Trouble in Cowboy Boots

by Desiree Holt

  Table of Contents

  Legal Page

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  New Excerpt

  About the Author

  Publisher Page

  Trouble in Cowboy Boots

  ISBN # 978-1-78686-420-8

  ©Copyright Desiree Holt 2018

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright June 2018

  Edited by Rebecca Baker

  Totally Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Totally Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Totally Bound Publishing. Unauthorized or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2018 by Totally Bound Publishing, UK

  Totally Bound Publishing is a subsidiary of Totally Entwined Group Limited.

  Warning:

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Totally Burning and a Sexometer of 2.

  TROUBLE IN COWBOY BOOTS

  Desiree Holt

  Take one feisty female and one burned-out cowboy, mix well and watch the flames ignite.

  Stranded in Mesa Blanco, Texas, with no money and no prospects, Emily Proctor hires on as the cook at the Lazy Aces Ranch.

  Two problems—she can’t cook and owner Wyatt Cavanaugh is so hot she nearly burns herself just standing near him. Trying to keep her hormones under control is a problem when Wyatt seduces her into his bed and teaches her the real meaning of erotic love.

  Now proper Emily finds herself shockingly addicted to the BDSM games he likes to play, her body craving the bondage and domination that push her thermostat past the point of combustion, even though she suspects she’ll wake up and find it’s all turned to ashes…

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  C-4: The Great American Tool Company Inc.

  Cadillac: General Motors Corporation

  Coke: The Coca-Cola Company

  Lone Star Beer: Lone Star Brewing Company

  Lucchese: Lucchese Boot Company

  Stetson: John B. Stetson Company Corporation

  The Wizard of Oz: Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.

  Chapter One

  Emily Proctor slammed the hood of the car and looked at her two friends.

  “I don’t have a clue what’s wrong with this clunker, but I jiggled everything I could. See if it starts now.”

  They’d set out from Las Vegas, the three of them, refugees from downsizing, with nothing but this whale-sized bucket of bolts, a few possessions, prepaid cell phones for emergencies and the grand total of three hundred dollars between them. West there was only California and La-La-Land so they’d headed east, away from the desert heat. They’d expected the car to break down somewhere, just not on a highway with nothing around them except pastures and cattle. They hadn’t even passed another vehicle in almost an hour. And it was hotter than nine kinds of hell.

  Emily had pulled her thick mane of sable hair back into a ponytail. Now she lifted it off her neck where it rested limply and used it to fan her skin. If this was a nightmare, she wanted to wake up right this minute.

  Lola Lamont wriggled in behind the wheel. One blonde curl from the mass held haphazardly in place on her head by a clip fell forward onto her forehead and she brushed it impatiently away. Stretching out her long, showgirl legs and straightening the T-shirt that barely concealed breasts that were the envy of every other girl in the shows, she worked herself into place on the seat. Letting out a long, slow breath, she carefully turned the key. The motor coughed, gurgled, groaned and finally turned over with a sound that set all their teeth on edge.

  “At least it started again.” She sighed. The 1966 pink Cadillac convertible was her contribution to their road trip. “This old gal has been very good to me.”

  “It may be time to put her to sleep.” Roxie snorted.

  “Roxie!” Lola did her best to look affronted.

  “I’m with Rox,” Emily put in. “You think this hunk of junk will at least get us to the next town?”

  Leaning against the car, Roxie fanned herself with her hand. “It better, or we’re gonna burn up like fried chicken.”

  “All right.” Emily dusted her hands off on the seat of her jeans shorts. “Rox, get in the car. Lola, you drive. Roll all the windows down to catch some kind of breeze and pray as you never have before that we hit civilization before this thing rolls over for the last time.”

  The grand adventure they’d tried to make this was turning into a grand pain in the ass. If they didn’t light somewhere soon, they’d be in bigger trouble than they’d had in Vegas.

  No one said a word as they rolled down the highway, each mile unwinding beneath them with unbearable slowness. Emily knew they were sending up silent prayers to the gods and the fates and anyone else who would listen.

  Please, please, let us land somewhere safe.

  Just as the engine was beginning to make threatening noises again, signs of life emerged. Smack in the middle of the highway sat a town. If you could call it that. A far cry from the glitz and glitter of Las Vegas.

  But it had a main street, cross streets running into it and, lord have mercy, a café, where the car heaved its last and died.

  “At least we’ll be able to get something cold to drink.” Roxie sighed.

  “You better hope it’s cheap,” Lola warned. “Maybe we could all share one.”

  “Maybe we could just go inside and see what’s what.” Emily blew a stray hair away from her face. How in god’s name had she ever thought this would be fun?

  “‘What’s what’ better be a way to get that hunk of junk fixed,” Roxie said, climbing out of the car.

