The Junkyard Cowboy (Tall, Hot & Texan Book 3)

by Christie Craig

  A knock sounded.

  With her emotions on her sleeve, she bolted for the door.

  So sure it was Clay, she swung it open without peering out the peephole. But when she yanked open the door, her heart slammed to her stomach.

  “You’re finally home,” Charles said.

  “Yeah.” She debated asking him to leave, but he’d probably come for his things, and perhaps the sooner she got all evidence of him out, the better she’d be. She backed up.

  “You’re crying.” He walked in.

  “I’m allowed,” she answered back.

  “You haven’t been accepting my calls.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been kind of busy.” She went and sat on the sofa, folded her hands in her lap, and fought the heartache. When she realized, he stood there staring, she said, “You can get your things.”

  He didn’t move. “Busy with what?”

  Trying to avoid a hit man, falling in love with a commitment-phobic cowboy, helping Savanna deliver her baby. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Maybe it does.” He took a step forward. “Look, I’m thinking maybe we broke up too soon. I’m willing to give it another shot.”

  He was willing, was he? She thought of several nasty retorts, but didn’t care enough to toss them at him. “Just get your things.” Before she could say anything else, another knock sounded on her front door.

  Again thinking it might be Clay, she rushed to open it. Shock washed over her for the second time.

  Pete and Devil stood there. “You promised me fried chicken.”

  Her lips started to tremble.

  “You need to come home,” Pete said.

  “She is home.” Charles’s remark echoed behind her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m her hero,” Pete said. “Who in blue hell are you?”

  “Her fiancé,” Charles spoke with confidence that had her shoulders snapping back.

  “Ex-fiancé,” she said. Devil ambled into the room, and Charles, afraid of dogs, stepped around the sofa. Right then Clay, holding a bouquet of flowers, walked up behind Pete.

  His soulful gaze met hers. A knot formed in her throat. He side-stepped past Pete and started to reach for her but stopped when he noticed Charles.

  Clay’s brows puckered. “You must be the idiot who cheated on her.”

  Charles flinched as if insulted. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the lucky son of a bitch who’d never cheat on her in a million years.” Clay paused. “And if I’m not overstepping my bounds,” his gaze shifted back to her, “I’d appreciate it if you left now.”

  “You’re not overstepping,” Jennifer said, her heart filling with hope. He cared enough to be here. That had to mean something.

  Charles shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Before Jennifer could speak up, Clay did. “Okay, suit yourself.”

  Clay’s gaze shifted to her. “I was an idiot this morning. My ex called and it reminded me that women in my life have a history of letting me down. I got scared again. But when I knew Bundy was at the house and I realized I could lose you, everything became so clear. I love you, Jennifer Peterson.”

  “What?” Charles spouted out. “You can’t love her. She just broke up with me.”

  Clay looked at Charles. “You’re going to have to shut your mouth or get the hell out of here.” His focus came back to her. “I’m sorry for acting like a fool.”

  “So am I.” Charles rushed around the sofa, looking at Jennifer. “I shouldn’t have slept with Lisa. It was a mistake. But it didn’t mean anything. We can go ahead with the marriage. We’ve already set the date. We’ve got the church. We picked out chicken piccata for the reception.”

  Jennifer looked at Charles. “I don’t like chicken piccata. And I don’t want to marry you.”

  “What about me?” Clay said.

  Jennifer gasped. Had he just said that? Air got caught in her throat. “It’s a little soon, isn’t it?”

  “Hell yes, it is,” Charles said. “Unless you’ve been cheating on me! How long have you two been seeing each other?”

  Clay glared at Charles. “She’s too classy to cheat on anyone. That’s your game, bucko. And I think she asked you to leave.”

  Charles shook his head. “You’ve been screwing him, haven’t you?”

  Clay exhaled loudly and looked at her. “Can I hit him?”

  “No.” Jennifer said. “He’s leaving.” She shot Charles a glare. “Now.” She pointed to the door.

