A Cowboy for Keeps

by Laura Drake

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Laura Drake

  Excerpt from Last True Cowboy copyright © 2018 by Laura Drake

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover images by Rob Lang.

  Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  First Edition: July 2020

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  ISBN: 978-1-5387-4648-6

  E3-20200706-DA-NF-0RI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Author

  A Preview of Laura Drake's The Last True Cowboy Chapter 1

  Also by Laura Drake

  Praise for Laura Drake and Her Novels

  To Mr. Rasmussen, my high school English teacher (may he rest in peace), who taught me to love Shakespeare, Chaucer, and John Donne. If you can do that with a fifteen-year-old, you’re one hell of a teacher.

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  Chapter 1

  Lorelei

  It’s been the normal crazy-hectic twelve-hour Saturday at the Chestnut Creek Café, and I’m beat.

  Nevada, our cook, ducks her head into my office. “See you on Monday, Lorelei.”

  “Enjoy your day off. Say ‘hey’ to Fish for me.”

  “Will do.” She waves and the door falls closed. I’m glad Nevada’s happy. Of course I am. She and Joseph “Fishing Eagle” King may be total opposites, but they fit together like layers of a Kit Kat bar.

  My sister, Patsy, has her pick of cowboys on the rodeo circuit. Carly has Austin and her baby (soon to be babies). Nevada has Fish, and I…I’m just blue tonight, I guess. I shut down the computer and pull my saddlebag-size purse from the drawer. I’m proud that our railroad-station-turned-café is the social hub of Unforgiven. I’m proud to be the manager, feeding hungry people. It’s a good, clean, honest job. Maybe not the job I dreamed of when I was young, but I like it. I just wish sometimes that I weren’t so…invisible.

  I’m a human golden retriever: loving, loyal, dependable. But in my experience, humans with those traits tend to go unnoticed. The dogs, on the other hand, people find adorable.

  I walk through the pristine kitchen and push through the swinging door into the diner. The streetlight outside makes little inroads in the room’s deep shadows. In the quiet, the earworm that’s floated through my head all night cranks up, an old melancholy song of yearning and broken hearts. I raise my arms and waltz with a shadow partner across the floor. I try to imagine his face, but of course, a shadow man has none. It’s better that way. Shadow men can’t let you down.

  My feet slow, and I drop my arms. My dream of competitive ballroom dancing died years ago, along with my hope of romance, after my great love affair ended with Prince Charming turning into a married, smooth-talking loser. See, happily-ever-afters only happen to stray golden retrievers, not their human counterparts.

  That’s okay. Let everyone else have the messy love lives: the heartache, the loss, the pain. I’ll stay above that fray, thank you very much. I have friends. But the last time I had a date, we had a different president. I have so little time for whatever single people do for fun that I sometimes feel like I’m watching life from behind a pane of glass.

  But I’m the one who installed the glass. When you put your young heart into the hands of a casual liar the first time, you scrutinize men’s hands after that. I sure didn’t plan to be single at thirty-seven, with no hope of a partner or babies. But the years slipped away, and here I am.

  Talking to myself.

  “Stop it, Lorelei. You sound whiny. You’re not a whiner.” I take the few steps to the door, unlock it. “Besides, Momma’s waiting.” I step out and lock the door behind me.

  Unforgiven doesn’t literally roll up the sidewalks after dark, but if they did, no one would notice. Everyone is home with their families. I drive from the light of one streetlamp to the next, past dark stores, far too many with windows dressed in butcher paper. The square and its dingy gazebo look tired and a bit spooky this time of night. Unforgiven is miles off the interstate, and we’ve struggled since the railroad shut down years ago. Sure, some tourists come through, but fewer every year. Route 66 means nothing to Gen Z.

  I turn off the town square and head for home. No streetlights out here to break the vast blackness of a New Mexico summer night. The only beacons are safety lights on poles and outbuildings. Three miles out, I stop at the mailbox with WEST on the side, with the little yellow tube below for the Unforgiven Patriot. Just the usual flyers and bills. I’m silly to think my sister would write when she doesn’t answer calls or texts, but still there’s that little letdown every time I open the box.

  Patsy’s living an exciting rodeo-road life. That life isn’t for me, but it would be nice to get a glimpse of it now and again—from a safe distance, of course. Living vicariously would suit me just fine.

  The headlights of my old Smart car sweep the house, highlighting that it needs a coat of paint—or three. But I have no time, and there’s no money to pay someone to do it. Besides, if I had the money, it’d go for a new roof. The warm light from the kitchen spills onto the porch, raising my smile. That light has welcomed me home every one of my thirty-seven years. Well, since I was old enough to leave it, anyway.

