All-American Cowboy

by Dylann Crush

  “That’s right. According to the will, you have to ride on the Rambling Rose’s float in the Founder’s Day parade. After that, everything is yours.”

  With that much cash, he’d be able to invest in some projects of his own. The possibilities began to spin infinite webs in his head. But could he do it? Three months in Podunk? What would happen to the lot in Morris Park? And the town…why would he want to willingly stay in a place that had given his dad such painful memories?

  “Why don’t you take the weekend to think about it?” Mr. Hill walked around the desk and held out his hand.

  Beck grasped it in a firm shake. “I will. Where do I find this Rambling Rose? I want to swing by and check it out.”

  “Head south out of town and take a right. You can’t miss it. Charlie Walker is in charge for now. They’ve actually got a big concert there tonight to celebrate Rocky Mountain Oyster Days. It’ll give you a chance to see the place hopping and the whole team in action.”

  “Rocky Mountain oysters?”

  “They’re a local delicacy. One thing you’ll find out about Holiday is that we don’t need much of an excuse for a celebration.” The man laced his fingers over his stomach and rocked back on his heels. “Folks around here will celebrate just about anything.”

  “I appreciate your help. Thanks, Mr. Hill.”

  “Good luck to you, Beck. I’ll expect to hear something from you by the beginning of next week.”

  Beck nodded and showed himself out. Standing on the front porch of the law office, he slid his sunglasses back over his eyes and looked up and down the street. A mini-mart occupied the building across the road. Next to that, an antique store took up the first floor of an old stone building. A diner, a western wear shop, and a gas station lined the road. His side held a post office, a couple of gift shops, and a barbecue joint. Not much else going on. How could anyone consider spending more than an afternoon here?

  He turned toward the western shop, the advice of the very competent blond playing on repeat in his ears. The least he could do was turn in his loafers for a pair of boots. Then he could get settled into the bed-and-breakfast and think about dropping in on the honky-tonk.

  His rubber-soled boat shoes padded across the wood-plank walkway. A loud moo sounded over his head as he entered the front doorway of Whitey’s Western Wear. Cowboy hats in various colors were stacked to the ceiling. Suede chaps, jeans studded with sparkly rhinestones, and belt buckles the size of his head plastered the walls. Maybe he wasn’t up for this. Surrounded by a sea of denim and plaid, he located the single employee.

  “Well, hi there, stranger. What can I do you for?”

  “I guess I need some new jeans and boots.”

  “Hmm”—the string bean of a man tapped his finger against his lip—“we’ve got some new ropers. Or were you thinking more like a dress boot?”

  What the hell was a dress boot? “I’ll put my faith in your capable hands.”

  “Come on over. I think I’ve got just the thing.”

  Beck followed the salesman through racks of plaid and floral-print shirts. Three months. He could do anything for three months once he set his mind to it. And for five million dollars in assets, he’d figure out a way to make this work. As he passed yet another rack of shirts, he fingered a purple paisley long-sleeved oxford with pearlized buttons and at least five pounds of sequins stuck to each sleeve.

  Well, maybe not anything.

  * * *

  Charlie scanned the main room of the honky-tonk. Her only full-time waitress, Dixie, had strung giant foam seashells from the overhead beams and draped fisherman’s netting over the tables. If that’s how she wanted to decorate for the annual Rocky Mountain Oyster Days, Charlie was more than happy to let her take the lead. Once less thing for Charlie to take care of.

  Sully would have been proud.

  Everyone had rallied after his death and done their part to keep things going. The place would never be the same without him, but Charlie would do her best to make sure the Rambling Rose retained the down-home, Texas hospitality it had been known for over the years.

  And to think, all of this could be hers.

  A lightness filled her chest as she considered what that would mean. She’d met with Mr. Hill that morning, and he’d gone over Sully’s will. She’d known how important it was to Sully that the Rambling Rose stay in the family. Toward the end, he’d sent multiple letters to his son and grandson. They’d all gone unanswered.