  “You slut. You’ve been fucking around—”

  Before she could stop it, Clay bolted forward, picked the guy up by his collar and slammed him against the wall. “Tell her you’re sorry.”

  “If only I had my shovel,” Pete yelled. Even Devil bolted forward and let out a growl.

  “Say it!” Clay insisted.

  “I’m sorry,” Charles spit out.

  “Say it like you mean it!” Clay demanded.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeated.

  Clay dropped the man, and he lost his balance and fell to the floor. “Leave.”

  “You can get your stuff later,” Jennifer said.

  Pete took a step forward. “Devil and I’ll see him out.” The old man stared at Charles. “Now get your ass up before you start growing roots.”

  “This is insane,” Charles bellowed out, but he bounced up and started to the door.

  As Devil and Pete escorted Charles out, Clay faced her. Their eyes met, and her heart felt wide open, vulnerable.

  “I need you in my life,” he said.

  His words were like a warm blanket on a chilly night, like the first rays of sunshine after a long, gray winter. But she also remembered his words from earlier. We started this thing living together, and I’m not sure . . . how we’re supposed to move forward.

  She stepped closer and ran her hands over his chest. “I need you, too. But you were right about it happening fast. We haven’t even dated.”

  “That’s bullshit. The picnic was a date,” he said. “We’ve cooked and eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. Those could easily be viewed as dates. And that night you crawled in the shower with me and took advantage of me, I’m pretty damn sure that was a date.”

  She chuckled but continued, because things needed to be said. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I also know what I feel. I know you make me laugh. I know you make me a better man. I know you make me happier than I’ve ever been, than I have any right to be. I know I want to look over the rim of my coffee cup tomorrow and see you there. I want to cook you breakfast and go to bed with you at night. I want to watch you become a world champion cook. I want you. And not just for tomorrow but for forever.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “I want you too, but I’m just afraid—”

  “I know, I’m afraid, too, but we can be afraid together. And if you don’t want to get married right away that’s okay, too. I’ll live in sin with you. But it’s not because I don’t want to marry you. I swear, you, Pete, I, and even Devil, we can all take a ride to the courthouse right now.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m crazy about you. And I know I’m not a hairy funeral director with a small penis. And I know I’m not a rich man. It’ll take me a while to get you the home you deserve, the ring you deserve, but I’ll love you forever. And when I put that ring on your finger, you’ll never need anyone to take it off.”

  She felt his promises curl around her heart. “I love you, too.”

  He kissed her.

  When it ended, she put her hand on his chest and looked up. “I want a baby,” she said because he needed to know that.

  “No,” he said.

  Her heart dropped.

  “We need two of them,” he said. “I hated being an only child.”

  She grinned. “Two would be good.”

  He pulled her close. “I should tell you, however, that I’m a package deal. Pete and Devil are here to stay.”

  “I wouldn’t
have it any other way,” she said.

  “So that’s a ‘yes’?” He leaned down and put his forehead against hers.

  “It’s a ‘yes.’”

  “So, we’re going to the courthouse?” he asked.

  “No. You’re going to marry me in front of a preacher and our friends. At our wedding that we plan with a cake and flowers.”

  He cocked his head and studied her. “You’re going to make me wear a penguin suit, aren’t you?”

  She laughed. “That’s negotiable.”

  He cupped her face. “I love you, Jennifer Peterson, and I plan to spend the rest of my life making you laugh.”

  Books by Christie Craig

  Divorced and Desperate Series

  Divorced, Desperate and Delicious

  Divorced, Desperate and Dating

  Divorced, Desperate and Deceived

  Divorced, Desperate and Dangerous

  Divorced, Desperate and Dead

  Divorced, Desperate and Daring

  Hotter in Texas Series

  Only in Texas

  Blame It on Texas

  Texas Hold ’Em

  Tall, Hot & Texan

  Gotcha!

