by June Faver
Also by June Faver
Dark Horse Cowboys
Do or Die Cowboy
Hot Target Cowboy
When to Call a Cowboy
Cowboy Christmas Homecoming
Garrett Family Saga
The Best Cowboy Christmas Ever
Forever My Cowboy
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by June Faver
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks
Cover art by Elizabeth Turner Stokes
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
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
Excerpt of Forever My Cowboy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
About the Author
Back Cover
To my neighbors in the Texas Hill Country. Thanks for the inspiration and friendship.
Chapter 1
Reggie Lee Stafford glanced out the window of her daddy’s Hill Country convenience store just northwest of Austin, Texas. She looked out in time to see the silver BMW cruise slowly by. The top was down, and the driver looked as divine as the vehicle.
A bronzed god with longish blond sun-streaked hair, he radiated the attitude of a celebrity, hiding behind the lenses of his designer sunglasses. Driving with his elbow stuck out the window, he craned his neck to peer into the small store.
He gazed up at the fading sign that proudly proclaimed the establishment to be Stafford’s Mercantile, a name Reggie’s grandparents had selected in 1949 when they’d first opened their doors in Rambling, Texas, and when the wares had included yard goods and hardware.
Reggie leaned over the counter to stare back at the hunk in the sports car, surprised when he pulled into the parking lot and climbed out.
He shoved the keys in the pocket of his faded denims and continued to gaze through the plate-glass window with an air of indecision.
She noted that the denims were well filled with one-hundred-percent prime American beef. Well, well, well. Eye candy from the city. My lucky day. She surreptitiously glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind the counter and ran her fingers through her tousled hair. She took a deep breath as the stranger pushed through the entrance, clanking the metal cowbell against the glass. Her dimples flashed as she wrapped her soft Texas drawl around the words of greeting. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”
The stranger pushed his sunglasses up on his head and grinned back at her. He laughed, a single derisive snort. “Is that really you, Regina Vagina? Still here after all these years?”
A claustrophobic strangling sensation reached up from her gut and threatened to suffocate the life out of her. “No-o-o!” she wailed. “Franklinstein!”
She stared in dismay at the grown-up version of the boy who had made her early adolescence a living hell. From the day he had arrived in town, Franklin Bell had been crossways with her, and he had remained so until the day he’d departed.
A clutch of something other than dismay seized her as he continued to inspect her with unmistakably mischievous green eyes. “You got anything cold to drink, Regina?” He pronounced her name as he always had, rhyming with vagina.
Color flamed her cheeks. “Any fool can see the whole back wall is lined with reach-in coolers,” she bit out tersely. “Serve yourself.”
Seemingly undaunted by her scathing remark, he had the nerve to chuckle before turning to inspect the contents of the coolers. All too soon, he returned with his selection and slid it across the counter toward her.
Reggie rang up his purchase and murmured, “That will be a dollar and sixty-nine cents.” Her words came out all husky, and she pressed her lips together as she reached for the two singles he offered. Their fingers brushed, sending a tingling sensation to the pit of her stomach.
“You’re looking good, Regina.” His voice sounded smoky as his gaze lingered at the curve of her breast.
“Would you stop calling me that? We’re not kids anymore, Franklin.” She slammed his change down on the counter.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, seemingly contrite.
She took a deep breath and let it out all at once. “Reggie. My friends call me Reggie.”
He gave her a strange little smile. “I know that. Only you would never let me be your friend.” He twisted the lid off his soda and took a long guzzle.
“My friend!” she exploded. “You never wanted to be my friend. Your sole purpose in life was to make me miserable.”
“If you say so.” He smirked and took another swig.
She swallowed hard as she watched his mouth caress the soda bottle. She moistened her own dry lips, trying to appear casual. “Just passing through?”
“Not this time,” he said. “I’m here to tie up some loose ends and take care of a little business.”
Reggie sniffed. “What kind of business?”
He leaned his elbows on the counter and gazed up at her. “My great-aunt, Miss Rosie Bell Grady…she passed and left me all her considerable property.”
Reggie glanced out the storefront at the silver Beemer sitting on the roasting-hot asphalt. “It doesn’t look as if you need it.”
He smiled, unperturbed by her withering commentary. “That could be, but I always liked this town. Believe it or not, I do have some fond memories of Rambling, Texas.”
Reggie stifled a curt rejoinder. “I didn’t see you at Miss Rosie’s funeral.”
