though I’m not the slightest bit concerned about Steve, something about hearing Shane say he’ll take care of me, after all these years, is pretty sexy. I’m temporarily mesmerized by the thought.
The room is pin-drop silent, and somehow I get all tangled up in those blue eyes of his. I’ll bet there’s some underwater treasure hidden in there.
“You two talking about me?” Gramps rolls into the kitchen and parks his wheelchair between Shane and me. Ethel stands stoically behind him in the hall. “Do you mind?” Gramps snaps. Swiveling his chair on a dime, he squints at Ethel. “I knew you were there spying on me.”
She lets out a weary sigh and rolls her eyes at the ceiling. “You hired me to watch you like a hawk. What would have me do?”
“Wait for me in the living room. If I start to croak, these two can call you.”
Ethel gives Shane and me a once-over. Apparently satisfied we’re up to the task of yelling for her, she turns on her heels and leaves.
Gramps rotates back to us. “Now. Let’s go over the specifics, because you’re not weaseling out of your end of the bargain. You listening, Shane?”
Shane sets his beer on the counter. “I’m all ears.”
“Good. Because there will be no funny business. Don’t think for a second you’ll be hightailing it to your place tonight and coming back in the morning. No. You two are married now. The deal is you live under one roof.”
Crap, is this embarrassing. Why does he have to spell everything out like that?
“I wasn’t going anywhere, Chuck.” Shane sounds surprisingly unruffled, considering. “My bags are in the garage.” He smirks. “In case you’d like to check?”
“Just making sure we’re all clear. Brooke, you have any questions?
”
I guess now is as good a time as any. “You said it would be okay if I set up my easel somewhere. It won’t take up much space.”
“Don’t be silly.” Gramps’s voice softens. “I’m fully aware I yanked you out of school. Your art is important. The house is yours—wherever you want to set up is fine.”
“The living room has the best light.”
“Put it right in front of the big window, then.” Gramps nods. “That’ll work.”
“Thanks.” Relief washes over me. “I really want to get into that Reflections art walk I was telling you about, and I still have to submit my work to a jury.”
“They’d be crazy not to accept you, sweetheart.” Gramps sends me the same grin that’s warmed my heart since I can remember. “Now, on to more important matters, the sleeping arrangements.”
“I’ll take the couch,” Shane offers quickly.
“You’ll do no such thing.” Gramps is back to snarling again. “I have the biggest room in the house, and I can move that hospital bed into the guest room—it has wheels. Then you two can move a bed in there.”
Sharing a bed? My mouth dries up like it’s packed with cotton. “Ah, no,” I squeak, shooting my hand up. “That’s not happening, Gramps, and I won’t hear of you changing rooms.”
“Neither will I. You need the space.” Shane’s deep commanding voice backs me up. He shoots me a look, and damn if my heart doesn’t twitch. Shane is so much more manly than I remember. It’s overwhelming.
Even if he wasn’t six foot whatever, I’m sure his presence would take up all the space in any room he walked into. My nipples are ready to do tricks on command, practically waving at him through my bra. I fold my arms over my chest, hoping he won’t notice.
“Well, Ethel has the other room, and there are only two twin beds in the guestroom.” Gramps shakes his head. “I guess you can push them together and make one big marital bed.”
When will he stop? “I don’t think that will be necessary.” I gulp, side-eyeing Shane, checking his reaction. I think I detect a twinge of discomfort. “I can make room for your clothes, by the way,” I offer quietly. “You don’t have to keep them in the gar—”
Long Hard Ride: Arranged Marriage, Brothers, Cowboy Romance (The Wild Wests Book 3) Page 1