Lone Star Burn_Lone Star Sizzle

by Reagan Phillips

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by RCardello LLC. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Lone Star Burn remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of RCardello LLC, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Writing a book is always a joint effort and I’ve had the privilege of working with some amazing and talented folks on this one. JA Coffey, who introduced me to the world of Ruth Cardello, Lisa Messegee who hit the photoshop nail on the head with her gorgeous cover (I may have licked my screen when I first saw it), Krys Parisi who can never “just edit” a book without giving insightful feedback, Shaila Patel who not only gives the best beta reader feedback, but makes sure I leave the house once or twice a month and writes the sexiest heroes in her spare time, Alex Ratcliff who finds time in her SuperMom schedule to beta for me, and Anne Davis Hamilton who I swear gave me her awesome sense of humor and from who I stole my first line for this book. And then there is the tribe; Jeni Burns, Shaila Patel, Eileen Richards, Adrienne Mishel, Sofia Ashe. You girls make me whole. I’ll love you always!

  CHAPTER ONE

  If it has tires or testicles, it’s bound to screw you.

  Blythe Williams scowled into the innards of her decades old sedan with enough contempt to choke a Texas Longhorn. Eighteen hours on the road and the damn car hadn’t made a demand beyond the gas light in South Carolina and Alabama. Even then, Blythe had babied it the way her father had taught her, examining the oil dipstick at every stop and checking the radiator fluid level.

  Through countless small towns and interstate exit stops, the junker of a machine had purred like a sixteen-year-old kitten high on catnip. Then, an hour out from the last sign of civilization, beyond the longhorned beasts chewing their cud and gawking, and the endless roadside fence posts, the car had taken its final breath and crapped out.

  It figured−the first time she’d taken a chance and dared to step outside her comfort zone, she’d ended up stranded in a no-name town with her clunker car and five-percent of battery left on her cell.

  One of the Longhorns from the pastures that lined the deserted backcountry road shook his massive head and snorted.

  “Go ahead and mock me, you overgrown lawn mower.”

  Blythe shook her head and stared at the low battery warning on her phone. She still had service, so civilization couldn’t be too far away. Maybe she was near someplace with a quaint little coffee shop, a handful of mom and pop stores, and hopefully at least one good mechanic. If she could just get some food in her belly to pacify the growing “hanger” and find someone who knew a lug nut from a wheel bearing to check the car, she could be on her way to the paradise of a resort she’d booked in Galveston.

  Maybe a few drinks with umbrellas poolside would salvage the rest of her vacation week.

  Desperate, she left the hood opened and reached in the car window for a map, catching her reflection in the side mirror. My God. No wonder women in Texas had huge hair. The humidity alone added five inches in frizz, not to mention the sheen of sweat turning her make-up into a Salvador Dali painting.

  Why does how I look even matter? It wasn’t like some backwoods hick farmer was going to critique her style while towing her to the nearest greasy auto repair shop.

  A farmer might not notice, but Mike would have. She rolled her eyes at the mirror and stepped out of view. “Mike made his choice,” she whispered to herself. He hadn’t been in her life in over six months. Why can’t you stop worrying about why he left? He did you a favor.

  Scolding herself never did any good, but she never gave up trying.

  And now look at the mess you’re in. Broken down in butt-fuck Egypt without a clue how to find help.

  The whole point of the trip was to take an adventure. To stand on her own two feet. To find her inner badass. Flaking out over car trouble wasn’t going to ruin that plan.

  She inhaled deeply and waved her cell in the air again, searching for the signal. A few steps from the car a bar lit up. There is a God!

  With her arm held awkwardly above her head, she searched her contacts for her AAA number and pressed send.

  The voice that answered confirmed her membership and make/model of car and transferred her over to a tow service in nearby Fort Mavis.

  “Hello.” The man’s voice dripped in southern slang. So much so, she had a hard time understanding him. “What’s your location, Honey?”

  Blythe gave a second search of the road around her. “I turned off the interstate about an hour ago and followed Rolling Rock Road for about forty miles until it changed into a dirt road. Now I’m between cattle pastures somewhere near Fort Mavis.”

  She heard him grunt over the phone. “Do you know how far from town?”

  Two Springsteen’s Greatest Hits and a Luke Bryan CD from the exit on I-40. Though he didn’t sound like the type who kept up with distance by tracking the number of songs played. He was probably the type, like her father, that taught his daughter to count mile makers. “A couple of miles I’m guessing?”

  The phone line crackled over his response. “Somewhere near—could take—a place in town—set you up.”

  The line died.

  Damn it. Blythe shook the phone in her palm and circled the car, but couldn’t pick up a strong enough signal. At least someone knew a rough estimate of her location. How hard could it be to search the roads around town?

  Any hope she had dissipated at her next thought. Hell, did the tow truck driver even understand what side of the town she had explained? They could be searching for hours and dusk was already riding her heels.