  Charlie always felt like the granddaughter he’d never had, but to hear him express the same sentiment right before he died made her more determined than ever to find his family and convey how important it was to keep the place going. Yet as close as they’d been, she’d never expected Sully to see her as a potential heir.

  So when Mr. Hill told her the will stipulated that Sully’s grandson had until the Founder’s Day parade to prove himself or the Rambling Rose would be hers, Charlie had almost fallen out of her chair. Now she had a decision to make—either help the floundering fish out of water, or make sure he didn’t succeed. Based on what she’d seen so far, it wouldn’t take much to run him out of town.

  She sighed and stepped behind the long bar. Playing dirty wasn’t her style. Unless she was knee-deep in mud, wrestling with Baby Back. She’d do what she needed to do to make good on her promise to Sully and try to keep the Rambling Rose in the Holiday family. Although, spending three months with the wise-cracking, good-looking New Yorker might feel like an eternity.

  “Hey, Boss.” Shep, one of the regular bartenders, shot her a smile as he unloaded a rack of beer mugs onto a shelf. “Looks like we’ll be packin’ ’em in tonight.”

  Charlie nodded while she ran a rag over a spill on the counter. “You need any help behind the bar tonight, just holler, okay? I’m still looking for a backup for you.”

  “Oh, I’ll be able to keep up. And if I get into a jam, I’ll grab Cash or Waylon or someone to help.”

  “Sounds good.” Her brothers had really come through for her over the past couple of months. Family came first. That was one of the values her parents had instilled in all of the Walker kids.

  It was still early, but most of the long wood tables had already been claimed. Folks lined the hard-plank benches, enjoying the warm-up band. They were here for the headliner—a kid from San Marcos who had taken Nashville by storm. Playing the Rambling Rose was a rite of passage, especially for a relative local, and though she’d been in charge of managing the nightly shows for the past eight years, even Charlie didn’t know who might show up and take the stage for an impromptu set.

  Shep set the empty rack on the ground, then stepped around her to pull on the tap and fill a mug. Charlie moved down to an empty section of the bar. She leaned on her elbows, resting her chin in her hands. Dixie bobbed through the tables, delivering mugs and bottles of beer. Music blared from the speakers while the crowd clapped along to the beat. The neon signs cast a warm glow around the edges of the room, and the scent of just-smoked ribs drifted out of the kitchen.

  Looked like another successful Friday night was on tap at the Rose. Before things got rocking, she’d better make sure Baby Back got her dinner.

  “Hey, I’m gonna go feed Baby Back,” she called out to Shep as she hung the dishrag on a hook.

  “That crazy-ass pig’s given you more trouble than the last two or three combined,” Shep said.

  “I know, I know. But it’s a tradition, right?”

  “If you ask me, they got some pretty strange traditions around here.” Shep held the empty dish rack to his side and passed her on his way to the kitchen.

  He was right about that. He’d only been there for about four months. Just wait until he saw what kind of “traditions” they had coming over the summer.

  Charlie followed him down the hall and grabbed the bucket of kitchen scraps the cook always saved for Baby Back. The
pig was spoiled rotten. Maybe that was part of the reason she took off all the time. She was probably bored to within an inch or her life and looking for adventure. Baby Back had gotten used to being coddled with kitchen scraps and behind-the-ear scratches. If she had to do more than pose for pictures and sniff out marshmallows, she might not have the energy to take off every chance she got.

  With thoughts of how to unspoil Conroe County’s most precious pig running through her head, Charlie pushed the screen door open right into the late-afternoon humidity.

  And right into the rock-solid body of Beck.

  Apple shavings, corncobs, and juicy slop splattered between them, covering them both in a mixture of solids and liquid. The slippery mess splattered onto the stairs, and as she took a step forward, her feet slid out from under her.

  Charlie’s arms flailed. She tried to grab onto the rail, the door, anything before she hit the ground. Her fingers briefly hooked on something, slowing her fall.

  Ripppppppppppppppppppppp.

