Cowgirl Education: a Camden Ranch Novel

by Jillian Neal

  Cowgirl Education

  A Camden Ranch Novel

  Jillian Neal

  Edited by

  Chasity Jenkins-Patrick

  Realm Press

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Works by Jillian Neal

  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

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Epilogue

  From the Author

  Connect with Jillian

  About Jillian

  Cowgirl Education

  Written by Jillian Neal

  Cover Design by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Edited by Chasity Jenkins-Patrick

  Copyright © 2016 Jillian Neal

  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, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  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 persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincident

  Published by Realm Press

  36 South Court Square, Suite 300

  Newnan GA 30263

  http://realmpress.net/

  ISBN 978-1-940174-38-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950918

  First Edition

  First Printing – October 2016

  To Nick and Mel

  - for all of the Brit-splaining, the Twitter chats, the musical aid, and all of the help you provided that allowed me give the world Dec and Holly.

  I could never thank you enough.

  Other Works by Jillian Neal

  Other Books in the Camden Ranch Series

  Coincidental Cowgirl

  Rodeo Summer

  Forever Wild

  Other Series by Jillian Neal

  Gypsy Beach

  The Gifted Realm

  Chapter One

  Declan St. James had spent the last hour and a half sitting at a corner table in Duffy’s Tavern watching the woman seated alone near the bar swat them away like flies one after another, adding more surly snark with each and every brutal takedown.

  As the cover band droned on injecting noise into the painted splashes of neon light and the smoky air, all of the classically painful pick-up lines had been surreptitiously executed with a lash of her merciless tongue, incinerating her would-be drink buyers into piles of ash. Declan was genuinely enjoying her responses. Not quite as much as he was enjoying the way her gorgeous lips pursed in indignation or how the fire in her emerald eyes roared as she took out her opponents, however. His eyes lingered on her slender figure complimented by the cleavage-revealing dress she was wearing. The curved barbell pierced through the head of his cock stirred anxiously. Damn, he was too old to be sporting a semi in a smoky bar from simply staring at a woman. What was she doing to him?

  Helpless to resist, his eyes traveled up and down her tender curves once more. Her fight was fierce. Her quick rebuttals vicious, but her weary eyes told another story entirely.

  “That dress is sexy as hell, baby. It’d look so good on my bedroom floor,” spewed stupidly from a young man living high on the cheap beers he’d consumed. Safe bet his blood alcohol level was equal to that of his IQ.

  “Know where I think it would look fabulous?” she snarled.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Jammed in your windpipe, which is where it’s going to be if you don’t leave. . .now.”

  “Hey, at least that means I got you out of it.” The idiot wasn’t going down easily.

  The woman narrowed those gorgeous eyes and leaned in. “Never, ever underestimate my ability to hit a moving target, douche bag.”

  Declan drew another long sip of his Newcastle Brown to keep from laughing out loud. He set the beer back on his table wishing he’d gone with the laughter instead. Damn American bartender had chilled the beer past the point of recognition as a decent British ale, and laughing might’ve been nice, certainly not something he’d done in a while.

  Declan’s eyes returned to what had to be the most beautiful woman he’d seen since he’d set foot in the country, and that was saying something. The dress in question was a deep crimson and showed off all of her many assets to perfection. Lady in red generally wanted to be noticed. Something had obviously gone wrong. She was getting plenty of attention, but none she wanted. And if he wasn’t mistaken, rejection — or maybe it was frustration — was penned in those gorgeous green eyes.

  Calling himself a dumbass, Declan stood as if each man in the bar was being forced to take on the siren at table seven. He’d never been any good at turning down pain anyway. Hell, he had a reputation to uphold in his family as the brother always addicted to the wrong things. Besides, if he got anywhere at all it might bolster his ego enough to make it worth his while. Potential pulsed in his veins as his eyes memorized the sway of her long, silken brunette hair as she brushed it behind her shoulders, readying herself for another opponent. If he got anywhere at all, it would be one hell of a night.

  “May I, love?” He gestured to the seat opposite her at the small table. He worked his British accent hard. It seemed to have some kind of proper superpower over American women. Not something he understood, but he wasn’t above using to his advantage.

  “Why not?” she huffed. The flicker of intrigue in her eyes said it was indeed his accent that had secured him the seat.

  “Declan St. James, reformed douche bag at your service. And you might be?”

  “Impressed, if that’s actually true. They have some kind of rehab for that I’m unaware of?”

  “Oh, don’t kid yourself, love. Rehab’s for quitters, isn’t it?” He would certainly know.