  The screen door shushes over the lintel, and home wraps around me with the smell of meat loaf and the sound of laughter.

  “That piece doesn’t go there, Mary.”

  “Yes it does, see?”

  “No, you can’t force it. You know better than that.”

  I cross the worn linoleum to the living room. Mom and Mrs. Wheelwright are at the card table, putting together their latest jigsaw puzzle.

>   “What’s up, ladies?”

  Mom’s small, dried-apple face comes up, wreathed in smiles. “Oh, Patsy’s home!” She stands and, ignoring her walker, shuffles over and throws her arms around me. I hug her back, inhaling her dusting-powder scent, choking back the sticky wad of disappointment in my throat. “It’s Lorelei, Momma.”

  She backs up enough to look into my face, a wrinkle of worry between her brows. “When is Patsy coming home?”

  “Don’t know, Momma.”

  “Mary, I need help. Can you find where this piece goes?”

  Momma totters off, Patsy forgotten. For now.

  Mrs. Wheelwright gives me a small, sad smile. She is a godsend, staying days with Momma for next to nothing. She’s only a few years younger than my mother, but she’s a former nurse and says she’s happy to help out. I think she wants to escape her too-quiet house since her husband passed last year. I blow her a kiss and wander back to the kitchen to get dinner finished and on the table.

  Momma mistaking me for Patsy usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight it does. I have been the constant in Momma’s life even before her stroke two years ago. I’ve stayed in Unforgiven, kept up the house, worked to pay the bills, and taken care of her.

  Still, she longs for Patsy.

  Not that I blame her. My younger sister got all the charm, looks, and glitter—everyone’s favorite. I don’t begrudge her that—I’m right there in her pack of admirers. You can’t not like Patsy. She’s so full of herself, and confidence, and…life. She lights up the room when she walks in, and when her focus is on you, you feel special, smart, important.

  I pull on the worn oven mitts and take the meat loaf pan from the oven, setting it on the back of the stove to cool. I cross to the pantry by the back door, reach behind the gingham curtain, and pull out the Potato Buds without looking. They’ve been on the same shelf, always. It would be great if Patsy could make it home sometime. The last time we saw her was after Momma’s stroke. But she was antsy and made more work than she helped. My sister is many great things, but a caregiver isn’t one of them. Within the week, she was gone, back on the road with her latest cowboy boyfriend. And except for a sporadic text or two, checking on Momma, nothing since. But I know she cares. We love each other in this family—it’s our superpower.

  I pour the tea, finish whipping the potatoes, and move everything to the table. “Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Wheelwright starts dinner, I finish it—that’s the deal. When they’re seated, we hold hands, I say a quick prayer over the food, then pass the plates.

  After dinner, when Mrs. Wheelwright has left and I’ve gotten Momma into her nightgown and in bed, I sit in her rocker and pick up the book we’ve been waiting to start. Reading is beyond Momma now, but she loves to be read to. I enjoy it, too; it calms me, helping me put the day down, relaxing my mind for sleep.

  Momma loves all romance, but ever since I happened on a sci-fi romance last year, she’s been hooked on intergalactic love battles. I picked up this one by Fae Rowen at the library. “You ready, Momma?”

  She fists her hands on the sheet and nods, her eyes bright. Her stroke mostly affected her mind, making her childlike and apt to forgetting. Her face is as full of delight as a ten-year-old’s—in bad need of ironing. I lean over and kiss her forehead. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “I love you too, dear.” She pats my face. “Where would I be without you?”

  “Well, you’ll never have to find out, so you settle in.” I turn to the first page. “‘O’Neill never expected a glorious red and purple sunset to be her enemy…’”

  * * *

  I love late spring for a lot of reasons, but especially because I can drive to work on a Monday with the sun coming up over the Sandia Mountains.

  The opening notes of “Amarillo by Morning” ping from my phone. If this is our busboy calling in sick, I swear…“Hello?”

  “Is this Lorelei West?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Officer Beaumont, New Mexico State Police. Do you know a Patsy Lynn West?”

  “What?” My hand jerks, and the car takes a sharp swerve. My heart beats timpani in my ears; my blood swirls in a dizzying storm surge. I pull off the road, skid to a stop in the gravel, and throw the car into park. “She’s my sister. What—”

  “Ma’am. I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I need to inform you there was a vehicular accident last night—”

  “Where?”

  “Out on Highway 10—”

  “No, where are you calling from? What city?”

  “Oh, Las Cruces. Ma’am, I’m so sorry to inform you, but your sister died on the way to the hospital last night.”

