Million Dollar Cowboy

by Lori Wilde

  Dedication

  To my editor Lucia Macro, who sparked the idea for the Lockharts of Texas. Thank you so much for your support and guidance!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  An Excerpt from Cowboy, It’s Cold Outside

  Chapter 1

  About the Author

  By Lori Wilde

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Ridge Lockhart was three years old when his mother abandoned him on the doorstep of the second-richest man in Jeff Davis County.

  His father.

  It was his first clear memory. The forever event stamped on the retina of his life.

  Midnight. Or so it seemed to a kid. Late. Way past his bedtime. Deep dark in far west Texas, except for the glittering stars overhead.

  Desert sounds. Coyotes howl. Hoots of a night owl. Whispers of wind blowing across sand.

  Mommy left the car parked at the gate, crawled over the cattle guard, carried him and a small duffel bag stuffed with his things thrown over her shoulder. Stumbling the half mile hike to the big house in pink cowgirl boots. She was humming a lullaby and crying. Crying so hard he patted her face to comfort her.

  “Don’t cry, Mommy. Don’t cry.”

  “Shh,” she cautioned.

  The odor of a burnt-out campfire, barbecue and beans, filled his nose. His stomach growled because he was hungry, and there was nothing to eat but the stale graham cracker clutched in his fist.

  She reached the front porch, and set him down.

  He wore Mutant Ninja Turtle house shoes and Batman pajamas. She let the duffel bag fall off her shoulder, dropping it onto the cement beside him. Thump.

  A strand of blond hair fell across her face. She did not push it back and he could not see her eyes, but he could see her breasts pushed up high against the low neck of her tight blouse. She smelled like vanilla and sadness.

  He tried to press his head against her chest but she yanked back.

  “No.”

  His hands shook and his tummy turned upside down. What had he done wrong?

  She pulled a square white envelope from her purse with one word written on the front and fastened it to the front of his pajamas with a safety pin, right through Batman’s head.

  He tugged at the envelope.

  “Leave it,” she said, moving his hand away.

  He stared at her, the funny feeling in his tummy wriggling into his throat. “Why?”

  “Because I said so.” She took a deep shaky breath. “Okay now,” she muttered. “Ridgy, you can count to ten, can’t you?’

  He bobbed his head. He could. She’d taught him. He held up his fingers one by one. “One … two … free …”

  “Good boy. Good boy.” She patted his head. Her lipstick was smeared and there were tears in her eyes. “Listen to me.”

  He cocked his head sensing something big was happening. Biting his bottom lip, he nodded again.

  “Be my big brave boy and count to ten. When you get to ten, you ring this bell right here. See it? Press right here.”

  Ridge reached up to press the button glowing orange in the porch shadows, but she snatched his hand back.

  “No. Not now.”

  Tears burned his eyes. He’d made her mad. He hated to make her mad. “Sowwy.”

  “It’s okay. But you must wait until I hide. Wait until you count to ten and then press the bell. Do you understand?”

  “Uh-huh.” The funny feeling in his throat and tummy slipped down to his knees. Mommy’s gonna leave me. He was scared. Scared all over.

  “It’s a game.” She laughed but she didn’t sound happy.

  “Like hide-and-seek?” His tummy felt better and his knees stopped shaking. He loved when she played hide-and-seek with him.

  “You smart boy.” She kissed his forehead. “So smart. You stay here and count while Mommy goes and hides.”

  He studied her. He wanted to play, but this felt wrong. Why were they playing hide-and-seek in the dark? In a strange place? Why did he have to push the orange button? He didn’t like it.

  “Give me a head start before you start counting. Understand?”

  “No, no.” This wasn’t right and he knew it. He wrapped his arms around one of her legs.

  “Ridge,” she said in her mad voice. “Let me go.”

  He clung tighter.

  She pried his fingers open, peeled him off her leg, gripped him by the shoulders, sank her thumbs into his skin, shook him gently. “Close your eyes now.”

  His entire body trembled, and he felt like he was gonna throw up. “Mommy?”

  “Close your eyes.”

  Slowly, he closed his eyes, heard the scoot of her cowgirl boots against the sidewalk. Scoot, scoot, scooty-scoot. Going fast, then faster.

  His tummy hurt really badly. He didn’t want to play hide-and-seek anymore. But he’d promised her he would count, and then ring the bell. So he counted. Got mixed up at seven. Started again.

  When he reached ten he opened his eyes. Mommy was gone. Everything was dark except for the glowing orange button by the front door.

  “Mommy?” he called.

  Only the coyotes yipping and howling answered him. Goose bumps spread shivers over his arm. Where was Mommy hiding?

  Remembering what she’d told him, he pushed the orange button. Heard a loud ding-dong from inside the house.

  Ridge jumped back. A light came on above him. A light so bright it hurt. He put his hand up to shield his eyes.

  The door opened, and a pretty brown-faced woman who looked kind of like his babysitter, Carmen, peeked out. Her long dark hair was in braids and she wore a yellow housecoat and had round little glasses perched on the end of her nose. She blinked.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a soft voice.