  “As if.” Lola tugged on her very tight white shorts and brushed at her hot pink tank top. “The only way that’s gonna happen is if we rob a bank or win the lottery.”

  “Right now we don’t even have money for a lottery ticket,” Emily reminded her and sighed. “Okay. Let’s go see what’s inside. Hopefully they have air conditioning or we might sweat to death.”

  The inside of the Blue Belle looked so cheerful Emily almost threw up. Booths among one wall were upholstered in what she could only call an electric blue and the scattering of tables and chairs had cheap vases of artificial blue flowers on them. Every available space on the wall was filled with more pictures of bluebonnets than she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen that many.

  At three o’clock in the afternoon, the place was mostly empty. The first thing Emily noticed was the blast of cool air that greeted them. The second was the three men sitting at a corner table. They all looked up as the women trooped in. If Emily had been in a better mood, she’d have checked them out. Right no
w, all she wanted was cold liquid, not a hot man.

  The three of them plunked down in chairs at a table near the door. Roxie picked up the menus stuck between the salt and pepper shakers and fanned herself. A woman in jeans and a blouse the loudest blue Emily had ever seen came out from behind the lunch counter.

  “Y’all look like you’ve just been dragged through hell,” she commented. “What can I get for you?”

  Roxie stopped fanning herself and looked at the plastic-covered menu. “We’ll have the large Coke.”

  “All of you?” the waitress asked.

  “One Coke,” Emily told her. “Three straws.”

  The woman stared at them for a long minute then shrugged. “Okay. One Coke. Three straws.”

  “Couldn’t we each just get a small one?” Lola whined.

  Emily bit back the retort that bubbled up. “Even a small one is more than two dollars,” she hissed. “They probably think they’ll get rich on strangers coming through.”

  The woman returned with a huge glass filled with the bubbly soda, plunked it down on the table and slammed three paper-wrapped straws beside it.

  “She probably figures she won’t be getting a tip,” Lola giggled.

  “She’s right,” Emily said and picked up one of the straws.

  They were each taking small sips, savoring the icy-cold liquid, when the waitress returned with two more large glasses of Coke and set them on the table.

  Emily looked up at her. “Um, we didn’t order those.”

  “I know.” The woman’s voice could have curdled milk. “Your friends over there did.”

  “My friends?” Emily frowned. “I don’t have any friends here.”

  “You do now.”

  The voice was deep and so smooth it sent shivers of delight dancing along her spine. She was vaguely aware of a chair scraping on the floor next to her and a body folding down into it. When she forced herself to look at the occupant she nearly lost it. A typical cowboy hat sat atop a head with thick sun-streaked brown hair long enough to touch the collar of his chambray shirt. Hazel eyes with flecks of amber and green were watching her with an amused look. Sensuous lips turned up in a slight grin that softened the harsh angles and planes of his very masculine face. Faded jeans covered long legs that he crossed with one ankle resting on the other knee, giving her a good look at dusty, but obviously expensive, cowboy boots. Hand tooled. Emily had seen enough of them on high rollers in Vegas.

  Emily was vaguely aware that the other two men had also joined them, but she couldn’t make herself pull her eyes away from the man next to her. The flood of dampness in her panties was her first warning sign that she might be in trouble.

  “I, um, I’m afraid there’s some mistake. The waitress said we were friends, but I don’t know you.” She flicked a glance at the others. “Any of you.”

  She waited for Roxie or Lola to also offer a protest, but they were sitting there as gape-mouthed as she was. She could almost feel the thick shroud of testosterone circling them.

  “Well,” the man next to her drawled, “if this was a bar I’d buy you a drink. The Coke’s the best I could do. Besides, y’all look thirsty enough to do more than share one.”

  Emily finally found a shred of her brain. She folded her hands primly in front of her and hitched her chair slightly sideways.

  “We don’t accept drinks from strangers.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Lola snapped, grabbing one of the large glasses.

  The man’s smile widened. “Well, if we introduce ourselves we won’t be strangers.” He held out a hand. “Wyatt Cavanaugh.”

  Emily just stared at him. Then, taking a deep brat and letting it out, she reached out her hand and put it in his. At once arrows of heat shot through her, waking up hormones she didn’t even know existed. She must have kept them hidden under her tailored suits.

  Wyatt closed his fingers around her small hand and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. “Now you’re supposed to tell me your name,” he prompted.

  She swallowed. “Emily Proctor.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Emily Proctor,” he drawled. He nodded at the man sitting with an arm draped over the back of Roxie’s chair. “Cliff Beckett, owner of Chaps, the best honky-tonk in Howell County.”

  Cliff laughed, a gravelly sound. “It better be. It’s the only honky-tonk in the county.”

  “And don’t forget those other—”

  “Other bad habits of mine?” Cliff interrupted. “Let’s let the ladies find out for themselves.”