  A little over a mile back she’d passed a small brick building with a large yard and a truck parked in a gravel lot. There hadn’t been a sign, but by the square shape of the building and the large windows at the front, it had to be a business of some kind. If nothing else, they would have a working phone and a restroom. Maybe even air conditioning if her luck held. She’d heard of the Texas heat described as the devil’s armpit, but until her northern Virginia blood had a taste of it, she hadn’t fully appreciated the analogy. It sapped the strength out of her like a vacuum. Another hour and the tow truck driver would be pulling up to a puddle instead of a stranded out-of-towner.

  I don’t need to wait for help. Blythe stared back at the reflection in the side view and narrowed her gaze. I can find it on my own.

  Blythe leaned into the back seat and pulled her rolling luggage and positioned her duffle straps over the rolling bags handle. The building couldn’t be too far back, and this trip had been about finding an adventure. She just hadn’t planned on jumping in quite so soon. Maybe she’d even meet an honest to God cowboy along the way.

  That would frost Mandy for bailing on their girl’s weekend at the last minute. He’d score double points if he knew anything about fixing cars and wore a Stetson.

  ****

  Hunter Cole ran his hands along the abdominal wall of the German Shepherd laying on his grooming table at Best Friends Grooming and Kennel and shook his head. “I don’t feel anything, Mrs. Thomas. Duke could just be bloated.”

  Mrs. Thomas shook her gray-haired up-do and pointed her finger, heavily weig
hed under gold and diamond rings, to her purebred’s belly and smacked her pale pink lips. “Well, check again,” she scolded. “I know I felt a lump right under his rib cage. Could be a tumor of some kind. You know my Mattie died of cancer at the age of six and Duke isn’t far from it.”

  Hunter wasn’t running a vet’s office, but that didn’t stop most of his costumers from asking for his medical advice.

  Only because he knew Brenda Thomas sat a pew away from his grandfather in church on Sundays and would complain to Gramps if he didn’t humor her, did he take another look at where she pointed. This time, he lingered over the dog’s healthy chest long enough to appear to be investigating something.

  Since he’d taken over his grandmother’s kennel after her death two years ago, he’d formed an appreciation for the owners who didn’t forget he was more rancher than kennel owner. What little animal husbandry training he had came directly from tailing Gramps around the family ranch as a kid and focused more on large animals.

  He pressed on the Duke’s stomach, earning a grunt from the impatient dog. “When did Duke last eat?”

  “This morning. Six a.m. as always. Haven’t been home since to feed him.”

  “And has he used the bathroom since this morning?” Knowing Mrs. Thomas, she had kept that poor dog locked up in the house with her all damn day to avoid the unseasonably hot spring heat wave.

  Mrs. Thomas took her time to answer. “Well. No. I dropped him off here for his grooming before he had the chance. You know how he hates to do his business on concrete floors.”

  Hunter leaned back on his heels and gave Duke a soft pat on the head. Sorry, you got saddled with a hypochondriac, boy.

  “He’s probably constipated. Give him lots of water when you get home and maybe a little oil in tonight’s meal. A good walk won’t hurt him any. Should be right as rain by morning.”

  He lifted the large dog from the table, ignoring the strain it put on his back, and handed the leash over.

  Mrs. Thomas reached for his hand. “Oh, I knew something wasn’t right with old Duke. You’ve got your grandfather’s nature with animals and your grandmother’s head for business.”

  He opened his mouth to thank her while leading her to the door, but she turned on him and patted his cheek, just as Grandma used to. “I’m so glad those Coles brought you back into the fold, Hunter. You’ve got ranching in your blood.”

  Hunter clenched his jaw and glanced at the clock on the far wall long enough to give Mrs. Thomas a hint. Gramps was good at putting family squabbles on the front porch for all to see, but Hunter liked to keep his private family affairs locked away from public view where they should be kept.

  “Thank you, Hunter,” she said. “Tell your grandfather I’ll see him in church Sunday.”

  With a forced smile, he escorted Mrs. Thomas and Duke to the door and locked up behind them. With spring came longer evenings of daylight and he’d begun staying later on Friday nights so he could close early on Saturdays and spend the extra hours fixing up the small ranch house he’d inherited from his grandmother. His cattle herd was still too small to cull and market, and the house, though livable, needed major updates. The new manager Gramps hired to run the Cole family side business would hopefully free up enough of his personal time to get the old ranch turning a profit before his savings account withered like grapes left on the vine in a drought.

  Determined to make it home in time for a beer and the end of the Texas Longhorns game, Hunter swept down the grooming area and flicked off the overhead lights just in time to catch the soft knock on the front door.

  Funny. He hadn’t heard a car crunch the gravel in the lot. Probably just another lost tourist trying to find the town. The sooner Gramps fixed the Best Friends Kennel sign and put it back out front, the sooner people would stop confusing the kennel for a store.

  They knocked again, and he threw a “Keep your shorts on, I’m coming” in the direction of the front office.

  He flipped the lights back on and rammed his next irritating remark down his throat at the sight of the brunette on the opposite side of the glass door. Petite and lanky in a pair of short shorts that left only the summit of her upper thighs to the imagination, she held her shoulders tight below a slender neck and her head perched at an angle. Pale arms shot out from a sleeveless button-down shirt that splayed open at her neck enough to expose the roundness of her cleavage and then cinched at the waist with a thick silver belt.

