by Jill Shalvis
“My ma used to say there wasn’t any ill wind that didn’t blow some kind of good,” she rejoined. “Look on the bright side; maybe the hurricane will take out Golfing for God, although I’m having trouble understanding why you want that to happen. It sounds like Golfing for God is like a national treasure or an eighth wonder or something like that.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Golfing for God is a running joke in this town. It’s the kind of place that makes people laugh at me and my kin. And that’s something they’ve been doing for generations.”
“Generations?”
“Yeah. My forebears once owned all the land around these parts. The land was part of a big plantation. My great-great-something granddaddy came back from the Civil War and proceeded to lose the farm in a poker game. The story is he left a suicide note penned to the Lord, asking for forgiveness and making a special request that the angels watch over his family, who he left destitute, I might add.
“Anyway, my forebears have been eccentric ever since. My granddaddy built Golfing for God, and my own daddy runs it and claims to regularly converse with angels. Daddy would be heartbroke if Hurricane Jane took out Golfing for God, especially when Hurricane Hugo didn’t lay a glove on it.”
“Your father talks to angels? Really? That’s kind of cool.”
“No, it’s not. Thanks to Chancellor Rhodes’s ill-advised suicide note that invoked the heavenly host, there has always been at least one Rhodes in every generation who has gone off the deep end and talked with angels. It’s like a family curse. And me and my two brothers and sister are not going to end up like that if we can help it.”
“You really believe this? I would have thought that a negative person such as yourself might—”
“Yeah, I believe there is a strain of serious mental illness that runs in my family. I’m going to rise above it.”
“Well, I suppose that’s a positive approach. But really, have you ever considered that Golfing for God was spared by Hurricane Hugo as a sign that the Universe approves of it? I think it’s pretty positive to have a pipeline to angels.”
“Do you believe in angels? Really?”
She shrugged. “I think metaphorically, being in touch with the forces of the Universe is way cool.”
“You are insane. And so is my daddy. I am not going there.” He glanced down at her breakfast. “Are you done with that?” he said, clearly changing the subject.
She looked down at her plate. She’d managed to pack away most of the meal, but not all of it. “Yeah. But I wonder if I could get a box. I have a feeling it might be a while before my next meal.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll feed you until the buses are running again. C’mon, let’s go.”
“Uh, no.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this is where we part company.”
Clayton P. blinked down at her. “You do realize this storm’s going to get worse before it gets better? You can’t stay here.”
“Why not? It’s a free country.”
He leaned in. “Because you have no money, no clothes, and no place to stay. Now, get up.”
“I’m not budging. You can’t make me.”
He grabbed Jane by the arm and hauled her to her feet with one powerful yank. His use of force sent fear radiating right through her. She tried to pull away, and he put his face right in hers. “You’re a brat, you know that? Someone needs to tan your backside.”
“Lemme go,” she gasped. She didn’t need anyone tanning her backside. Pa had done enough of that when she was young. Every instinct in her body screamed that she needed to run—and run fast.
She pulled against his grip, and he released her. She whirled away, racing for the door like a coon with a bloodhound on her tail. She didn’t think about the storm, or the poncho, or anything except getting away from him. A girl on her own needed to run when her instincts told her it was time. She hit the door and pushed through it. A wall of wind and water hit her with the force of… well… a hurricane.
Her namesake smacked her upside the head with a fury designed, no doubt, to beat some sense into her addled brains. Hurricane Jane might have blown her all the way to Kingdom Come, too, if it hadn’t been for Clayton P., who materialized out of the wall of rain and wind and folded her up in a pair of strong and gentle arms.
He was so enormous that he blocked the wind with his big body and seemed utterly immovable despite the forces buffeting him. “Are you all right?” The concerned look on his rain-drenched face chased away the sudden panic. It also did something to her insides—as if she had just taken a deep draught of something at least one hundred proof. Heat flowed from her belly to every one of her extremities. How could a really big guy who’d just scared her silly make that kind of heat inside her? It was not a hopeful sign. It was scary.
