by Lynn Collins
The Bull Rider’s Buddy
A Cowboy Crush Novella
Lynn Collins
Contents
Untitled
Cover Copy
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Author letter to my readers
Legal bits
The Bull Rider’s Buddy
A cowboy crush romance
Book 2 of the Shawnee Valley Romance Series
Lynn Collins
To the boys of summer.
Cover Copy
Cover Copy
Cash Dillon, former pro-football player and owner of The Pancake House, is hours away from paradise. A week on a Mexican beach–no responsibility, no worries, and no schedule. When his delivery driver is stuck on another run, Cash takes one last delivery up the mountain.
June Palmer is home visiting her grandmother, but when her high school crush delivers their meal, it feels more like a Shawnee High reunion. When Cash crashes his truck minutes after leaving her cabin, she has to figure out a way to get him down the mountain and to safety without revealing her hidden feelings.
1
The Pancake House, Cash Dillon’s pride and joy, still looked like Santa’s elves had been stuck in decorating purgatory. Not a table, a counter, or even an empty corner had been spared from being covered in something red, green, gold or silver. Santa statues filled the dining room. Masey Saunders, Cash’s second in command, and his uncle’s third ex-wife, motioned to an unfortunate busboy she’d caught talking instead of cleaning and pointed him to the next table in line.
Masey returned to the hostess stand, straightened the menus, and then looked at her watch. “Don’t you think you should be going?”
“Don’t you think you should be taking down the holiday crap? Christmas was two weeks ago.” He pointed to the To Do list he’d left for the week he’d be on a beach in Mexico. At least he wouldn’t have to hear Masey’s favorite carol, the barking dogs do Jingle Bells, until next season. “I’ll be out of the country so I can’t just drive back up here when you need something.”
“This ain’t my first rodeo, big guy.” She scanned the dining room. “We’ll do fine without you. And if worse comes to worse, I’ll burn the place down for the insurance money.”
Cash pressed a hand to his heart. “Please don’t tease me like that. I’m not a young man.”
She nodded her face serious. “Yeah, you’re almost thirty now. It’s time for all those fine parts of yours to start running down. Your uncle wasn’t the same man after he crossed over into his forties.”
Cash grinned. Uncle Mel’s fourth wife might disagree with Masey, but he was not going there. “You have my cell just in case?”
“I’ve got your number.” Masey watched the snow slowly drifting outside the double glass windows. “Looking at those flakes, if you don’t get out of here soon, you’re going to be spending your vacation with a bottle of rum in your cabin, not on a beach.”
A waitress brought out a couple of bags of food from the kitchen. “Noah hasn’t picked this delivery up yet. It’s been waiting ten minutes.”
“Let me call him.” Masey waved Cash out the door as she dialed a number. Instead of leaving, he checked the time on his cell. Jesse Sullivan would be waiting at The Alibi to buy him a going away drink.
She set the receiver down on the phone. “Damn kid’s not answering.”
“Where’s this going?” Cash picked up the bags.
“You don’t have time.”
Cash raised his eyebrows and repeated his question.
“You really got to learn to relax, boss.” She paged through the day’s To-Go orders and stopped on the only one not crossed out in yellow highlighter. “The Palmer place up on Schaffer Ridge. Still think you can make it?”
Cash groaned. Of course, the one place he hated delivering to because of the treacherous mountain road. “Jesse may have to have a drink or two alone.”
“By the time you get there, the table will be filled with pretty young women listening to his bull riding stories.” Masey handed him the paid receipt for the food. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and find someone to take with you to Mexico?”
Not likely, he thought as he walked to the back of the snow-covered parking lot. He started up the Dodge and let it run for a few minutes, clearing the powdered snow off the window. His cell buzzed and he grinned as he hit the Bluetooth. “Jesse, your ears burning?”
Jesse’s laugh burst through the static. “Caught you talking glory days to some hot chick at your diner, huh?”
“I’ll tell Masey you think she’s hot the next time I see her. You can be my new step-uncle, twice removed.” Cash turned out of the parking lot, heading up the mountain to Shaffer Butte, the wrong direction from the airport.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Jesse said. “I’ve got a beer on ice for you. What time are you getting here?”
“I’m running one last delivery, and then I’ll fly down the mountain and out of the cold.” He slowed the truck as he turned off the well-maintained highway onto what felt like a goat trail. The truck skidded and Cash uttered a curse under his breath. “Of course I’m delivering to the Palmer place.”
“Dude. I thought she moved into town. You really need to set distance limits on your delivery service.” Jesse paused and Cash heard the jukebox start playing an old Garth Brooks tune.
“Last I heard she plans to be carried out of there, feet first. Rumor is her granddaughter’s visiting for the holidays, trying to convince the widow to move into one of those apartments by the rodeo grounds. EMT’s have made three runs up the mountain to her place since autumn.” Cash slowed the truck around a corner.
He heard Jesse call out to someone at the bar to save him spot in the dart game. “Look, just get down here as soon as possible. I’ve got a friend I want you to meet before you take off for southern shores.”