  He was so scared. He wanted to run into the dark and find his mommy, but he raised his chin. “Ridge.”

  “Who is it, Anya?” another woman’s voice called.

  Anya shook her head, and before she could say anything, the other woman appeared, holding a baby in her arms. This lady was blond like his mother, but not as pretty and not as young. She peered over Anya’s shoulder, and she too blinked at Ridge as if he was a strange zoo animal.

  “What’s this?” the woman asked.

  “A boy,” Anya answered.

  “I can see that.” The woman sounded like a buzzing mosquito, mean and mad. The baby in her arms swiveled his head to stare at Ridge. “But who is he and why is he here?”

  Anya shrugged. “The answer could be in that envelope.”

  “I don’t like the looks of this,” the woman mumbled.

  “What do we do?” Anya asked.

  “Bring him in,” the blond woman snapped. “We can’t very well leave a toddler standing on the front porch.”
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  “Mr. Duke’s name is on the envelope.”

  “I can see that too.” The blond woman’s voice got tighter, higher, stringier. “Here.” She shoved the baby at Anya. “Take care of Ranger while I get to the bottom of this.”

  Anya nodded, took the baby, and skittered away.

  Leaving Ridge facing the mean lady.

  She crooked a finger. “Come here.”

  He shook his head.

  Snorting, she reached out, snaked her hand around his wrist.

  “Mommy!” he screamed, and jerked away. “Mommy, help!”

  She grabbed for him, missed, but snagged the envelope and used it to yank him toward her.

  He fell backward.

  The safety pin holding the envelope ripped, tearing a hole where Batman’s head had once been.

  Ridge lay quivering on the porch, tears burning his nose.

  The woman tore open the envelope, read the note. “Oh no she did-n’t!” The woman howled louder than any coyote.

  Ridge rolled into a tight little ball, tried to make himself really small. Willing himself to disappear the way he did when his mommy took him to the club and he fell asleep on the pool table.

  “You’re coming with me.” The lady snatched him off the porch, dragged him inside the house. He dug his feet into the floor, trying to stop her, but couldn’t.

  She towed him after her into a living room with animal heads on the wall staring down at him with glassy eyes and sharp horns.

  A dark-haired man sat in a recliner in front of a really big TV. Ridge had seen him before at the club, and sometimes at his mother’s house. He wore a black T-shirt over arms as big and hard as rocks. And he had a thick bushy mustache that hid his upper lip. There was a can of beer on the table beside him and a big fat brown cigar smoldering in an ashtray. The smell burned Ridge’s nose.

  The blonde woman had the envelope balled into her fist and she raised it at the man. Called him a bad name.

  “This!” The woman snatched Ridge up by his arm, yanking him off his feet, dangling him in front of the man’s face. Shook him hard. “This is your mess!”

  Pain shot from his shoulder, spread out in two directions, up his arm and down his side. Ridge’s heart thumped so hard he could hardly breathe. He wanted to cry, but he promised Mommy he wouldn’t cry.

  The man said nothing, did nothing, just glared at Ridge with angry eyes as if this was his fault.

  “Clean it up!” The woman let go of Ridge’s arm, and he tumbled to the rug, falling facedown at his man’s feet. “Clean this up or I’m leaving you!”

  The man stood up calmly. “Sabrina, calm down.”

  “The boy is your son, and his mother is leaving him with us.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Are you denying he’s your son?”

  “No,” the man said. “But that was before I married you and settled down. She’s not going to get away with dumping him on us. I’ll take care of it.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Sabrina screamed at him. “People warned me about you, but I wouldn’t listen. Stupid. So stupid.”

  The man glared hard. “That’s enough, woman. Hush.”

  “I’m not raising this kid. I won’t.” She walked back and forth across the room. “I’ve got my own son to raise. Your legitimate son.”

  Ridge cowered against the couch, rubbing his shoulder. It still hurt from where the woman had jerked him up. He was scared and hungry and had lost the graham cracker.

  Then in the middle of the yelling and crying, Ridge heard sirens outside the house—sirens, strobes of flashing red and blue lights, a hard knock at the door. Men in boots and Stetsons and silver stars pinned to their chests marching into the living room.

  Stern faces. Low voices. Serious tones.

  Single-car accident. Excessive speed. Missed the turn. Hit the cement wall at the cemetery entrance outside Brooklane Baptist Church.

  And Ridge never saw his mother again.

  Chapter 2

  Twenty-nine years later

  For the first time in a decade Ridge Lockhart was coming home.

  He circled his Evektor Harmony over Silver Feather Ranch—the hundred-thousand-acre spread sprawling across Jeff Davis and Presidio counties—that had been in his family for six generations.

  A cheery sun peeped over the horizon, greeting him jovially. Hey buddy! Good morning. Welcome back to the fifth circle of hell.