But she nodded anyway, momentarily struck dumb by the strong and benign feel of his hands on her shoulders.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said above the roar of wind and rain. The look of contrition on his face seemed genuine. He turned and pulled her with him up the street. As she walked beside him, clinging to his impressive arm, it occurred to her that either Clay Rhodes and the hurricane were in league and out to mess up her life, or the big man was just too darned stubborn to let tropical-storm-strength winds knock him around.
Either way, she had gotten the message: The Universe and Hurricane Jane meant for her to go with him.
Faith Aldridge learns it’s true. Everything is bigger in Texas: the trucks, the trouble, the love of a lifetime…
Going Cowboy Crazy
Available now
Chapter One
IF YOU THINK MY TRUCK IS BIG…
Faith Aldridge did a double take, but the bold black letters of the bumper sticker remained the same. Appalled, she read through the rest of the signs plastered on the tail end of the huge truck: DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS; REBEL BORN AND REBEL BRED AND WHEN I DIE I’LL BE REBEL DEAD; I LIVE BY THE THREE B’S: BEER, BRAWLS AND BROADS; CRUDE RUNS THROUGH MY VEINS.
She could agree with the last one. Whoever drove the mammoth-sized vehicle was crude. And arrogant. And chauvinistic. And a perfect example of the rednecks her aunt Jillian had warned her about. Not that her aunt Jillian had ever met a redneck, but she’d seen Jeff Foxworthy on television. And that was enough to make her fear for her niece’s safety when traveling in a state filled with punch lines for the statement—
You might be a redneck if…
You have a bumper sticker that refers to the size of your penis.
The front tire of her Volvo hit yet another pothole, pulling her attention away from the bumper stickers and back to her quest for an empty parking space. There was no defined parking in the small dirt lot but, even without painted lines, the occupants of the bar had formed fairly neat rows. All except for the crude redneck whose truck was blatantly parked on the sidewalk by the front door.
Someone should report him to the police.
Someone who wasn’t intimidated by law enforcement officers and didn’t worry about criminal retaliation.
Faith found an empty space at the very end of the lot and started to pull in when she noticed the beat-up door on the Ford Taurus next to her. Pulling back out, she inched closer to the cinder block wall, then turned off the car, unhooked her seat belt, and grabbed her purse from beneath her seat.
Ignoring the trembling in her hands, she pulled out the tube of lip gloss she’d purchased at a drugstore in Oklahoma City. But it was harder to ignore the apprehensive blue eyes that stared back at her from the tiny lit mirror on the visor. Harder, but not impossible. She liberally coated her lips with the glistening fuchsia of Passion Fruit, a color that didn’t match her plain brown turtleneck or her conservative beige pants. Or even the bright red high heels she’d gotten at a Payless ShoeSource in Amarillo when she’d stopped for lunch.
A strong gust of warm wind whipped the curls around Faith’s face as she stepped out
of the car. She brushed back her hair and glanced up. Only a few wispy clouds marred the deep blue of the September sky. Still, it might be a good idea to get her jacket from the suitcase in the trunk, just in case it got colder when the sun went down. Of course, she didn’t plan on staying at the bar past dark. In fact, she didn’t plan on staying at the bar at all. Just long enough to get some answers.
After closing the door, she pushed the button on her keychain twice until the Volvo beeped. Then, a few feet away, she pushed it again just to be sure. One of her fellow computer programmers said she had OCD—Overly Cautious Disorder. Her coworker was probably right. Although there was nothing cautious about walking into a bar filled with men who paraded their egomaniacal thoughts on the bumpers of their trucks. But she didn’t have a choice. At seven o’clock on a Saturday night, this was the only place she’d found open in the small town.