His brash humor faded abruptly. “I was, uh…out of the country.”
She eyed him with uncompromising candor. “I sincerely hope that your business dealings proceed without delay.”
He pus
hed away from the counter. “So I can get the hell out of town as fast as possible?” He raised an eyebrow, glaring at her, although she refused to be baited. “Sorry to disappoint you, Regina, but I’ll be staying on a while.” He tilted the bottle and drained the contents.
“I swear, if you call me that one more time I’m going to climb across this counter and smack you one.”
He opened his eyes wide in mock disbelief. “You would assault me on my very first day back in town?”
She glowered, crossing her arms over her chest. “Assault? You sound like a freakin’ asshole lawyer or something.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Reggie experienced the choking sensation again. “Guh-rate!”
He replaced the bottle cap and flipped the empty into the trash container behind the counter. “See ya around, Regina.”
* * *
That didn’t go well. But it never did with Regina…Reggie, he reminded himself.
He didn’t know why he thought she would treat him any differently than she had in the past. Always had hated him…always would. Snotty bitch. He sighed. Beautiful, exciting, desirable snotty bitch.
Frank dug the keys out of his pocket, and with a last glance over his shoulder at the storefront, he climbed into his car and turned the ignition.
Still, she had smiled at him before she realized who he was…and how much she hated him.
He pulled out of the parking space, knowing that Reggie was watching him.
Expelling the breath he’d been holding, he headed for Aunt Rosie’s sprawling Victorian house down by the river.
Rambling was located in the beautiful Texas Hill Country, the so-called Heart of Texas. There were a lake and two rivers, so the area was a mecca for retirees and vacationers. For a prolonged period of time, visitors and residents alike took to the rivers to float with the currents on oversized inner tubes. Tubing on the river had been a real thing, and he presumed it still was.
The lake, on the other hand, offered the opportunity for motorboats to piss off the owners of sailboats, who preferred the much quieter and far less bumpy method of boating. There were also canoes and kayaks on the lake and rivers, so most people had a means of assaulting the water on a regular basis.
Frank had been an accomplished sailor, preferring the wind to power his boat, which had been moored at one of the marinas.
As he drove through the town, he recalled his first encounter with Reggie Lee Stafford, the dark-eyed beauty who had laughed when he’d stumbled, dropping his books at her feet.
“Watch it, new boy. You almost ran me down.”
In truth, he’d stumbled when he’d done a double take to get another look at her dancing eyes and flash of dimples. But he’d blushed when she’d chided him and gathered his belongings in anger. That meeting had been the first of many disastrous encounters where Reggie Lee and her friends had taunted the “New Boy.”
Later that day, when a teacher called on her in class using her full name, he’d seized upon the opportunity to get revenge. He’d enjoyed her discomfort when he’d first called her “Regina Vagina.” His timing had been perfect. He’d chosen the moment just before class was dismissed and the teacher was distracted to call out to her, just loud enough to carry, “Hey, Regina Vagina. Why are you so stuck up?”
A wave of raucous laughter swept the classroom. Several of the boys who were to become his friends gave him a thumbs-up and nods of approval. It was the validation he needed. A way to fit in.
Reggie had turned red, and her eyes had teared. Grabbing her books, she’d rushed out of class, her covey of girlfriends clustered around her.
He’d felt a moment of remorse for hurting her feelings but had enjoyed bonding with the guys.
She’d retaliated in kind, dubbing him “Franklinstein,” but her taunt had fallen short. Nothing could have equaled actually speaking aloud the female body part that so fascinated the entire male student body.
The wind whipped Frank’s hair as he picked up speed outside the city limits. Within a few short minutes, he turned onto the shady lane that led to Aunt Rosie’s house. It was lined with old pecan trees, their branches reaching across to each other like the arms of lovers forever separated by the winding dirt road.
Pulling up in front of the house, he turned off the ignition and sat for a moment before stepping out. The house had fallen into disrepair, but a feeling of warmth flooded his chest as he gazed up at the old structure.
The porch completely circled the house. He recalled the sound of his young footsteps as he ran irreverently around and around, playing games with other rowdy boys. He could still see Aunt Rosie rocking on the porch, with a bit of needlework or a crossword puzzle and pencil in her hands.
Climbing up on the porch, he set one of the dusty wicker rockers into motion, giving it a shove as he passed.