  The noise dragged on, her fist now closed around a swatch of denim. Beck caught her around the waist seconds before her butt bounced on the top step, and she took him down with her. He flung one hand out to his side in an attempt to brace himself. He must have slipped because his body collided with hers.

  “Oooooof.” Her breath rushed out as she caught his chin in the center of her breastbone.

  The bucket clattered down the steps, banging and clanging until it hit the grass. Finally, the movement ceased.

  Charlie was afraid to move. She couldn’t take in a deep breath. Not with the hit to her chest and the head of sandy-blondish hair nestled in between her belly button and her—oh my God—her pubic bone.

  The hair moved. Beck lifted his head, his mouth hovering just inches above the apex of her thighs. She battled the overwhelming urge to jerk her knee to his groin.

  “What was that?” He lifted himself up with one arm and swiped at his eyes with the other. A slow smile spread across his face as recognition took root.

  Charlie scrambled backward like a crab. She couldn’t get out from under him fast enough. “What are you doing? Nobody’s supposed to come through this door. Didn’t you see the sign? Employees only.”

  He rose onto his knees while he wiped the slop off his cheeks with his sleeve. “I know you from earlier. You’re the angel with the truck who pulled me out of the ditch.”

  “Guilty as charged.” Although she was feeling anything but angelic at the moment. She got to her feet, not sure what part of her had suffered the bigger bruise: her backside or her pride.

  “And you work here?” He stood, towering over her, making her feel small and all of a sudden unsure of herself.

  Smart as a whip, this one. “You figure that out all by yourself there, Einstein?” She didn’t mean to lash out, but he set her off balance, and firing back with words had always been her go-to move.

  “Whoa. Are you always this friendly, Miss Charlotte?”

  She blew out a breath, embarrassed. Her mama had raised her with better manners than this. “Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  “You’re telling me.” Beck looked over the slop covering his sleeves. “What is this? Smells like someone’s leftovers.”

  “That’s one thing you’re right about. I was on my way to feed the pig her freaking dinner.” She held the swatch of denim out to him. “I think this belongs to you.”

  He squinted at the offering. “What’s that?”

  Flushed, she lowered her gaze to the tips of his boots. “I believe it’s…sorry, was your pocket.”

  Beck patted his ass with his hand, then twisted around, trying to see where the pocket had been. “You stole my pocket?”

  Charlie bit her lip and cast her eyes toward the sky, wishing, hoping, maybe even saying a little prayer that this was all a dream. A bad one. A nightmare of epic proportions.

  The clouds didn’t part. Looked like she was on her own. “Hey, I’m sorry about ripping your jeans.”

  “My new jeans.” He finally took the piece of fabric.

  “Your new jeans. I’d be happy to replace them.” She scooted past Beck to retrieve the bucket from the grass. He put out a hand to catch her, but the slop had lubed up her forearm and it slid from his grip.

  He called after her. “Before you stomp off into the sunset, can you direct me to the man in charge? Mr. Hill said I needed to ask for Charlie.”

  She whirled around to face him. “Are all of you Yankees so obtuse?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Charlotte Walker. I go by Charlie.”

  “Oh crap.” Beck lifted a hand to his head like he wanted to run it through his hair but thought better of it and let it fall to his side. “You’re the one who’s been taking care of the place since my grandfather passed?”

  “Since he passed and for about eight years prior.” So much for making nice. She bit her tongue to keep from unleashing everything she wanted to say to Sully’s sorry-ass grandson. How could he let Sully’s letters go unanswered? Why didn’t he ever call or write or visit? How much effort would it have taken for him to give the poor old man a tiny bit of joy in his final months?

  “And you’re a woman.”

  She couldn’t have prevented her eyes from rolling even if she had wanted to. “Last time I checked.”

  “I’m sorry. I assumed…Ms. Walker…Charlotte…can I call you Charlie?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “I think we’re getting off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?” A smile she was sure had prevented many women from getting a good night’s sleep graced his face. Even covered in splatters of slop, undeniable charm rolled off this man in waves. He offered her his hand. “Charlie. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

  Her gaze lingered on his fingers, which were still covered in potato peelings and a thin layer of slop. What the heck—hers were just as bad. She gripped his hand, feeling the warmth, even through the slime. His smile hit her with a slow burn, low in the gut.

