Once upon a time.
They’d traded in their racy clothing for two of the biggest, most poofiest white dresses this side of the Rio Grande. They were giving up their old ways. Getting married. Settling down.
Nikki sucked in a much-needed breath. Geez, it was hot. And stuffy. And bright.
Daytime weddings should be outlawed. Particularly when they took place at a church where the reverend prided himself on locking in the temperature at an economy-saving seventy-five degrees.
Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary, temporarily blinding her. She blinked and swallowed against a rising wave of nausea and the crazy urge to call a halt to the entire ceremony.
I object!
If Crystal and April weren’t sane enough to do it themselves, then she needed to step up. To preserve her own sanity.
Her lips parted. Her tongue moved. Her voice box squeaked—
The sound of a throat clearing cut her off before she could blurt out the first word. Her gaze snapped up and collided with the best man who stood directly across from her.
Cole Unger Chisholm, pro rodeo’s biggest and best saddle-bronc rider, narrowed his gaze as if to say “Stay out of it,” and her own gaze narrowed.
She clamped her lips shut and frowned. He had a lot of nerve. He was the crazy one. The impulsive wild card who prided himself on doing the outlandish. From standing upright on a bucking bronc during the last few seconds of his ride, to flipping off reporters when they got a little too close, Cole was the quintessential bad boy. The last one left now that the rest of the infamous Lost Boys were officially off the market.
He was the one more likely to make a scene and blow the ceremony. He was outlandish. Unpredictable.
And damned good-looking.
He wore a black tuxedo jacket that outlined his broad shoulders. A crisp white shirt, starched Wranglers and spit-polished black cowboy boots completed the outfit. His usually long and unkempt brown hair had been pulled back to tone down the bad boy look, but the shadow covering his jaw killed the effort. He still looked like every woman’s wet dream. The perfect man for a one-night stand.
If Nikki had been into one-night stands.
She wasn’t, even if she had entertained a few choice fantasies about Mr. Saddle-bronc champion. But those were her own most private thoughts. It wasn’t as if she meant to act on them. Ever. Which was the main reason she was about to freak fifty ways to Sunday.
Despite her own reputation as a bona fide bad girl, she wasn’t the real deal like her two older sisters. She hated late nights and loud music and too much booze. Three very important truths she’d managed to hide from her mother up to this point because Raylene’s attention had always been fixated on the older girls. They’d been her pride and joy. Two chips off the old block.
Until now.
“...marriage is a joyous union between two souls that marks the beginning of a new life together...” the minister went on, and reality weighed down on Nikki.
Crystal, her oldest sister and the one everyone had expected to follow in Raylene’s footsteps and take over the honky-tonk, was getting married, of all things. Ditto for April. They’d both given up their wild and wicked ways, and their jobs as head bartender and chief bar maid, to pledge their undying devotion. Even more, they were packing up and moving to a ranch over an hour away, and Nikki would be the only one left to help Raylene.
No more hiding out in the kitchen, plotting her culinary future while she whipped up the typical bar food—everything from chicken wings to nachos. No more studying her butt off in the back room while her mom and sisters kept the party going out front. No more applying for sous-chef positions with a handful of Houston’s top restaurants.
She was the only daughter left now. Her mother’s last hope.
She swallowed again and tried to ignore the churning in the pit of her stomach. A drop of sweat tickled its way down Nikki’s right temple. The razor burn on her legs prickled.
“...take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband...”
She blew out a deep breath and inhaled again. Her nostrils burned with the sickeningly sweet scent of flowers coupled with the half gallon of sickly sweet eau de gag me Margie Waltrip, Lost Gun’s one and only wedding coordinator, had sprayed her with prior to the walk down the church aisle. Her stomach pitched and rolled.
“...and do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife...”
Easy. Just breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
“...by the power vested in me, I pronounce each of you man and wife. Husbands, you may kiss your brides!”
She was not going to throw up, despite the blinding light and the overwhelming smell and her mother’s hopeful stare.
Rather, she was going to paste a smile on her face and waltz back up the aisle with the rest of the wedding party.
Or waddle, which was about all she could manage in the huge dress.
And then she was going to find her way out of the maze of tulle and flowers, hunt down the church’s nearest exit and run for her life.
* * *
SHE DIDN’T WADDLE her way to freedom.
She wanted to. Boy, did she ever. But she couldn’t make a break for it without upsetting her sisters, and so she climbed—at a much slower pace than usual thanks to the layers of fabric—into her beat-up Chevy pickup and followed the line of trucks and SUVs headed out to the Gunner Ranch where the reception was being held.
At the reception, she kept as wide a distance from her mother as possible, and ignored the phone in her pocketbook that vibrated every few minutes with a new text. The most startling of which?
How would you like to be my new bartender?
Ugh.
The last thing she wanted was to serve beers for the rest of her life. She’d spent the past few years dressing like her sisters and putting up a front to stay off her mother’s radar, while secretly pursuing her culinary degree. She’d even managed to stash away a sizable nest egg to tide her over through an internship. She wanted out of here, a chance to live her own life, to fulfill her own dreams.