“It’s Mexico for a week. Not South America for a lifetime.” Cash peered through the snowflakes coming down harder now. “I’ll be there in time for a beer. Can’t promise more.”
“Bro, you really need to meet this girl.” Jesse’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s mighty fine in all the right places.”
“Thanks for looking out for me. I’ll be there soon.” Cash clicked off the Bluetooth without waiting for a goodbye. He didn’t need Jesse feeling sorry for him, especially since Cash’s last girlfriend had gone and married Jesse’s brother.
Cash turned up the volume on the stereo. Pushing thoughts of Lizzie from his mind, he focused on the Widow Palmer and her family’s insistence that she needed to move into town. Good luck to them. The widow was stubborn, hard-headed, and opinionated. Just the feisty type Cash could fall in love with if she hadn’t also been pushing ninety.
The tires slipped and he reached down to shift the truck into four-wheel drive. The snow fell harder the higher on the mountain he climbed. Two more curves and he should be at the turnoff for the Palmer place. A deer ran in front of the truck, taking most of the road until the buck skirted left, down the mountain.
Cash decided he needed to be more like Jesse—carefree and reckless. One of the many reasons he’d bought the all-inclusive week at the Mexican resort. Yet, here he was, making one more delivery. He groaned. Face it, he was Mr. Dependable. Well, that was going to change. At least for one week. Maybe he’d even run with scissors.
He parked in front of the Palmer cabin. Two stories, with an exterior sided with wood logs weathered with time, the place made an impressive focal point against the mountain backdrop. He grabbed the bags. With any luck, he’d be in and out and make Boise no later than four-thirty. If he could get away from the widow without a lecture.
Climbing up on the wooden porch, he stomped snow off his boots and knocked on the door. The snow was deeper up here, probably a good three inches of fluffy white powder sitting on what appeared to be at least a six-inch base. The ski bums who’d arrived last month for Christmas break and stayed around must be praying to the right gods. He waited, and then knocked again. No answer.
Great. He’d risked the drive up here and no one was home? He leaned over and looked into the window. He saw movement at the back of the cabin. “Hey, you ordered food? The Pancake House?” He called loud enough to be heard through the door, he’d hoped. Finally, he heard footsteps.
The door swung open and a tiny, younger version of the widow stood in front of him. She had bright blue eyes, long black hair, and curves that made his mouth water. She was a vision. A vision of beauty spotted with flour. Just a bit here and there, she reminded him of how his mom got when she baked. The girl had been in the middle of something. The jeans she wore looked like they had been new at some past moment, but her T-shirt, that was vintage Boise State. He’d had that same shirt during his time on campus. He noticed a touch of the white dust on top of her nose. He reached up and brushed the powder away. She swatted at his hand, absently.
“Oh, man, I didn’t think you’d be here so soon. I mean, I guess I didn’t realize how late it was.” The woman peered at him. “What time is it, anyway?”
“I’d say about twelve-thirty. Our driver got backed up so I ran this order.” He glanced back down the road. “ I didn’t see any vehicles stuck on my way up the mountain. You expecting company?”
Her brows furrowed, puzzled by his question. And probably wondering why he’d felt the need to touch her. He regretted that impulse even as his gaze found another flour spot on her long, lean neck. This time he put his hand in his pocket while she answered his question with what seemed to be a random comment. “I wanted to get that pie in the oven before dinner.”
“You could have ordered dessert from us. My cook does an outstanding pumpkin pie. And her apple’s not too shabby either.” He held up the bags. “You want these?”
She opened the door then walked away, expecting him to follow. Drinks with Jesse were getting farther and farther away. He’d been concerned that the widow would detain him, not a young, attractive, woman spotted with white.
Entering the kitchen, he took in the devastation and whistled. “I take it you don’t bake much.” He set the bags on the only place that wasn’t covered in pans, bowls, or flour—a small table near the doorway.
The woman sank into a chair at the table. “I don’t bake ever. I’m not sure I know how to run the microwave at my condo. I wanted to surprise Gran. She’s been a bit under the weather, and, well, I just wanted dinner to be perfect.”
To Cash’s horror, she burst into tears, holding her head in her hands. Her body racked with the sobs.
He kneeled beside her. “Hey, don’t cry. It’s just a pie.”
“It’s not the pie,” she sobbed in between breathes.
Then he got it. This was the granddaughter who’d come up to move the widow to an old folks home. One last perfect dinner before she broke the bad news. He patted her back. “You’re doing the right thing. Sometimes, it’s just hard.”
Her breathing slowed as she visibly took back control. He used the towel he’d found on the table to wipe her eyes, flour smearing with the tears.
She took the towel away from him and stood, turning her back as she blew her nose on a tissue. When she faced him again, Cash could see she’d turned on a fake-it-till-you-make-it smile. He used the same one when business was getting crazy at the restaurant. “Sorry about that, I don’t tend to fall apart in front of the delivery guys. I save that for the appliance repair men.”
