by Stacy Finz
COWBOY STRONG
He parked her car in his driveway and let the engine idle. “So you’re not coming up?” He said it as if he was disappointed.
“Not today,” she said. “Why, you afraid you’ll miss me?”
He cut the motor and rubbed the bristle on his chin. “Maybe,” he said. “One thing I’ll say about you is that you’re entertaining.”
She turned in her seat to face him. “And my food. Don’t forget you’ll miss my cooking when I go, even if it is making you fat.” She took a slow turn down his T-shirt–covered torso, pausing on his abs. Nope, not an inch of fat on him.
“I guess I could always buy your frozen entrées. Try to choke ’em down.” The light in his blue eyes sparkled. He was enjoying teasing her.
“Then you’ll have your kitchen back.”
“Yep. Can’t wait.” He reached across the console and took off her sunglasses. Next came her hat.
She suddenly felt naked without them. Especially as he sat there, gazing at her face. She started to finger-comb her hair, but he pushed her hand away and held it in his much larger one. Then, he did something completely unexpected.
He leaned in, covered her mouth with his, and kissed her.
For a hard man, his lips were soft. And exquisitely pliant as they moved over hers, roaming until his tongue was licking into her mouth. She opened for him, letting him take the kiss deeper. He tasted good, like heat and desire, and she practically climbed over the center divider for more of him…
Books by Stacy Finz
The Nugget Series
GOING HOME
FINDING HOPE
SECOND CHANCES
STARTING OVER
GETTING LUCKY
BORROWING TROUBLE
HEATING UP
RIDING HIGH
FALLING HARD
HOPE FOR CHRISTMAS
TEMPTING FATE
The Garner Brothers
NEED YOU
WANT YOU
LOVE YOU
Dry Creek Ranch
COWBOY UP
COWBOY TOUGH
COWBOY STRONG
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Table of Contents
Books by Stacy Finz
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Cowboy Strong
Stacy Finz
LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
LYRICAL SHINE BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2020 by Stacy Finz
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Lyrical Shine and Lyrical Shine logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
First Electronic Edition: July 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0928-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0928-7 (ebook)
First Print Edition: July 2020
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0929-6
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0929-5
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To the food crew at 49 Mary. I miss our times in the kitchen.
Acknowledgments
A special shout out to Bill Addison and Amanda Gold for all the cooking expertise. I couldn’t have done it without you. Any mistakes made are my own. Thanks to the entire staff at Kensington. John Scognamiglio, Alex Nicolajsen, Jane Nutter and the rest of the crew, you’ve been my writing family for the last six years and for that I’m so grateful. And always thanks to my non-writing family who endure my crazy schedule, my plot panic attacks and all the other eccentricities that go with being a writer. You too, Rebecca Hunter. I’m so thankful for your friendship.
Chapter 1
It was midday and Sawyer Dalton desperately needed a shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. He’d caught a red-eye from Heathrow to Sacramento after a four-day journalism conference where he’d spent his nights drinking and telling war stories into the wee hours of the morning.
As he pulled past the ranch gate, his chest gave a little kick, like it always did. Five hundred acres of the most pristine land in the Sierra foothills. Okay, he was biased. But Dry Creek Ranch, a working cow-calf operation, had been in his family for four generations.
On a clear day, you could see all the way to Banner Mountain. And the green, grassy hills rippled through the valley like a storybook version of the countryside. A series of gable barns, worn and weathered, dotted the landscape, their rooflines often hidden in the tall pines.
Now, the ranch belonged to Sawyer and his two cousins, Jace and Cash, an inheritance from his late grandfather. And while the ranch had fallen into disrepair, Sawyer and his cousins had big plans to someday restore the place to its former glory.
They just had to keep from losing it first.
He didn’t bother with the garage, just parked his Range Rover in his driveway. Slinging his duffel strap over his arm, he climbed the stairs to his apartment. It had once been the hayloft of an old livestock barn. He’d hired a San Francisco architect to convert it into 2000 square feet of kick-ass, mostly open, living space with lots of windows, open-beam ceilings, and modern amenities. The bottom had been turned into a garage and workspace, while still preserving the barn’s rustic charm.
When he wasn’t traveling for work—which was all the time—the ranch and the loft were home sweet home.
He made it to the top of the stairs and tripped over a pile of luggage on the landing. Louis Vuitton. Not his—he’d be the laughing stock of the press corps—and sure the hell not his cousins’. None of them owned anything remotely designerish, unless you counted Levi’s and Stetson. Besides, Cash and Jace both had their own homes on the ranch.