  His jaw clenched and his stomach churned and the old dark anger he thought he’d stamped out years ago by working hard and making his mark on the world came roaring back, leonine as March winds.

  He was in town for one reason and one reason only. Do the best man thing for his childhood buddy, Archer Alzate, and then get the mothertrucker out of Cupid, Texas.

  ASAP.

  Ridge took his time coming in, buzzing the plane lower than he should have. Taking stock. Sizing things up. No matter how you sliced it, this was where he’d been hatched and reared. He could not escape his past.

  Miles of desert stretched below his plane, land so dry a man got parched just looking at it. Land filled with cactus and chaparral flats. Land teeming with rattlesnakes, horned toads, and stinging insects. Land that claimed lives and crops, hopes and dreams in equal measure.

  This land was a far cry from the cool, green country where he lived in Calgary. But damn his hide if he hadn’t missed it. The Chihuahuan Desert. The Trans-Pecos. Cupid. Silver Feather Ranch.

  Home.

  And that was his personal curse. To hate the very place that called to his soul, the place where he did not belong, but secretly yearned for.

  Throat tight, tongue powdery, he reached for the gonzo-sized energy drink resting in the cup holder and guzzled it.

  Ah. Much better. Thirst quenched. Caffeine buzzed. Cobwebs chased.

  Ready or not, here I come.

  His chest knotted up like extra string on a wind-whipped kite. He dipped the plane lower, coming in, coming down.

  Their paternal grandfather, Cyril, had left all four Lockhart grandsons two-acre parcels of land on each four quadrants of the ranch, with the stipulation that none of them could sell their places without approval from the entire family. Which was the only reason Ridge had held on to his house.

  To the north, he spied Ranger’s place. His brother had built an ecofriendly, solar home out of reclaimed wood and recycled everything.

  Out of the four Lockhart brothers, he and Ranger were closest in age. Ranger was thirty-one to Ridge’s thirty-two, but they were as different in temperament as wind and earth. Maybe it was because they had different mothers. Maybe it was because Ranger was a brainy astrobiologist and Ridge was an act-first-ask-questions-later entrepreneur. Or maybe it was because Ranger was a legitimate Lockhart, whereas Ridge was the bastard.

  His two other younger brothers, Remington and Rhett, had the same mother. Lucy Hurd had been his father’s second wife and the closest thing to a real mother Ridge had ever had. He’d been devastated by kindhearted Lucy’s death from ovarian cancer when he was in junior high.

  Army Captain Remington was twenty-eight and currently deployed in the Middle East. He had stuck a travel trailer on his parcel of land on the west side of the ranch for a place to stay when he was home on leave, but hadn’t bothered to commit to construction. And the youngest, Rhett, was a PBR bull-riding rodeo star. He had built a rustic log cabin on the south end of the ranch in Presidio County.

  Ridge flew over their places, taking it all in, but resisted the urge to buzz the east side of the ranch where his house stood. The house he’d built, but had never lived in. The house he hadn’t seen in ten years.

  Up ahead, in the dead center of the ranch, lay the landing strip put in for crop dusting planes. Around the landing strip were stables, bunkhouses, three barns, numerous sheds, the foreman’s farmhouse where Archer lived, and at the top of a small hill, the extravagant mansion where Ridge had once stood on the front porch and rung that orange bell.

  The mans
ion where his father lived with his third wife, Vivi.

  Yep. Gossip of the decade. Vivi Courtland. Ridge’s onetime girlfriend was now his old man’s spouse.

  His stomach churned and deep-rooted resentment covered him, thick as the hard pack soil. Back. All the useless feelings he thought he’d conquered were back, as layered and nuanced as ever.

  Anger. Shame. Fear. Guilt. Disgust.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, settled a straw Stetson on his head, and climbed from the cockpit, an unwanted lump in his throat and the morning sun in his eyes.

  He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. Smooth and steady. Nothing disturbed him. He was the boss. In control. In charge. Tough.

  Ridge pocketed the plane’s key remote control, turned to the cargo hold to get his gear, and …

  … that’s when he spied her.

  Lumbering up in a battered, blue, Toyota Tundra extended-cab pickup truck and parking catawampus beside the tallest barn on the ranch.

  He cocked his head. Who was she?

  The woman hopped from the tall truck with the fluid grace of a playful water sprite more at home underneath a cascading waterfall than smack in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert.

  She wore faded blue skinny jeans that fit like spray paint, cupping rounded hips and a firm lush fanny. A neon-pink, V-neck T-shirt showed off a hint of sweet cleavage. Her flat-heeled cowboy boots were scuffed and dusty. From this distance, it appeared as if she didn’t have on a lick of makeup, and her thick dark hair was pulled into twin braids. A gust of hot, lazy June air blew across the sand, and her nimble fingers reached up to tuck a tendril of loosened hair behind one ear.

  Ridge had a startling vision of easing the elastic bands from her hair, undoing the braids, and watching that tumble of hair fall over his hand soft and smooth as liquid silk.