But first she had to make it through finals in two weeks without losing her focus.
Fat chance if she ended up slinging Coronas side by side with Raylene Barbie.
She ignored yet another text, finished taking the mandatory pictures and darted off toward the buffet line before her mother could pin her down.
She squeezed through the throng of wedding guests stuffed into the massive white tent where the reception was being held. A country band played a soft, twangy version of Willie Nelson’s Always on My Mind.
Seriously? Forget Miranda Lambert’s ballsy Gunpowder and Lead—the Barbie theme song. Her sisters really had gone off the deep end.
All the more reason to cut and run.
Now.
She bypassed the buffet and headed through a nearby tent that had been set up to house the food. After a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, she darted into the tent, and nearly collided with a waiter carrying a tray of crab cakes.
She paused to snag a sample before murmuring “Sorry,” and turned to make her way through the massive square-shaped kitchen. Burners and stoves lined the outer perimeter. The inner area was a maze of preparation tables. People clustered here and there, busily arranging everything from trays of speared shrimp to platters of cold vegetables and gourmet cheeses. There wasn’t a hot wing or a fried pickle in sight—none of the usual fare that her mother offered up at the honky-tonk. Even more proof that Raylene was, at this moment, going into shock from the one-eighty her world had taken.
Her mother wasn’t much for gourmet cuisine, which was why Nikki had been lying about taking a pole-dancing class in Austin three times a week. In reality, she made the hour-long drive to attend an advanced gourmet-entrée class to work
on her very own twist to the traditional beef Wellington that was sure to win its way onto the menu in one of Houston’s finest.
Fat chance now.
Her life was ruined. Her dream over. Her future tanked.
She fought down a wave of tears and bypassed a woman in a white chef’s hat who fed slices of cake onto individual crystal plates. The sweet, sugary aroma teased her nostrils, promising a temporary distraction.
Forget that. She needed alcohol.
She snagged an open bottle of wine from a nearby tray and took a long swig. Her sisters had gone all out. Forget a box of Pinot Grigio from the local Piggly Wiggly. She was drinking an aged White Zinfandel that slid down her throat with a smooth sweetness that eased the panic for a few seconds and slowed her pounding heart.
Another long drink and she left the service tent behind and headed for the barn that sat several yards away.
A little distance and a lot of wine and maybe, just maybe, she could figure out some way to deal with the disaster that was fast becoming her life.
She could spike her mother’s favorite moonshine three times a week with a couple of Ambien. That, along with the one-hundred-and-eighty proof, would surely be enough to knock her mother out so she could finish the class, ace the exam and get her degree.
And, more than likely, cause some serious brain damage to the one woman who’d endured twenty hours and thirty-three minutes of labor on her behalf.
Of course, the moonshine wasn’t any more an option than the Ambien. She didn’t have a prescription, nor did she have any of Big Earl Jessup’s famous White Lightning. The old man could barely remember his name, much less his prized recipe.
Another all-important fact which had Raylene acting even more desperate. She had over twenty different drinks on her bar menu that featured Big Earl’s classic moonshine. A secret weapon that upped her take at least twenty percent on any given Saturday night and gave her an edge over the bigger, flashier bars popping up along the main interstate. Raylene’s place had long since been a draw not only to the locals, but to the endless string of tourists that passed through Lost Gun. And all because of her Texas Lightning Margarita.
Sure, she told everyone, particularly Sheriff Hooker, that she used an aged tequila, but the folks in Lost Gun knew the taste of old Earl’s premium-grade liquor well enough to know better. And they talked. And that talk lured the tourists. And the tourists kept Raylene in black leather bustiers and salted peanuts. And Raylene’s business was the only thing that kept her too busy to focus on Nikki’s personal life.
Was being the key word.
The smell of hay and leather surrounded her as she fled deep into the massive barn that sat at the far edge of the property, bottle in hand, panic fluttering in her chest.
She took another long, much-needed drink and tried to think of something good. Something calm. Something monotonous. Like chopping Vidalia onions or whipping fresh, scented cream or kneading a blue-cheese brioche—
The thought stalled as she heard the clink of silverware against a plate.
Her gaze went to the ladder that led to the overhead rafters. Another clink and she knew she wasn’t alone in her misery.
Somebody was up there.
Kicking off the hated satin shoes, she mounted the ladder and made her way up to the second floor. Wood groaned as she reached the last step and topped the landing. Her gaze went to the far end where the monstrous shutters had been pushed open and moonlight spilled through the large square. Framed in the opening was a man perched atop a hay bale.
The man.
The object of way too many fantasies over the years.
But then she was only human, and Cole Chisholm was a one-hundred-percent, certified beefcake.
A small lantern hung nearby, casting a pale yellow glow that fell across his face as she neared where he sat.
He held a plate of half-eaten white cake in one hand and fork in the other. A black tuxedo jacket accented his broad shoulders. His crisp white shirt hugged the strong column of his throat and provided a stark contrast against his deeply tanned skin. Light brown hair streaked with gold hung past his collar and framed his strong face.