  The Cop Who Stole Christmas

  The Junkyard Cowboy

  Weddings Can Be Murder

  Shut Up and Kiss Me

  Murder, Mayhem and Mama

  Love, Laughter and a Little Murder: 3 Novels by Christie Craig

  (anthology containing Murder, Mayhem and Mama;

  Weddings Can Be Murder; and Gotcha!)

  For more information: www.Christie-Craig.com

  YOUNG ADULT NOVELS BY

  CHRISTIE CRAIG WRITING AS C. C. HUNTER

  New York Times Bestselling Shadow Falls Series (Young Adult)

  Born at Midnight

  Turned at Dark (free novella)

  Awake at Dawn

  Taken at Dusk

  Whispers at Moonrise

  Saved at Sunrise (novella)

  Chosen at Nightfall

  Spellbinder (novella)

  Almost Midnight: Shadow Falls: The Novella Collection

  Shadow Falls: After Dark Series (Young Adult)

  Reborn

  Unbreakable (novella)

  Eternal

  Unspoken

  Midnight Hour

  For more information: www.CCHunterBooks.com

  Keep reading for an excerpt for the first book

  in the Tall, Hot & Texan series,

  Gotcha!

  Macy Tucker was five years old when her beloved grandfather dropped dead in his spaghetti. At twelve, her father left his family in the dust. At twenty-five, her husband gave his secretary a pre-Christmas bonus in bed, and Macy gave him the boot. To put things lightly, men have been undependable.

  That’s why dating’s off the menu. Macy is focused on putting herself through law school—which means being the delivery girl for Papa’s Pizza. But cheesier than her job is her pie-eyed brother, who just recently escaped from prison to protect his new girlfriend. And hotter than Texas toast is the investigating detective. Proud, sexy . . . inflexible, he’s a man who would kiss her just to shut her up. But Jake Baldwin’s a protector as much as a dish. And when he gets his man—or his woman—Macy knows it’s for life.

  Chapter One

  “You lucky bastard.”

  Sergeant Jake Baldwin looked up from his desk and found Mark Donaldson, the new detective in the department and his sometime partner, leaning his head inside the office door.

  “Why am I lucky?” Jake asked and shouldered back in his chair.

  Donaldson’s chickenshit grin widened. “She says she needs you, and only you will do.” He looked down the hall, then shot off as if someone chased him.

  “Hey, who needs . . . ?” Jake’s question tripped over his lips as a blonde, a dead ringer for Marilyn Monroe in her chubbier years, sashayed into his office. She didn’t walk. She sashayed.

  About a foot from his desk, she stopped moving, but her body didn’t. Her breasts, squeezed into a low-cut red tank top, continued to bounce. Up. Down. Up. Behind her, two Houston police officers paused, their tongues dangling out like hounds’. Jake’s tongue remained in his mouth. He’d never been a Monroe fan.

  His visitor leaned over to pull out a chair, and he got a peek at her cleavage—which led him to realize maybe you didn’t really have to be a true fan to appreciate a look-alike. He glanced away. Gawking was crude. Besides, he’d stopped letting women know they had the upper hand. They still had it, of course. He was, after all, flesh and blood, but he refrained from giving them the leverage that came with knowing. His ex-fiancée, now sister-in-law, had taught him better.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, but his male mind was already considering options. Then he gave her another once-over. She was twenty, maybe? At thirty-one, Jake refused to date anyone who might still believe in Santa.

  Miss Monroe opened her mouth to speak, and Jake waited for her sweet husky voice to flow over him, sound effects to add to the fantasies that no doubt he’d have later on. His fantasies had no problems with a twenty-year-old. And lately, fantasies were all he had.

  “My name’s Ellie Chandler.” Her voice, some would call it cartoonish—a really bad cartoon—came out two octaves above chalk screeching across a blackboard. “You’re Jake Baldwin, riiiight?”