When he inserted the skeleton key in the old-fashioned lock, it turned with difficulty. He couldn’t remember the house ever being locked, but the lawyer had mailed him a key along with a copy of Aunt Rosie’s will. When he’d seen her spidery signature, he had been overwhelmed with sadness. He’d been traveling in Europe and hadn’t known of her passing until after the funeral. Sucking in a deep breath, he blew it out, puffing his cheeks in the process. He would have to find out where she was buried and pay his overdue respects. Another sin to atone for.
The door opened with a creak, and he stepped across the threshold, entering a treasure trove of memories, mostly pleasant, some bittersweet.
His footsteps sounded hollow. They echoed off the wooden floors and up the stairs to rebound from the hard surface of the stained-glass window on the landing and back down to impact him again.
Walking back to the kitchen, he experienced a feeling of remorse when he saw the layer of dust on Aunt Rosie’s usually immaculate surfaces. His throat tightened with sorrow.
I should have been here more.
He opened the back door, stepped out onto the porch, and gazed across the fields and the orchards. The air was heavy with the smell of fruit trees in blossom and the drone of honeybees harvesting nectar and going about their business of pollinating the blossoms. He drew great lungfuls of the fragrance deep into his chest.
This is mine now. He wasn’t sure how he felt about owning so much land. He had scrupulously avoided entanglements, and this felt like a major commitment.
In the city, he leased a spacious condo, but he wasn’t particularly attached to it. The furniture and even the paintings hanging on his walls were leased.
Frank stuck his hands in his pockets and sighed. Although he tried to live “in the moment” and be flexible enough that he could seize upon any opportunity that presented itself, he hoped that his legacy wouldn’t require too much of his attention. Up until now, he’d been able to leave the country and travel whenever the notion hit him, and it hit him quite frequently.
He realized that owning this property would infringe upon his ability to go with the flow, change directions on a whim, celebrate his spontaneity. Now he was a landowner, and with that came certain responsibilities.
He knew that Aunt Rosie had derived some of her income from the harvest of fruit. Peaches and apples from the orchard and grapes from the vineyard. All suitable to be grown in the moderate climate and growing conditions.
Her other income had come from rental properties her husband had left her. They were located all around the small town. Most were residential, but there were several businesses as well.
She’d held the local Dairy Queen franchise, although there had always been a manager to handle the day-to-day transactions. And there was the vineyard, where they produced a superb pinot grigio. Also the small flower shop that handled all the local weddings and funerals.
A smile formed on Frank’s lips. There was one more property.
The Rambling Gazette.
After her husband d
ied, Aunt Rosie inherited the building housing the weekly newspaper. As owner, she maintained a very loose control over the building, and in return for free rent, the publication guaranteed to maintain the building so Miss Rosie didn’t have to deal with it, and the community got their news.
Now the building had passed to Frank. He released a deep chuckle. The Rambling Gazette where Miss Reggie Lee Stafford worked as reporter and columnist…when she wasn’t babysitting her daddy’s convenience store.
Frank had a feeling that he was going to enjoy checking out that old building. It was four stories of red brick, and as far as he knew, the Gazette only occupied the ground floor. It seemed he’d developed a sudden interest in the publishing business. What else did that old building contain?
* * *
Reggie Lee stared out the window of the store but saw nothing. She shivered as she recalled the look in Frank Bell’s green eyes. He was definitely up to something…and it had to be no good.
From the first moment Franklin Bell had arrived in Rambling, he’d been nothing but trouble with a capital T.
She recalled when he’d been introduced to her ninth-grade class. She’d thought he was cute in a green-eyed, dark-blondish sort of way. Way cuter than the other boys. He’d come from some prep school in Arlington, up near Dallas. He was pretty stiff at first. He couldn’t take a joke, and he’d almost gotten into a fight with Kenny Landers his first day.
His temper didn’t improve in the weeks to follow. He’d rushed right smack into her the next day and hadn’t even apologized. Just turned all shades of red as he’d gathered up his books and hustled off. Of course, a few people had laughed, but that was nothing. You have to be able to laugh at yourself once in a while.
As if!
Mr. Perfect Franklin Bell would never be able to laugh at himself. Not when he could be ridiculing others. Reggie Lee to be specific.
How could a lady as sweet as Miss Rosie Bell Grady even be distantly related to Frank Bell? Their kinship was beyond Reggie Lee’s wildest imagination. She couldn’t conceive that they shared the same gene pool, except for the green eyes.