As Faith walked past the truck parked by the door, she couldn’t help but stare. Up close it looked bigger… and much dirtier. Mud clung to the huge, deep-treaded tires, hung like stalactites from the fender wells, splattered over the faded red paint and blotchy gray primer of the door, and flecked the side window. A window her head barely reached. And in the heels, she was a good five-foot-five inches. Well, maybe not five inches. Maybe closer to four. But it was still mind-boggling that a vehicle could be jacked up to such heights.
What kind of a brute owned it, anyway? Obviously, the kind who thought it went with his large penis. The kind who didn’t think it was overkill to have not one, but two huge flags (one American and the other who knew) hanging limply from poles on either side of the back window. A back window that displayed a decal of a little cartoon boy peeing on the Toyota symbol, two blue-starred football helmet stickers, and a gun rack with one empty slot.
Faith froze.
On second thought, maybe she wouldn’t ask questions at this bar. Maybe she would drive down the main street again and try to find some other place open. Someplace that didn’t serve alcohol to armed patrons. Someplace where she wouldn’t end up Rebel Dead. Not that she was even close to being a rebel. Standing in the parking lot of Bootlegger’s Bar in Bramble, Texas, was the most rebellious thing she’d ever done in her life. If she had a bumper sticker, it would read: CONFORMIST BORN, CONFORMIST BRED, AND WHEN SHE DIES SHE’LL BE CONFORMIST DEAD. But she just didn’t want to be Conformist Dead yet.
Unfortunately, before she could get back to the leather-upholstered security of her Volvo, the battered door of the bar opened and two men walked out. Not walked, exactly. More like strutted—in wide felt cowboy hats and tight jeans with large silver belt buckles as big as brunch plates.
Faith ducked back behind the monster truck, hoping they’d walk past without noticing her. Except the sidewalk was as uneven as the parking lot and one pointy toe of her high heel got caught in a crack, forcing her to grab on to the tailgate or end up with her nose planted in the pavement. And as soon as her fingers hit the cold metal, an alarm went off—a loud howling that raised the hairs on her arms and had her stumbling back, praying that at least one of the men was packing so he could shoot the thing that had just risen up from the bed of the truck.
“For cryin’ out loud, Buster. Shut up.” One of the men shouted over the earsplitting noise.
The howling stopped as quickly as it had started. Shaken, Faith could only stare at the large, four-legged creature. With its mouth closed, the dog didn’t look threatening as much as… cute. Soulful brown eyes looked back at her from a woolly face. While she recovered from her scare, it ambled over to the end of the truck and leaned its head out.
Faith stepped back. She wasn’t good with dogs. Or cats, gerbils, birds, hamsters, or fish. Pretty much anything living. She had a rabbit once, but after only three months in her care, it died of a nervous condition.
“Hope?”
The name spoken by the tall, lean cowboy with the warm coffee-colored skin caused her stomach to drop, and she swiveled around to look behind her.
No one was there.
“Baby, is that you?” The man’s Texas twang was so thick that it seemed contrived.
Faith started to shake her head, but he let out a whoop and had her in his arms before she could accomplish it. She was whirled around in a circle against his wiry body before he tossed her over to his friend, who had a soft belly and a chest wide enough to land a 747.
“Welcome home, Little Bit.” The large man gave her a rough smack on the lips, the whiskers of his mustache and goatee tickling. He pulled back, and his blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“She cut it, you idiot.” With a contagious grin, the lean cowboy reached out and ruffled her hair. “That’s what all them Hollywood types do. Cut off their crownin’ glory like it’s nothin’ more than tangled fishin’ line.” He cocked his head. “But I guess it don’t look so bad. It’s kinda cute in a short, ugly kinda way. And I like the color. What’s that called—streakin’?”
The man who still held her in his viselike grip grinned, tobacco juice seeping from the corner of his mouth. “No, Kenny, that’s what we did senior year.”
“Right.” Kenny’s dark eyes twinkled. “But it’s like streakin’. Tintin’? Stripin’? Highlightin’! That’s it!” He whacked her on the back so hard she wondered if he’d cracked a rib. “Shirlene did that. But it don’t look as good as yours. She looked a little like a polecat when it was all said and done. Does she know you’re back? Hot damn, she’s gonna shit a brick when she sees you. She’s missed you a lot.”