  Try though she might, a hint of a smile played on those full pink lips that had enchanted him for most of the evening. A half-second later she cracked and offered him a slight chuckle. “That reformed douchebag line ever work for you?”

  “First time I’ve tried it. Suppose I’ll tell you in the morning. I guess I could’ve gone with, ‘Please allow me to introduce myself. I’m a man of wealth an
d taste. I’ve been around for a long, long year.’”

  And there it was. The volatile fire in her eyes cooled to a far more pleasant temperature. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to give away one of what had to be a rarely-given coveted grin. “The Stones. Very nice. Figured you for a Beatles fan with that accent.”

  “The accent means a lot of things, darling, but it definitely does not mean I have no taste in music.”

  “A Brit who doesn’t like the Beatles and is a reformed douchebag. Interesting.”

  “Have you had some terrible experience with Beatle-loving Brits still in their douchebag state, my love?” He craved a real laugh from her like he used to long for a hit of something strong enough to numb the world around him. When she supplied a sweet giggle, his breath tangled in his lungs. Damn, but a woman like her could be the most dangerous drug in existence. Beautiful angel face with enough devil in her eyes to swell his long-ignored cock right along with his bruised ego.

  “No, I guess I haven’t, but I’m more opposed to the douchebags than the Beatle-lovers.”

  “Well, we do have to give them, ‘The End,’ don’t we?

  “Do you always speak in song title, Declan the reformed douche bag?”

  “You don’t have to use my full title. Declan will do, and I try to as often as I can.”

  “Musician, I take it?”

  “If you’re taking, I’m giving, but which name shall I groan out between the sheets tonight when I’m reminding myself of you after I strike out as well?”

  Heat climbed in seductive streaks out of the low cut of her dress, slightly swelling her breasts and settling high in her cheeks. “Who says you’re striking out? Fair warning though, the path to heaven runs through miles of clouded hell.”

  A low hungry groan wrenched itself up from Declan’s gut. This woman was clearly an angel sent to rescue him from his shitty existence. It remained to be discovered if she was an agent of heaven or hell, however. “A beautiful woman that knows Stones and Dragons lyrics. If I had a heart, pretty sure I’d willingly hand it over right about now.”

  “And I’m pretty sure it’s the thing holding up your rib cage, pumping blood through your body.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Cowgirl. . .for now.”

  “Interesting. Not a lot of farms, or ranches as you call them, here in Lincoln. What brought you out here?”

  “You first.”

  “I gave up my name and infinitely better song lyrics than you. Careful, sweetheart, even reformed douchebags know when they’re unwanted.”

  “My name’s Holly Camden, and you’re not unwanted. And don’t slam Imagine Dragons. Somebody has to be this generation’s Stones.”

  “Agreed, but how I got here is a tremendously long, boring story that you don’t want to hear tonight. What time was he supposed to be here anyway?”

  “Is it that obvious I got stood up?” She shrank back into her chair before his very eyes. Until that moment, he’d been convinced his heart had been shattered too many times to ever really exist again, but just then it ached for the pain his reminder brought to her eyes.

  “Only thing obvious to me is you’re a stunningly beautiful woman with excellent taste in music, and if some tosser skipped out on you, he’s a bastard of epic proportion. A fool you shouldn’t waste any time worrying over. Especially when this band is perhaps only mildly shitty and you could be dancing with me. It is so rare that those of us who are reformed get to benefit from the non-reformed’s idiotic mistakes. You could give hope to thousands of nice guys sitting at home wishing women like you would give them a mere moment to stand in your sunlight.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Absolutely.” Declan stood and offered her a hand, rather proud that he still had a few moves that worked. Maybe America wasn’t going to be a total loss like the rest of his bloody life.

  “You know, Nirvana used to play here,” she informed him as she took his offered hand and let him guide her towards the dance floor.

  Turning back towards her, he gently pressed his index finger over her perfect cupid’s bow and those alluring lips. He’d wanted to touch them all evening, preferably with his own mouth, but his finger would do.

  “Shh, darling, speaking the sacred name might summon Kurt’s attention from Heaven, and he’ll hear how badly the lead guitarist is off key this evening. He suffered enough here on earth. There’s a distinct chance the knowledge that bands like this would one day be covering ‘About a Girl’ is what finally drove him over. Best not to remind him of it now.”

  In the gentle caress of his finger over her lips he learned more than she would ever care to admit after just one conversation. Her guess was partially correct. He was a musician in his off-time. He’d been playing guitar since he was eleven. Had formed his first band back in Buckinghamshire at the ripe old age of thirteen. Eventually, they’d tasted a little success, but he’d chosen his vices over music.