  Jake jerked, knocking over his coffee mug. God help him. No, God help her, he thought, grabbing the cup and saving his files from the spill. No wonder the Almighty gave her that body. He’d been trying to make up for the voice.

  She continued talking, and Jake would have done almost anything to shut her up. Anything, but be rude. For the son of a Baptist preacher, rudeness wasn’t an option, even for a religious backslider like himself. He finger-locked his hands in front of him and forced his attention on her. Every spoken syllable was like bowel surgery.

  “I’m here to report a murder.”

  He sighed. “Then you need to talk to Homicide. I work Robbery.” Please God, let it be that easy.

  God wasn’t listening.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Why me?” he asked both the blonde and the Almighty.

  “Because you know what he’s like. You’re the one who put him away.”

  “Put who away?”

  “David Tanks. My ex-boyfriend.”

  Jake remembered Tanks. Too many tattoos. A dealer with a mean streak and a drug habit of his own.

  “And because I love Billy now, David’s threatening to kill him. He’s even threatened Billy’s sister. He called her one dead bitch.”

  Jake shook his head to clear her voice from his ears. “Tanks is still doing time, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Ellie Chandler nodded vigorously, and her tank top strained to contain the jiggling. Up. Down. Jake had to force his eyes from lowering.

  “So, the murder you want to report . . . It hasn’t happened? No one’s dead yet?”

  “He cut the man’s head off. I’d say that killed him.”

  Jake stiffened. “Whose head?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “I wasn’t there—” her green eyes rolled “—so how would I know?”

  Okay. She wasn’t making a ton of sense, but he’d give it one more shot. “When did the murder happen?”

  “Last year, I think. David got drunk and bragged about it. I want you to pin it on him and then get him moved in with the dangerous prisoners—away from the good ones.”

  Good prisoners? Unlocking his fingers, Jake pressed his palms on his desk. Suddenly, the pieces of the blonde’s story began to fit together. “Where’s Billy?”

  “In prison with David. But don’t murderers get moved away from people who accidentally rob a convenience store?”

  “Accidentally robbed a store?” Jake tried to keep the disrespect from his voice.

  The blonde started chattering again, and Jake listened. His eardrums throbbed. At last, he reac
hed for a yellow notebook and wrote down her contact info. Then he jotted, Tanks—threatened to kill Billy’s sister. Glancing right at her, and for the sake of politeness, he said, “Miss Chandler, I’m glad you came in.” Sons of Baptist preachers occasionally lied, but only when politeness was on the line.

  She blinked, and something close to intelligence flashed in her green eyes. “You’re not going to do a thing, are you?”

  Okay, he’d try one more time to reason with her. “Honestly, you need to talk to Homicide.” He then watched her storm out.

  Though the view was nice, his gaze dropped back to his pad. Tanks—threatened to kill Billy’s sister. Sadly, if a cop jumped every time one inmate threatened to hurt another’s mother or sister, the whole damn force would be too busy playing leapfrog to do its job.

  • • •

  “You’re his sister.”

  “No!” Macy Tucker said, dropping her veggie burger onto her plate. She should have guessed something was up when her mother served a lunch entree that didn’t include butchered livestock. Macy had been a vegetarian since she was sixteen. Twelve years later, her mother still felt it was a passing fad. Of course, her mom, clueless at times, also waited for Macy’s dad to walk back in and yell, “I’m home. Get me a beer, would ya?” Never mind he’d been gone for fourteen years; she kept waiting. Not that Macy would want him back.

  “Siblings are supposed to—”

  “It’s not happening, Mom.”

  Macy’s chest clutched when her mother’s blue eyes filled with tears. Not that Faye Moore’s crying would surprise anyone. In the last three years, she had taken her part-time job of hysterics and made it a full-fledged career. Hundreds of trees had fallen to make the facial tissues to dry her eyes. The doctor said it was menopause. Macy decided it was men. Macy sympathized, because she’d almost succumbed to the malady herself.