“Hello?” He craned his neck around the corner to find the house empty. Someone, however, had l
eft a pile of dishes in the sink and cooking accoutrements all over the counter. It wasn’t like Cash or Jace, or their women, to lend out Sawyer’s house without permission.
Yet, there were people camping here and they weren’t cleaning up after themselves.
He supposed the mystery would soon solve itself when whoever it was returned to claim the luggage.
Unable to keep his eyes open, he headed to his bedroom, dropping his duffel on the floor. On his way to the bathroom, he dragged his T-shirt over his head, tossing it somewhere in the vicinity of the hamper. Next, he went to work on his belt, looking forward to cranking up all six jets in his walk-in shower. The water pressure in his London hotel had sucked.
“Who are you?”
He jumped at the voice, then whipped his head around to find a woman sitting in his bed with her legs drawn up and a laptop perched on her knees. She looked vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough to be in his bedroom.
Yep, apparently he’d missed the memo that his home had been turned into an Airbnb in his absence.
“I’ll ask you the same,” he said. “And since this is my house, you go first.”
She flicked her gaze at his bare chest, then went back to studying her laptop. “You must be Wendy’s son,” she said, distracted by whatever was on her screen. “She’s been trying to reach you.”
Ah, his mother.
Why she’d sent a complete stranger to his apartment was beyond anyone’s guess. “I’ve been on an airplane for the last fourteen hours.”
“That’s probably why she couldn’t reach you.” She tapped the space bar on her keyboard, completely absorbed in whatever she was looking at. “She said you’d be gone awhile and it would be okay if I stayed here.”
“She did, did she? Well, I’m home now, so that obviously won’t work.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. That’s what she said. I saw a big house on my way in. Can’t you stay there?”
The question threw him for a second. “Uh, no, because I live here.” What part of that was she having trouble understanding?
“Okay, then I’ll stay in the big house.”
Wow. He shook his head.
“Yeah, I don’t think so. My cousin and his two kids and fiancée live in the big house. Last I heard, they weren’t taking in boarders. Why don’t we start with you telling me who you are?” He’d take up the rest of this freak show with his mother.
“Son of a bitch!” She slammed her laptop closed, scrambled off the bed, and swiped a smartphone off his dresser—which was now covered with women’s lingerie—punched in a number and started yelling at someone.
He listened in because he was nosy and because she made it difficult not too. People on the other side of the continent could hear her, she was that loud. From her side of the conversation he extrapolated that it was a business situation. Someone was pulling out of a deal and she was going apeshit over it.
He searched his duffel for his own phone and took it into the living room. Sure enough, there were four missed calls from his mother and a CALL ME ASAP text.
He took a long, calming breath and dialed.
She answered on the first ring. “How’s London, darling?”
“The trip was great until I got home.” He leaned against the wall and cradled the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “Who is she and why is she here?”
“Oh, boy.” Long pause. “You said you’d be overseas until August.”
“I got all my interviews done for the piece I’m writing and came home a week early. Who is she, Mom, and why have you foisted her on Dry Creek Ranch?”
“You didn’t recognize her?” His mother was pacing now; Sawyer could hear her high heels clicking on the marble floor in her office. “I guess that’s good. She’s Gina DeRose.”
“That FoodFlicks chick?” Sawyer had caught her food show a few times. Not because he liked to cook, but because Gina DeRose was hot. At least on television. It was amazing what makeup and good lighting could do.
“Not just FoodFlicks. She owns an entire culinary empire. Cookbooks, kitchenware, pots and pans, her own line of seasonings, cake mixes, and packaged frozen foods.”
He moved to the kitchen and rummaged through the fridge, looking for a bottle of water. They seemed to have all disappeared.
“What did she do, murder someone?” If Sawyer’s parents were representing DeRose, she had to be dealing with a professional crisis of significant proportions. Dalton and Associates wasn’t your garden-variety publicity firm. His parents’ company specialized in making career-killing mistakes go away for anyone rich enough to afford its services.
“She’s accused of having an affair.”
“People still care about that?” Call him jaded, but show him a celebrity, politician, or sports figure who hadn’t been caught with their pants down. He wasn’t condoning it, but society seemed immune, especially in the Hollywood-type world Gina DeRose ran in.
His mother sighed. “She broke up Candace and Danny Clay’s marriage. There are pictures circulating all over the internet.”