  His friends there still occasionally got together to play pubs outside of London, but he’d come to Lincoln, Nebraska, a place he’d only even heard of a year ago, desperate for a job that he’d secured through an old university buddy. Still looking to make up for all he’d taken away, he’d joined the prestigious Lifespan Psychological Counseling Center as their lead sex therapist. He’d lost it all and had somehow managed to recreate his life once again.

  He knew sex and he knew women. In fact, he’d always loved both. When he was certain his life was over, the only thing that made sense to him had been to desperately try to save humans from themselves. Trying to keep other fools from making his mistakes wasn’t easy, but the knowledge he’d gained came in handy on occasion.

  The very slight dilation of Ms. Camden’s eyes and the quickening of her breath said she craved his touch and sensed his desire. Curiosity and hunger were pinned in the gentle furrow of her brow. So many things she deserved to learn and discover. So many things he could help her explore. He started to envy the man who would ultimately teach her, but then remembered that the majority of women never encountered anyone who could — or would — unlock the things about themselves that they would never admit out loud. Not that his ability to do so had ever gotten him anywhere worth being.

  He guided her gently into his arms and tried desperately to convince himself that her curves and her warmth didn’t soothe him more than anything he’d yet experienced since he’d gotten clean. She fit perfectly in his arms, the cheeky girl with rosy lips and a fiery soul who’d had no time for anyone in the crowded bar. . .anyone but him. Declan shot several predatory glares to the men still admiring her. She certainly wasn’t his, but something about her triggered protective instincts he hadn’t felt in a decade. He was far from worthy, and there would inevitably come a time when he’d screw something else up, and she’d need to be protected from him.

  A twinge of guilt over telling her he was a musician twisted in his gut, still full of frigid beer, but one did not introduce themselves as a sex therapist ever. The inevitable questions, expectations, and incumbent hell that came from that wasn’t worth it. It was the kind of thing you confessed on some drunken night eight months down the road when there was precious little in the relationship worth saving. Besides, this was just a dance, maybe a night of making each other forget everything wrong with the world, and then they would both move on without him managing to ruin her life as well. He could show off his knowledge and skill, give her a night she’d remember when she settled down with some farmer he supposed. She’d said she was a cowgirl, after all. You used to be a farmer yourself. Remembrances of his youth intruded on the longing in his mind. He shut them down with relative ease as he swayed Holly in time to the music. This was nothing more than a one-night stand.

  When she tucked her face against his shoulder, his entire body responded. Protecting her took an ever-so-slight precedence over fucking her. She wanted a place to hide. The world had been too much that day. He knew the feeling only too well. And damn it all to hell if he wasn’t g
oing to be the man to make her night infinitely better than her day.

  Unable to help herself, Holly cuddled closer to Declan’s well-defined chest. She felt her breathing steady and her frayed nerves soothe. Her mind instantly recalled the vast ink work that peeked out from his rolled-up sleeves and continued all the way down to the knuckles on his left hand that she’d tried to discreetly study while they’d been sitting at the table. She’d wanted to ask him about them, but somehow that seemed too intimate for their current setting. Why did she feel so close to him so quickly? They’d certainly never met before. She would’ve remembered meeting a man whose name and body both dripped with rampant sex appeal and quiet confidence. Her night had been infuriating. Why did she suddenly feel safe in his arms? If she was the kind of girl who believed in fairytales, she might guess she’d known him in another life, but she was definitely not one of those kind of girls.

  Okay, what the hell happened? Mentally reversing the course of her night she tried to remember that she was supposed to meet that asslicker, Trevor Singleton, for drinks. She’d only agreed because Singleton was the latest offspring in the Singleton family — the ones who had three buildings, a performing arts center, and a parking lot named after them at Nebraska-Lincoln.

  She and Trevor had competed in every single thing since the moment they’d both set foot on campus six years ago. Now, they were both up for the coveted spot to have Dr. Richard Newsome be their PhD supervisor. Trevor had called her to explain that his father had heard that Dr. Newsome was taking two students this year, and perhaps they could discuss the possibility of working together to be those students. She’d swallowed the whole damn story hook, line, and sinker. Trevor had texted her a picture of him and his parents at Dr. Newsome’s backyard barbecue an hour ago. She planned to gut him like a trout at their next encounter.

  When Declan cradled her closer, she inhaled the mix of cologne, soap, and some potent musk all his own emanating from him, and she couldn’t quite find it in herself to care about her degree, or Trevor, or anything else. A tatted-up, brow-pierced, British, badass musician with an accent that had already thoroughly melted her panties was definitely not a bad way to forget all about the Singletons and every other thing she’d been obsessing over for the last week.