  I’m dreaming. I’m in my bed, and this is just a nightmare, probably from the chilis in the meat loaf—

  “Ma’am? Are you there?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out on an emphysemic wheeze.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am, but I need to know—”

  “You’re sorry?” The word spirals up as pounding blood spreads over my vision in a red-tinged haze. “Where do you get off, calling at”—I check the clock on the dash, like the time of day could make the least bit of difference—“five a.m. to tell me you’re sorry?” My shout echoing off the windshield slaps me, making me realize I could be a tad hysterical.

  “Ma’am.”

  I heave in a lungful of air and come back to myself. “No, I’m sorry. Give me a second here.” My arm loses function, and the phone drops to my lap. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m not dreaming. Patsy is…gone. A picture flashes, of the last time I saw her. She gave me a hug and a dazzling smile, told me she loved me to pieces. Then she hopped in her truck, threw me a kiss in the rearview, and dust billowing, rode into the sunset.

  If I’d had any inkling of the future, I’d still be holding on to her, even though she’d be kicking and screaming; she loved the excitement of the next rodeo down the road. How could she be gone for good? Forever? I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate universe. Because this world has my baby sister in it.

  “Ma’am? Ms. West?”

  When I become aware of a faraway chirping, I realize I’ve been hearing it for a while. The phone weighs a ton when I lift it to my ear. “I’m here.”

  “I am truly sorry, ma’am. I just need to know what you plan to do about the baby, since neither the mother nor the father survived the accident.”

  I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. Either I am sleeping, or he’s crazy. Or maybe both. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your sister’s baby.”

  “You’re telling me Patsy had a baby.” Yeah, sleeping. This has the same tilted, off-the-rails feel to it. I dig my nails into my palm hard enough to draw blood. Funny, I never felt pain in a dream bef—

  “Yes, ma’am. A”—papers shuffle—“Sybil Renfrow was apparently babysitting and called us when Ms. West didn’t return.” For the first time, his voice shifts from administrative to human. “I know this is a shock, but if you don’t want custody of the baby, I need to let Social Services know. Are you aware of any other—”

  “Stop! Stop right there!” My brain does a slow, sluggish turn from the past to the present. “I’ll be there, okay? I’m on my way.” I check the clock again. “I’ll be there by lunchtime. I’ll take the baby. Text your address to my phone. You called me, so you have the number.”

  “I do.”

  “And, sir?” I take a breath. “How old is the baby? Do you know its name?”

  More rustling. “Six months old, ma’am. Her name is Sawyer. Sawyer West.”

  Somehow knowing her name makes this real. A baby.

  Oh, Patsy.

  Chapter 2

  Lorelei

  I hang up and sit, trying to absorb what is unabsorbable. My baby sister, dead. All that beauty, that love of life, all that potential. Why on earth didn’t she tell us she had a baby?

  It’s wrong to hate the dead, but I’m powerless to halt t
he searing, self-righteous fury that takes over my body, rattling my bones and putting the taste of bile in my mouth. Six months. For six months I didn’t know there was a baby on the planet that shared my blood. My DNA.

  “Sawyer.” I try it out on my tongue.

  A big truck blows by, and Einstein rocks on his shocks. I’m wasting time. I jerk myself from my anger and force my mind to work. Oh God, Momma. I’m going to have to tell Momma. Somehow.

  First things first. I focus on the red-brown mountains in the distance. How can the view be the same as before the phone call that changed everything? I lift my phone and hit speed dial.

  “Lorelei, hi. I was just getting Faith up.”

  “Carly. I need your help.” My voice sounds shocky, like I was the one in a car wreck.

  “What’s wrong? Oh no, not your momma?”

  “Not Momma. Patsy. Carly, Patsy’s dead.” The words are cracked, like broken chunks of granite falling into my lap. Saying it out loud just made this high-def real.

  “What?” Her voice is shrill. Patsy and Carly were in the same class at Unforgiven High, though they traveled in different circles. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “I just got the call from Las Cruces. There was a car wreck last night. I’m sorry to do this to you when you’re due to deliver soon, but I’ve got to go—”

  “Of course you do. Look, you’re in no condition to drive. Come by here, and—”

  “Carly, someone has to cover for me at the diner. You going to leave Nevada in charge?”

  “Oh, good point. Put her and my nana together and we’d have no customers left. I’ll go in.”

  “I’m so sorry to ask. Your feet will swell, and—”

  “Are you kidding? The regulars will take over, just like they did after I fainted in the middle of the dinner rush the night Faith was born. They won’t let me lift a finger. You go. What else can I do? Wait. Your mom…”

  “Mrs. Wheelwright is with her. I’ll call them later.”

  “Are you okay, hon?”