Sawyer knew the Clays also had a cooking show, kind of a Lucy and Ricky bit. He’d caught fleeting minutes of the program while channel surfing.
“It’s a mess,” his mother continued. “Candace’s fans, of which there are legions, called for a boycott of Gina’s show. When sponsors started pulling ads, FoodFlicks canceled the rest of the show’s season, including reruns, and suspended negotiations for next season. Investors are talking about walking away from the retail end: the cookware, the prepared meals, and all the rest of it. And—”
“Okay, okay.” He was too tired to hear anymore. “What do you want me to do?”
“Let her stay on the ranch. Everywhere she goes, she’s chased by paparazzi. Your father and I just want her to lie low while we manage the bad press and stop the bleeding. And a hotel or a resort…she’s too recognizable. I know I should’ve gotten your permission first. But we were desperate. She can’t even leave her house without being ambushed. And Jace said it would be okay.”
“When did you talk to Jace?”
“When I couldn’t reach you. He let her in…gave her his spare key.”
Sawyer rubbed his hands down his face. “I’ll find her something,” he said, though he didn’t know what. “But she can’t stay in my place.” Besides the fact that he only had one bedroom, the apartment was also his office and writing cave. Then there was the fact that he’d never been good with sharing his space.
“Somewhere on the ranch, please.” When he muttered that he would, she said, “Thank you, Sawyer. You’re a good son.”
“You mean I’m a sucker. Bye, Mom.”
Gina came into the kitchen, looking like a bird had nested in her blond hair. She had bags under her eyes and the cleavage she was famous for was hidden underneath an oversized T-shirt. Either that or she wore a really good push-up bra on her television show.
“How’d you get here?” he asked, suddenly realizing he hadn’t seen a car.
“To the kitchen? Or here to Timbuktu?”
He rolled his eyes and stifled a pithy comeback. The sooner he got her settled, the sooner he could sleep. “Did you drive and if so, where’s your vehicle?” He said it slowly, enunciating each word.
“In the garage or barn, or whatever is below us.” She pointed at the floor. “We’ll need to keep the door closed at all times. I don’t want the vultures to know where I am.”
“And who would the vultures be?”
“Reporters. Bloodsuckers, every last one of them.”
He reached into his back pocket, held his press pass in front of her face, and hitched a brow. “Don’t worry, I only cover real news. Let’s go.”
For a second, she looked afraid, like he might root through her garbage or snap pictures of her naked. Then she must’ve realized that his mother—her cr
isis manager—wouldn’t have sent her to the lion’s den, and she went back to copping an attitude.
“Where?” She folded her arms over her chest.
“To your new safe house.”
She perked up. “I hope it has a pool. It’s hot here.”
He was pretty sure that was her lame attempt at sarcasm.
“Yep. Five-star accommodations,” he tossed back. “Pack up your stuff.”
He got a fresh shirt from his closet, sent the rest of her luggage down in the hay elevator— one of the things he’d kept before the redo—and met her at the bottom of the stairs. She scrolled through her phone while he loaded her baggage into the back of his Range Rover.
“Careful with that,” she said as he hefted one of her suiters. “My laundry service pressed everything and I doubt there’s a good dry cleaner’s anywhere around here.” She stared out over the pastureland and shuddered as if she were stuck in a hellhole.
He held his tongue, looking forward to being rid of her. Never mind that the ranch was his lifeblood, everything that mattered.
“Hop in,” he said, blasted the AC, and got on a rutted dirt road that followed the creek through a copse of trees that opened up to a clearing of green-colored fields. In the distance, the Sierra mountain range, covered in Ponderosa pines, loomed large. And green. It had been a wet winter.
Not a mile away, he cut the engine in front of a small cottage. The now-vacant log cabin used to be his cousin Cash’s and every time Sawyer saw the broken steps, the sagging porch and the screen door that hung on one hinge, he hummed a few bars of “Dueling Banjos.”
“Welcome home.” He reached across her lap and swung open the passenger-seat door.
“You’re kidding?” She squirmed. “You’re punking me for calling you a bloodsucker, aren’t you?”
“I’m not that petty.” The heat hit him the second he jumped down from the cab. Hopefully, Cash had left the old swamp cooler in the cabin when he and his daughter, Ellie, moved across the creek.
“Watch your step, now.” He waited for her to trail him up the rickety stairs, found the key under the mat, and held the door open for her.