  Wyatt gave him a strange look and turned to introduce the third man at the table.

  Before he could, the man crowding close to Lola tipped his hat and pointed to the star on his shirt. “Sam Campbell, county sheriff.”

  “Sam was worried about three beauties traveling alone in that disaster you parked outside,” Cliff said, “and wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “Just doing my duty,” Sam put in, his tone easygoing.

  Wyatt grinned. “If you get drunk at Chaps, Sam will be the one to arrest you.”

  “I don’t get drunk,” Emily told him then bit her lip. My god, I sound like my fourth grade teacher.

  “Well, that’s nice to know. Mesa Blanco’s not exactly a tourist spot, so mind if I ask what you ladies are doing here?”

  The three women exchanged looks.

  “Traveling,” Roxie said and sipped at her Coke. “Seeing the West.”

  “The last time I saw a boat like that was in a junkyard,” Cliff commented.

  Wyatt chuckled and glanced out of the big front window. “I’d have to say that limousine out there isn’t in tiptop shape for touring. In fact, if I were asked, I’d have to say it rolled over and died right here outside the Blue Belle. Now you have to figure out how to give it a funeral.”

  “It’s not dead,” Lola protested.

  “That’s right,” Emily added. “Just…resting.” She wished Wyatt would move his chair back a little. The heat sizzling between them was scorching her more than the sun outside. She wondered if he felt it, too. When she looked at him there was a glint of humor in his eyes, but otherwise his face gave nothing away.

  Sam Campbell shook his head. “I have a feeling come this time tomorrow I’ll have to arrest that vehicle for loitering. Now. We’re honest men here and we just want to help. So why don’t you tell us why you really ended up here.”

  The women heaved a collective sigh of resignation.

  It’s not as if we can really get up, walk out of here and drive down the road.

  “All right,” Roxie said. “I’ll start.”

  With each of them contributing bits and pieces, they got the whole miserable story out, all the while scarfing down their soda and Lola taking care to avoid any mention of the way that asshole, Nick Mantucci, had dumped her. Wyatt signaled for the waitress to bring refills for the women and more coffee for the men and they kept on drinking and talking.

  At last, Emily leaned back in her chair and glared at each of the men in turn, trying to ignore the sexual energy still crackling between her and Wyatt Cavanaugh.

  “So. Does it make you macho men feel so much better to know we’re stuck here with practically no money, a car that won’t run and no place to go for help?”

  “Well, now.” Wyatt drained the last dregs from his coffee cup. “It could have happened in a worse place.”

  “Yeah?” Lola cocked an eyebrow at him. “How do you figure that?”

  “We may not be as big as Las Vegas, but we might be able to scare up a job or two.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, like a cook at my ranch. My hands are getting real hungry since the last one quit.”

  The silence was like an elephant in the room.

  A cook? Yeah, right.

  “Wyatt’s got a nice spread just outside of town,” Cliff told them. “Ten thousand acres, right, Wyatt? Runs a nice herd of beeves. Does pretty well for himself.”

  “I don’t need a PR person, Cliff.”
Wyatt leaned back in his chair. “But I do need a cook. For about twenty people.” His glance ranged around the table. “Anyone interested?”

  Before she could stop herself the words were out of Emily’s mouth. “I am.”

  Lola and Roxie looked at her as if she’d lost what was left of her mind. A cook? They knew the closest she got to cooking was turning on the coffeemaker in her condo. Before she’d lost it, she’d been the takeout queen of Vegas.

  They’re right. I’ve gone crazy. I can’t cook and all I want to do with this man I just met is get naked and…

  “So.” Wyatt broke into her thoughts. He was studying her, tiny lights dancing in his ever-changing hazel eyes. “You want to cook. Ever done it before?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “Of course.” She gripped her hands together under the table and prayed her friends would keep their mouths shut.

  “So running grub for twenty or so folks three times a day isn’t a problem.”

  She shook her head back and forth as if it was on a swivel post. “Not at all.”

  “Well, it comes with your own quarters just off the kitchen and a decent salary.” He named a figure that was less than Emily made in Vegas, but of course she wasn’t making anything at the moment, so whatever the salary she was grateful. She’d just have to figure out how to cook and save up until she could get out of here.

  Emily swallowed. “That sounds fine. When would you want me to start?”

  “No time like the present. Your gear in that hunk of junk out there?”

  She nodded.

  “Let’s get to it, then.” He pushed back his chair and stood.

  Emily got a crick in her neck looking up at him. “What about my friends?”

  “They’ll be safe.” It was the first time Sam, the taciturn one of the three, had spoken in some time. “I’ll see to it. I can at least get them rooms at Mrs. Chester’s for a couple of nights. At a rate they can afford,” he added quickly as Emily started to protest.