No Getting Over a Cowboy

by Delores Fossen

  The golden cowboy of Wrangler’s Creek returns home to Texas to discover some old flames never fizzle...

  There are plenty of things Garrett Granger hadn’t counted on losing—his child to miscarriage, his wife to another man and the family business thanks to a crooked CFO. He also hadn’t counted on moving back to the family ranch, where he’s met by another surprise—former flame Nicky Marlow, who is renting his grandmother’s old house.

  Nicky’s been rebuilding her shattered life since her husband’s death two years ago. But Garrett’s timely arrival in Wrangler’s Creek doesn’t automatically make him the missing piece of the puzzle. Even if he does seem to adore her two-year-old daughter... Even if seeing him again stirs up old feelings Nicky would gladly keep buried, forcing her to wonder if moving forward has to mean leaving everything behind...

  Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Delores Fossen

  “Clear off space on your keeper shelf, Fossen has arrived.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde

  “Delores Fossen takes you on a wild Texas ride with a hot cowboy.”

  —New York Times bestselling author B.J. Daniels

  “In the first McCord Brothers contemporary, bestseller Fossen strikes a patriotic chord that makes this story stand out.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Texas on My Mind

  “Fossen delivers an entertaining romance between two people with real-life issues.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Texas on My Mind

  “This is a thrilling and twist-filled read that will keep you guessing till the end.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Lone Wolf Lawman

  Also available from Delores Fossen and HQN Books

  A Wrangler’s Creek Novel

  Lone Star Cowboy (ebook novella)

  Those Texas Nights

  One Good Cowboy (ebook novella)

  The McCord Brothers

  What Happens on the Ranch (ebook novella)

  Texas on My Mind

  Cowboy Trouble (ebook novella)

  Lone Star Nights

  Cowboy Underneath It All (ebook novella)

  Blame It on the Cowboy

  To see the complete list of titles available from Delores Fossen, please visit www.deloresfossen.com.

  DELORES FOSSEN

  No Getting Over a Cowboy

  Table of Contents

  NO GETTING OVER A COWBOY

  ONE GOOD COWBOY

  NO GETTING OVER A COWBOY

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER ONE

  PANTIES IN A BUNCH ’Cause Your Car Won’t Start? Use Camel-Tow!

  That’s what was printed on the magnetic sign on the door of the tow truck. Next to it was a picture of a woman in tight white pants sporting a camel toe, complete with arrows pointing to it as if making sure no one missed it.

  No one could. Garrett Granger was certain of that.

  Garrett tried to call his sister and mom to see if they knew what was going on. No answer from either of them, but he left messages for them to call him back. Then, he got off his horse and walked closer to get a better look at things and make sure he hadn’t misread the sign on the flamingo-pink tow truck.

  Nope, no misreading.

  And his eyes hadn’t deceived him about the other things he was seeing, either. The person who’d driven that truck to the Granger Ranch had apparently not only trespassed but had also broken into his great-grandfather’s house.

  Such that it was.

  Garrett had always thought of the place as more of an ancestral eyesore than an actual house. But hell in a big-ass handbasket, it was his eyesore. Or rather his family’s.

  His great-grandfather, Z. T. Granger, had built the monstrosity nearly a hundred years ago and had chosen it as his final resting place. Z.T.’s grave was in the backyard. The old guy probably hadn’t counted on the place becoming a mecca for squatters or whatever the heck this was.

  It wasn’t as if the eyesore had a welcoming appearance, either. It was painted a dull shade of purple, the color of an old bruise, and the shutters were urine yellow. To complete the god-awful curb appeal, there was a slime-green front door rimmed with milky red stained-glass panels.

  The place didn’t scream “Y’all, come on in now and make yourselves at home.”

  Garrett went even closer to see if he could spot a familiar face or anything that would help him make sense of his trespassing-squatter-mecca theory. There was a woman sweeping the porch, another raking the yard, and he could see yet a third woman in a window on the second floor. She had a feather duster and appeared to be clearing out cobwebs. A little girl was playing in the area by the open gate.

  They weren’t sneaking around, weren’t trying to hide, so if these were indeed squatters or run-of-the-mill trespassers, they were either bold or stupid. Or maybe this was some kind of cleaning fetish cult.

  Still, why had they driven here in a tow truck?

  Garrett heard the galloping sound behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his cousin Lawson. Lawson dismounted before his horse had even fully stopped, and he made a beeline toward Garrett.

  Together, Lawson and he ran the Granger Ranch, another of Z.T.’s legacies, and now the two of them stood side by side studying the Gothic house and the people meandering around it.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Lawson asked. “And why is that kid poking at that cow shit with a stick?”

  Garrett didn’t have the answer to the first question, but as for the second, he knew from experience that kids poked at shit. Even kids who wore pink overalls and had their hair in pigtails.