  He could feel his erection build before the crotch of his jeans tightened.

  Upon closer inspection, two weary mahogany eyes stared back, set off by cream-colored cheeks and a delicate button of a nose that twitched when she parted her lips. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a suitcase.

  The new manager. She was a day early.

  With a groan, he overturned the lock and pushed the door wide enough to accommodate her and the luggage.

  “Hi.” With one word he could place her accent. Not entirely northern. Far from Southern. Somewhere near the Mason/Dixon probably. “I’m Blythe. I—”

  “I know who you are.” He seized the duffle and rolling bag before depositing them both beside the waiting room couch and waving her inside. “Gramps told me to expect you, but he didn’t give me a time.” Or a name, but that was how Gramps operated.

  “Gramps?” She squinted her eyes, and her nose twitched again. She glanced behind her at the closed door and stiffened a bit, wary. “Is this the place I called earlier?”

  Not wanting to admit he’d turned the ringer off at lunchtime to finish some paperwork and never turned it back on, he ignored the second question. “Gramps. Marcus Cole. My Grandfather. He’s not much for writing down dates and names. Probably why the business’ books are in the shape they’re in, but he did remember to tell me you’d called and to set you up in the apartment above the office for now. You can have it for as long as it takes to make other arrangements in town.”

  She twisted her lips and squinted one eye. The same tension he’d noted before in her shoulders still clung to her, but once she followed him into the small reception area she stopped glancing behind at the door. Small town. New boss. He could understand the apprehension. “Your Gramps told you I was coming?”

  Gorgeous, but distrusting. A bit too high maintenance for his taste.

  Hunter nodded. “And to set you up in the apartment upstairs,” he repeated. He had to admit the doe-caught-in-headlights look did something to him. He much preferred to work alone. Without temptation. Not that he normally gravitated toward needy, but the damsel-in-distress vibe she was throwing off got to him. “There is a bed and bath and stocked mini-fridge upstairs. That should get you set up until we can make a run into town tomorrow for essentials.”

  She looked up at him with the same inquisitive glare. “Tomorrow?” Her slender shoulders slumped. “I was hoping we could get started tonight. I’m on a tight timeline.”

  Sure she was, but if she thought fixing Best Friends could be done quick, Gramps hadn’t been very honest with her about how long they’d gone without a competent manager.

  “Issues like these take time to fix. You, me, and my grandfather can sit down in the morning and figure out a plan to fix everything.” He gave her a half grin. “Besides, you look like you could use a rest. I’m sure you’ve had a long day on the road.”

  He reached for her bags again and made for the back stairs leading to the apartment above the shop, but she snatched the handle before he could take hold. For the second time, he noticed the stiffness in her stance and the weariness in her eyes.

  He stepped back. “I was only going to take your luggage upstairs for you.”

  “I can do it.” Her cheeks blushed pink. “I didn’t expect you to put me up for the night. That’s all.”

  You’re being an ass. As his grandmother described him, he had the bull in a china shop mentality when it came to emotions and often miscued other’s body language. Sure, he wanted to be home before the Longhorns made their first bas
ket, but knowing Gramps’s lack of detail, he probably hadn’t explained enough for Blythe to understand the agreement.

  “The apartment comes with the deal. My grandfather is a man of few words. I guess he didn’t explain the arrangement very well over the phone.”

  “We had a bad connection,” she answered.

  “Gramps isn’t known for his communication skills. Sorry about that, but you’ll get used to it. The apartment is the first door on your right. I’ll lock up down here and be back first thing in the morning. There’s a key to the doors in the apartment if you decide to explore town tonight. Company truck is parked out back. If you can drive a stick.”

  He waited for an answer, but when she only turned toward the stairs and began climbing, he took her body language as his dismissal and locked the front door on his way out.

  Gramps had some explaining to do in the morning, but first, he needed to clear his head and some mindless TV to distract his libido.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blythe opened her eyes to a pasticcio of clanking from the floor below.

  She rolled in the covers, wrapping herself in the neutral comforter until only her face peeked out and the sunlight shone on her from a small window opposite the bed.

  Only then did reality sink in.

  This room wasn’t home. Or the resort in Galveston. It was a dusty, small one bedroom apartment in God-knows-where Texas. And the banging, she could only guess was the man from last night who’d locked her in without so much as leaving his name.

  Exhausted from the eighteen hours she’d driven from Virginia, she hadn’t even changed her clothes before inspecting the bed and jumping in. It surprised her that even in the unfamiliar surroundings, she’d been able to fall asleep at all. Much less two seconds after her head hit the pillow.

  Now there was a buzzing floating up from the office below, following by the endless barking of a dog. She hadn’t remembered seeing one last night, but she also hadn’t taken the time to explore the place. Come to think of it, in the dark, she hadn’t seen much more than the front area with a row of seats lined up by the window and a reception desk with a flat screen computer and a counter cluttered with business card holders. She hadn’t even asked when her car would be towed in or found the mechanic’s bay.