  She squeezed her eyes shut into a long blink and gave a jerky shake of the head. Don’t even go there, Charlie. She slid her hand from his. If he thought he could barge in here, flip on the charm, and instantly earn her support, well, he had another think coming.

  This day had gone from bad to worse. Of all the men in New York City, why had she been saddled with this one?

  Because he was Sully’s grandson, that’s why. At the thought of her old boss, her anger petered out. For Sully, she reminded herself. At the rate she was going, she’d have to chant the reminder for the next three months.

  “Do you have a towel or something I can use to clean up?” Beck asked.

  “Sure.” Charlie wheeled around and led him inside a few steps, to the storeroom. She handed him a clean bar towel and pointed toward the sink. “You can clean up over there, although you’ll probably want to run over to the B and B to shower and maybe change your jeans. When you get back, I’ll show you around and introduce you to the rest of your staff.”

  His head cocked at the emphasis. “Thanks.” He turned toward the sink, wiping his face free of Baby Back’s dinner.

  She lingered, letting her gaze run up the long, denim-clad legs, over his perfect ass, snugly encased in a new pair of Levi’s. Minus the pocket, of course. Her gaze darted to his feet. The sockless loafers were gone, replaced by a pair of working man’s ropers. Whitey had probably had a heyday giving Beck a proper Hill Country makeover. If he was willing to take her advice, maybe he wasn’t completely hopeless.

  A drop of slop slid down her forehead, onto her nose, reminding her she probably looked like a modern-day Swamp Thing. She figured she had just enough time to find something to feed Baby Back, then run home and get cleaned up herself.

  “So, I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

  “Sounds good.” Beck lifted his hand in an awkward wa
ve.

  She headed toward the door, dipping her finger into her front pocket and brushing over the lucky Texas Centennial half-dollar Sully had given her right before he died. Even in death, that man knew how to keep her tripping around on her toes.

  For Sully, she chanted in her head. And if Beck ruined his chances on his own, she’d be happy to pick up the pieces.

  Chapter Four

  Beck tapped his feet along with the beat of the catchy bluegrass tune. He’d never been one for country music, but even he could appreciate someone who could wrangle kitchen spoons into some kind of song. Spoons, for crying out loud.

  The performer sat on an old wood barrel on the stage. A row of spotlights dropped down from a bar hanging from the ceiling. The inside of the Rose looked like a barn with all the giant beams and coarse-wood walls. Not that he would know exactly what the inside of a barn looked like, since he’d never been in one himself. But he could imagine it would look a lot like this.

  Probably felt a lot like this, too. The combination of heat from the lights and the press of denim-clad, boot-wearing patrons who twirled and spun around the dance floor made him pull his shirt away from his body in an attempt to catch some air. Either the space didn’t have any air-conditioning or the locals preferred the scent of fresh-cut grass and musty earth that floated in through the giant open windows on the barely there breeze.

  His dad had filled his head with visions of a two-barstool hole-in-the-wall, but this place was so much more than he’d pictured—it really pulled people in. Between the packed dance hall where the waitresses ran trays full of longnecks back and forth to the rough-hewn bar where the bartender filled orders for people two or three deep, the Rambling Rose was hopping.

  And Charlie Walker orchestrated it all.

  She’d cleaned up pretty well, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the way her tight jeans clung to every curve. They sat so low on her hips that, every once in a while, he could catch a sliver of skin between her waistband and where she’d knotted a pink-plaid shirt. She might be just over five feet tall, but she kept a tight rein on the employees and the patrons. Hell, he’d already seen her break up a fight between two cowboys who must have outweighed her by two hundred pounds. She bussed tables, filled mugs from the tap, and took to the stage to make introductions between acts. His grandfather had obviously known what he was doing when he’d put his faith in Charlie. It was becoming as clear as the starlit sky that if he wanted to give it a shot for the next three months, he’d have to get her on his side.