  “I just got here,” Garrett explained. “I came out to look over things for the work crew, and I saw them. I have no idea who they are or why they’re here.”

  “Maybe they’re from the historical society?” Lawson added. “They could be sprucing up the place since it’s obvious we suck at doing that.”

  It was a good guess, but Wrangler’s Creek was a small town by anyone’s standards, and Garrett knew every female for miles around. Every kid old enough to poke at a cow patty, too. He didn’t recognize any of these folks. Plus, there wasn’t a woman in the historical society under the age of seventy. These “visitors” were all much younger. And then there was the tow truck. No one in Wrangler’s Creek, possibly the entire state of Texas, would drive a vehicle like that.

  “Or they could be those ghost groupies,” Lawson offered.

  Another good guess. Since the house looked like something out of a bad horror movie and because there were rumors of Z.T.’s spirit haunting the place, it had indeed attracted ghost hunters over the years. But as far as Garrett knew, they’d never resorted to tresp
assing. Or cleaning.

  “Looks like they got here using the old ranch trail.” Lawson, again.

  His cousin tipped his head to the tow truck and the SUV behind it, both of which were parked about ten yards from the house. Once there’d been an actual dirt and gravel road leading to the place, but the pasture had long claimed that. Now, the only way to get to it was on horseback, walking a half mile from the main house or by driving on the trail. The last time Garrett had checked it out, there’d been more potholes than trail surface, and there were bushes growing in spots. It wouldn’t have been a smooth ride to get here.

  “How many of them are there?” Lawson asked.

  “Four.”

  But Garrett was being optimistic. That was only the number he could see. Since the old three-story house had over twenty-five rooms, it was possible that the entire population of a small country had taken up residence there.

  On his land.

  All right, it wasn’t all his exactly, but Garrett had always thought of the ranch as his domain. His sister, Sophie, ran the family business, Granger Western. His brother, Roman, owned a rodeo promotion company, and Garrett ran the ranch. He made all the key decisions and knew everything that went on here.

  Everything except for this.

  “As soon as I spotted the visitors, I tried to get in touch with Sophie and my mom,” Garrett went on as he walked closer to the house. “Maybe they’ll call back soon.”

  Unfortunately, there were dead zones for cell service out here, but Garrett didn’t intend to wait for any more info. He could find out what these women, and the child, wanted and then send them packing. He had a work crew arriving first thing in the morning to expand the nearby pond, and he didn’t want any hitches with that. Having people parked in the very spot he intended to dig would definitely qualify as a hitch.

  The women had obviously spotted Lawson and him because the two outside were now huddled together, talking and pointing at him. A third woman came out of the house and joined them. The only one who ventured to meet him was the little blond-haired girl.

  She still had hold of the crap-coated stick, but she also caught his hand as if he were a long lost friend. “I Kay-wee.”

  Garrett had no idea how to respond to that. None. But he kept walking toward the house with the hope that she’d let go of him. He wanted to put a quick end to this, and it might somewhat diminish his air of authority if he was holding hands with a toddler.

  Plus, there were the other feelings that came. They always did when he saw a baby or a young child. It’d been three years since he’d lost his own daughter. Three years, two months and six days. He could have provided the hours if someone had asked. And yes, he was still counting.

  Always would.

  Some aches just didn’t go away no matter how much time had passed.

  “Cows,” Kay-wee pointed out as they got closer to the house. Or rather t-ows.

  She used the stick to point and point and point. She could have pointed for a long time since there was a herd just on the other side of the picket fence that surrounded the house and grave.

  The cows were forever breaking through that fence, and that was probably why there’d been a patty so close to the porch for the girl to poke. They would continue to break through, too, and that’s why these folks had to go. Once the work crew had expanded the pond, they could reinforce the fence so he could bring in the new shipment of cattle.

  “I’m Garrett Granger,” he said to the women.

  They stayed huddled, their heads together like conjoined triplets, and they continued to whisper.

  “Gare-if,” the girl attempted. She finally tossed the stick.

  “This is the Granger Ranch,” he added to the women. “It’s private property.”

  More huddling, more whispering. Since the only one talking to him was Kay-wee, he looked at her. “Why are you here?”

  She let go of him to lift her hands and shrug. “Mommy,” she said as if that explained everything. It didn’t explain diddly squat. She took hold of him again and started leading him to the porch.

  The huddling women scattered to the side of the house and from there they eyed him as if he were a rattler ready to strike. Funny, because most women in town gave him sad, puppy-dog looks. Once, though, he’d been considered the golden boy of Wrangler’s Creek. These days, Garrett felt more like that discarded shit stick.