Hay crunched beneath her feet. He lifted his head and swiveled toward her.
Familiar violet eyes collided with hers and his expression went from irritation to pure delight in one fast, furious heartbeat, as if he were covering up his initial dismay. His full lips curved into a grin. A dimple cut into his shadowed cheek. His gaze glittered in the dim barn light.
A wave of heat went through her. Her breath caught and her tummy hollowed out, and for a split second, she forgot that Cole Chisholm wasn’t her type.
With the wine numbing her senses and her mother a safe distance away, the only thing she could think was that he was the most scrumptious thing she’d seen all day.
And boy, oh, boy, would she like to take a bite.
But then he opened his mouth, his deep Southern drawl sweet and dripping with charm, and the moment faded as she remembered why she’d opted for culinary school in lieu of burning the midnight oil at the honky-tonk.
Because it kept her far, far away from men like Cole Chisholm. The sexy, charming, let’s-get-naked-in-the-backseat types that oozed sex appeal and sweet compliments. The ones who were here today, gone tomorrow. The exact type her mother specialized in.
His sensual lips hinted at the most heart-stopping grin. “I knew it was just a matter of time before some pretty young thing followed me up here.” He patted the seat next to him. “Plant one right here, sugar. I’m all yours.”
2
COLE UNGER CHISHOLM wasn’t the kind of man to let a little misfortune ruin his entire day.
Hell, no. He was an optimist. A the-beer-bottle-is-half-full kind of guy. He just dodged the bullets of bad luck that fate aimed at him and kept moving.
The ordinary .22 kind. One shot. One hit.
But damned if it didn’t seem as if he was dodging a spray of buckshot tonight.
Sure, they’d found the last of the money out at Big Earl’s, but it would be another week and a half before they could actually turn it over to the sheriff. It seemed the man had been called out of town on a statewide manhunt that had started in Beaumont and was currently making its way toward Brownsville. All available law enforcement within a hundred-mile radius had been summoned to the scene. Since the most action Sheriff Hooker usually saw was the occasional Friday night drunk, he’d been more than ready to pack up his car and head for the real action, leaving his deputies in charge. Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Needless to say, Jesse had decided to wait until the sheriff returned to hand over the bank-heist money. Which meant Cole would not be rolling out of town tonight.
Even worse, he was stuck at the wedding for the next several hours until Jimmy and Jake tossed the garter and headed for the airport. Three more freakin’ hours. Why, Millie Van Horten had already cornered him twice to ask him to dance. Shae Rigby had brought him not one, but two slices of cake. And Jamie Lee Milburn had offered to give him a back rub.
And the really bad part was that he’d been this close to taking her up on her offer. His shoulders hurt like a sonofabitch after all that digging and a few magic fingers might actually make things bearable.
Thankfully, he’d come to his senses and told her he’d already promised his own back rub to Mary Lou Canter and Sharon Jenkins. And Christie Somerville. The idea? To show her what a disreputable guy he was and discourage her.
Like hell.
The more he played the wild and wicked player, the more determined each woman became to be the one to rope him in. It made sense. He was smack-dab in the middle of a wedding, for heaven’s sake. Every man in his right mind knew that women got a little crazy at weddings.
They saw the cake and bam, they wanted to be right there, cutting into the decaden
t layers, feeding it to the man of their dreams—that is, the nearest available bachelor.
Since his two brothers and every other member of the notorious Lost Boys were now officially spoken for, Cole was the only one still on the market.
The biggest catch this side of the Rio Grande or so the local About Town reporter had just scribbled on her pad during an interview a few minutes ago. No doubt tomorrow’s headline in the local Sunday paper. As if things weren’t bad enough already. Once tomorrow hit, he would be even more sought after than a hot, fresh-from-the-oven biscuit at a no-carbs convention. Every woman in town would be trying to drag him to the weekly church picnic.
While he liked a good barbecue as much as the next guy, he had no intention of showing up with any woman. That would be like hanging a sign on his back. Ready, willing and marriageable. He was none of the above, especially with less than four weeks until the national saddle-bronc championship. He was this close to winning another title—the title that would put him in the record books and solidify a spot in the saddle-bronc Hall of Fame—and he didn’t need any distractions. Even more, he wasn’t the marrying kind any more than his no-good, no-account father had been. The difference was, Cole had no problem admitting it.
Not that anyone seemed to believe it.
Despite the fact that he’d spent the past hour doing his damnedest to beef up his bad boy image and kiss goodbye his husband potential. He’d sucked down a few shots and danced it up with as many women as possible. But then his calves had started aching and his stomach had grumbled, and so he was here.
And so was she.
Nikki Barbie wasn’t wearing her usual black leather miniskirt or tight T-shirt, but she still looked every bit as sexy. She had long blond hair, bright blue eyes and a curvaceous body that did the Barbie name justice. Dark eye makeup emphasized her blue eyes and gave her that “come and do me” look. Pale pink lipstick plumped her already full lips. Everything about her screamed sex, which suited him to a T.
Texas Outlaws: Cole Page 2