“At the prices they charge, you have a right to cry when they show up at your doorstep.” He took a slow look around the kitchen as the woman studied the cookbook. Masey’s warning that he shouldn’t have taken the delivery echoed in his head. He pushed away more thoughts about the upcoming drive and the worsening storm. Taking off his coat, he hung it on the chair. He could do this and still make Boise in time for his flight. He knew how fleeting time with family could be. Hell, he hadn’t seen his grandparents in years. “Where’s the widow?”
She answered without looking up from the recipe. “Taking a nap, why?”
“Well, if she can’t walk you through this, I guess it’s up to me.” He went to the sink behind the island and washed his hands. Shaking off the extra water, he asked, “Got a clean towel?”
She glanced at the one on her shoulder, hesitated, then opened a drawer and handed him a worn cotton hand towel. “I don’t need your help. I can do this myself.”
He dried off his hands, glancing over her shoulder at the bowl, then at the cookbook. She smelled like vanilla. A very distractingly sexy smell. He cleared his throat. “I’m not staying. Just getting this pie in the oven. The rest is up to you.”
“That’s going above and beyond for a delivery driver.” She smiled and for a second time, he was tempted to reach out and brush the flour off the curve of her neck.
“Don’t want you complaining that The Pancake House isn’t a full service restaurant. It will hurt my credibility with the community.” He pulled his hand back before it slipped down to cradle her shoulder. Hell, he couldn’t be touching virtual strangers. He didn’t even know her name.
“Take away your Michelin Stars? “ Her eyes sparkled as she teased him, a too sexy smile curving those pouty lips.
“So you do know the tourist industry?” He tore his gaze away from the slight dusting of flour on her lips he wanted to kiss away. Instead, he pointed to the recipe. “You got all the ingredients in this bowl?”
“I do, but there must be something missing. I’ve tried making this crust three times and it never holds together.” She sighed. “Grandma always said I could burn water.”
He compared the list of ingredients to what he could see in the bowl. A cup of water sat to the side. He grabbed the pastry knife. “Mom spent a summer teaching me to cook before I left for college. She said no son of hers was going to survive on fast food for four years.”
“That must have been nice. My mom, well, let’s just say we ate a lot of packaged mac and cheese. And Ramen. She loved Ramen.”
“Mom was a chef in an upscale Boise restaurant when she met Dad. After he moved her to the mountain, he bought her The Pancake House as a wedding present.” Cash worked the butter into the flour mixture. “She wanted me to come home after college and run the restaurant. Except I was good at football. Pro team good. Or at least I was until I blew out my knee.”
Over and over, he pressed the multi-edged knife into the mixture, spinning the bowl as he cut the dry ingredients into the chilled butter.
“Grandma always made the pies before.” Her voice tinged with a sadness Cash felt.
“You probably didn’t add enough water after getting the flour cut in. Or you added the water too soon. It should look like little peas when you’re ready. You have to work fast, or the butter heats up.” He focused on the bowl, not wanting to stare into her eyes like some sap.
She giggled. “I like my butter heated.”
“Not if you want a flaky pie crust. Now, if you’re serving lobster, you can melt your butter all you want.” He looked up and met her gaze. “You really have to stop throwing those one liners at me. Someone might think we’re flirting.”
A knight in jeans and sweat shirt stood in her grandmother’s kitchen, making pie crust that June had failed at more times than she’d admitted to the man. Something about him seemed so familiar. Then the memory flashed through her mind. He’d been the quarterback at Shawnee High her freshman year. The only time she’d lived with her grandmother. The year her mom had been too sick to care for a fourteen-year-old girl, even when June tried to help.
Now, after losing Mom a few weeks before Christmas after a second bout of cancer, her entire family consisted of two people. Grandma and her. So she
’d come to the mountain cabin, tried to make piecrust, and failed badly enough that a complete stranger took pity on her.
She watched as Cash, that was his name, Cash Dillon, measured flour out into the bowl. The kids at Shawnee had treated her like she’d been part of their group since kindergarten, not as a newcomer. And the guys, oh, wow. Maybe she had just been filled with teenage hormones, but seeing Cash today, she didn’t think so. Finally, she spoke up.
“I’m June. June Palmer?” She waited to see if there was a chance that he remembered her at all. Of course, that chance was between a cowpoke leaning against the fence and Mother Theresa—Slim and Nun. He paused, and their eyes met. And for an instant, June was that geeky library girl who always had a book in her hand and glasses that could be used for telescope lenses.
“Cash Dillon. I run The Pancake House. Of course, you probably already figured that out.” He laughed at himself. June blushed. The guy hadn’t changed a bit, still casual, confident. “I didn’t realize Widow Palmer had such a pretty granddaughter.”
There it was. He didn’t remember the shy girl who once, in the hallway at school, had stepped up to his locker and blurted, “You’re amazing.” Then she’d dashed away to the sound of laughter from his friends crowded next to him.
“I’m a lawyer in Boise. Family law mostly, the partners don’t like to do the divorce and child support cases that come our way. So they give them to me, except the jokes on them because I love the work.” June stacked the dirty bowls and pans in the sink. She glanced over at the bags holding their dinners. “You think I should put that in the oven or something?”