His eyes lost some of their twinkle. “Of course, we all have. But especially Slate.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward the door. “I can’t wait to see his face when he sees you. Of course, he ain’t real happy right now. The Dawgs lost last night—twenty-one to seven—but I’m sure you’ll put an end to his depression.”
Faith barely listened to the man’s constant chatter as he dragged her through the door and into the dark, smoky depths of the bar. She felt light-headed, and emotion crept up the back of her throat. Did they really look so much alike that these men couldn’t tell the difference? It made sense, but it was still hard to absorb. All this time, she thought she was an only child and to realize…
“Here.” Kenny slapped his black cowboy hat down on her head and tipped it forward. “We don’t want to start a stampede until Slate gets to see you. Not that anyone would recognize you in that getup.” He shook his head as his gaze slid down her body to the tips of her high heels. “Please don’t tell me you got rid of your boots, Hope. Gettin’ rid of all that gorgeous hair’s bad enough.”
Faith opened her mouth with every intention of telling him she never owned a pair of western boots to get rid of, or had long gorgeous hair, for that matter. But before she could, he tucked her under his arm and dragged her past the long bar and around the crowded dance floor with his friend following obediently behind.
“So how’s Hollywood treatin’ ya?” Kenny yelled over the loud country music, then waved a hand at a group of women who called out his name. “It’s been way too long since you came for a visit. But I bet you’ve been busy knockin’ them Hollywood directors on their butts. Nobody can act like our little Hope. You flat killed me when you was Annie in Annie Get Your Gun. Of course, you did almost kill Colt—not that I blame you since he was the one who switched out that blank with live ammo. But the crowd sure went crazy when you shot out them stage lights. I still get chills just thinkin’ about it.”
Chills ran through Faith’s body as well. Hollywood? Actor? Live ammo? Her mind whirled with the information she’d received in such a short span of time.
“Yep, things sure ain’t been the same without you. I can barely go into Josephine’s Diner without gettin’ all misty-eyed. ’Course those onions Josie fries up will do that to a person. Still, nobody serves up chicken-fried steak as pretty as you did. Rachel Dean is a nice old gal, but them man hands of hers can sure kill an appetite.”
Kenny glanced down at he
r, then stopped so suddenly his friend ran into him from behind. From beneath the wide brim of her hat, she watched his dark brows slide together.
“Hey, what’s the matter with you, anyway? How come you’re lettin’ me haul you around without cussin’ me up one side and down the other?”
Probably because Faith didn’t cuss—up one side or down the other. And because she wasn’t a pretty waitress who was brave enough to get on stage and perform in front of a crowd of people. Or move away from the familiarity of home for the bright lights of Hollywood.
Hollywood.
Hope was in Hollywood.
For a second, Faith felt an overwhelming surge of disappointment, but it was quickly followed by the realization that all the hundreds of miles traveled had not been in vain. This was where Hope had grown up. And where Faith would find answers to some of the questions that had plagued her for the last year.
Except once Kenny found out she wasn’t Hope, she probably wouldn’t get any more answers. She’d probably be tossed out of the bar without even a “y’all come back now, ya hear.” She’d become a stranger. An uppity easterner with a weird accent, chopped-off ugly hair, and not one pair of cowboy boots to her name. A person who was as far from the popular Hometown Hope he’d described as Faith’s Volvo was from the redneck’s truck.
But what choice did she have? She had never been good at lying. Besides, once she opened her mouth, the truth would be out. Unless… unless she didn’t open her mouth. Unless she kept her mouth shut and let everyone assume what they would. It wouldn’t be a lie exactly, more of a fib. And fibs were okay, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. And who could possibly get hurt if she allowed these people to think she was someone else for just a little while longer?
Hope wasn’t there.
And Faith wouldn’t be, either, after tonight.