  For just a second he got a flashback of why he now had that shit-stick label. It wasn’t often a man got to see a video of his wife blowing some guy in the backseat of a VW, but Garrett could add that to his list of life experiences.

  Another woman appeared in the doorway, glared at him and then scampered off. Garrett thought about doing a smell check of his armpits. He’d been working with a new cutting horse all morning and was sweaty. That might explain the scurrying and rattler looks, but if he did stink, maybe that would just get the squatters moving faster.

  He walked into the entry and looked around. Not that he could see much in his immediate line of sight. The house was a wooden ant farm with some rooms that had no purpose other than to lead to other rooms. It was a time capsule of sorts since it still had all of Z.T.’s furniture and stuff. Some things also left behind by his great-aunt, who’d lived here long before Garrett was born.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here,” Garrett called out to anybody who might be in hearing range.

  The little girl kept hold of his hand, and with Lawson right behind them, they began to make their way through the room maze. Someone had indeed cleaned the place and taken off the old sheets from the equally old furniture. Not a good sign. In his general experience, people who swept and dusted had plans to be around long enough to enjoy their cleaning efforts.

  They went through the parlor, the place where Garrett had lost his virginity to one of the ranch hands’ cousins who’d been visiting the summer he’d turned sixteen. That’d been eighteen years ago. Mercy, a lifetime. But still it was a sweet memory.

  There was also a library that conjured up some deflowering memories. Seventeen years ago, he’d brought a cute flute-playing classmate out here. One thing had led to another, and even though he hadn’t known it was going to happen beforehand, she’d lost her virginity to him. Things hadn’t lasted between them, neither the sex nor the relationship. A month or so later, he’d broken up with her so he could date the woman he’d eventually marry.

  Those were his only sexual experiences in the place, but he was betting Lawson and his brother, Roman, had committed some serious debauchery here.

  Judging from the manly grunt Lawson made, Garrett was right about that.

  “I’ll try to find someone who knows what’s going on,” Lawson grumbled. “One who can speak in more than two syllables.” And he headed back out the front.

  Garrett wished him luck, and the little girl and he kept walking. They finally made their way to the kitchen where Garrett saw yet another woman, this one in the process of mopping the floor. She wasn’t the little girl’s mother, though, since this woman was easily in her seventies or even eighties. Sugar-white hair and skin as pale as paper, she didn’t eye him the way the others out front had. In fact, she smiled. And she spoke. More than two syllables, too.

  “You’re one of Belle Granger’s boys, aren’t you?” the woman asked but didn’t wait for him to answer. “Let me guess which one. Garrett or Roman? Hmm.” Tapping her fingers on her chin, she looked him over from head to toe, but her gaze lingered in his crotch area. “I used to diaper both of you boys.”

  Garrett hoped like the devil that she didn’t want to do a boxers check to see if she recognized his equipment. “Who are you?”

  “Loretta Cunningham.” She smiled again, the way one would for a social visit. Which this wasn’t. Come to think of it, crazy people probably smiled that way, too.

 
Garrett made a mental note to call the county mental hospital to see if they’d had any escapees.

  “Look, if you’re one of those ghost hunters—” Garrett started. But he didn’t get far with that comment because Loretta interrupted him.

  “Lordy, no.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Those shows scare the livin’ daylights out of me.” She stopped, glanced around. “You don’t think there are actual ghosts here, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Garrett lied since it seemed like something to get her moving out of there.

  But Loretta didn’t budge, and she smiled again. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you, boy?” And she just kept on talking. “Your grandma and I went to school together back in the day, but I moved to Beaumont when you and your siblings were just little bitty things. You’re Roman, aren’t you? Even when you were her age—” she bobbed her head to the little girl “—you always looked ready to pick a fight. And from what I’ve heard, you’ve done your share of fighting.”

  “I’m Garrett,” he corrected.

  “Oh.”

  That one little word said it all. Loretta Cunningham knew about the divorce. But she probably knew a lot more than that. Maybe about the baby they’d lost. But more likely her suddenly red cheeks were because she’d heard about his ex-wife’s blow job in the VW. Had perhaps even seen the video. Apparently, she’d also seen the fight-picking expression on his face and had mistaken it for Roman’s.

  The little girl let go of him again and took off running up the back stairs. Good. Because Garrett was about to get blunt with Loretta, and it was best if the little ears weren’t around for that.

  “Who owns the pink tow truck and the SUV?” Garrett asked.

  Loretta gave him a “what tow truck and SUV?” look before she snapped her fingers. “Oh, those. It’s Mrs. Marlow’s SUV. Cancer,” she added in a whisper. “And the pink truck belongs to Lady Romero. Drug overdose,” she added in another whisper. “That’s not Lady’s real name, hair color or bosom, by the way, but I don’t make judgments about such things.”