by Cindy Gerard
He simply hadn’t gotten enough of her.
Letter to Reader
Title Page
Books by Cindy Gerard
CINDY GERARD
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
Copyright
He simply hadn’t gotten enough of her.
Wearing a heavy sweater over her faded jeans, Sloan was on her knees in sweet, fresh straw. The morning air was cool, but her dark eyes were warm with amusement, her deep laughter bubbling as she watched her son, who was scrambling after a scampering kitten.
Jesse could have sworn that his heart actually stopped at the sight the two of them made wreathed in sunshine and smiles.
It was the ultimate Kodak moment, the kind of scene that would tug on any man’s heartstrings. Even a man with no intention of settling down, or settling in.
He wrestled with a sense of intrusion. He didn’t belong here. Yet the unexpected desire to be a part of the picture, and the package, and the promise the two of them represented, blindsided him....
Dear Reader,
Happy Valentine’s Day! And what better way to celebrate Cupid’s reign than by reading six brand-new Desire novels...?
Putting us in the mood for sensuous love is this February’s MAN OF THE MONTH, with wonderful Dixie Browning offering us the final title in her THE LAWLESS HEIRS miniseries in A Knight in Rusty Armor. This alpha-male hero knows just what to do when faced with a sultry damsel in distress!
Continue to follow the popular Fortune family’s romances in the Desire series FORTUNE’S CHILDREN: THE BRIDES. The newest installment, Society Bride by Elizabeth Bevarly, features a spirited debutante who runs away from a business-deal marriage...into the arms of the rugged rancher of her dreams.
Ever-talented Anne Marie Winston delivers the second story in her BUTLER COUNTY BRIDES, with a single mom opening her home and heart to a seductive acquaintance, in Dedicated to Deirdre. Then a modern-day cowboy renounces his footloose ways for love in The Outlaw Jesse James, the final title m Cindy Gerard’s OUTLAW HEARTS minisenes; while a child’s heartwarming wish for a father is granted in Raye Morgan’s Secret Dad. And with Little Miss Innocent? Lori Foster proves that opposites do attract.
This Valentine’s Day, Silhouette Desire’s little red books sizzle with compelling romance and make the perfect gift for the contemporary woman—you! So treat yourself to all six!
Enjoy!
Joan Marlow Golan
Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
US: 3010 Walden Ave, P.O Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian. P.O Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont L2A 5X3
THE OUTLAW JESSE JAMES
CINDY GERARD
Books by Cindy Gerard
Silhouette Desire
The Cowboy Takes a Lady #957
Lucas: The Loner #975
*The Bride Wore Blue #1012
*A Bride for Abel Greene #1052
*A Bride for Crimson Falls #1076
†The Outlaw’s Wife #1175
†Marriage, Outlaw Style #1185
†The Outlaw Jesse James #1198
*Northern Lights Brides
†Outlaw Hearts
CINDY GERARD
If asked “What’s your idea of heaven?” Cindy Gerard would say a warm sun, a cool breeze, pan pizza and a good book. If she had to settle for one of the four, she’d opt for the book, with the pizza running a close second. Inspired by the pleasure she’s received from the books she’s read and her longtime love affair with her husband, Tom, Cindy now creates her own warm, evocative stories about compelling characters and complex relationships.
All that reading must have paid off, because since winning the Waldenbooks Award for Best Selling Series Romance for a First-Time Author, Cindy has gone on to win the prestigious Colorado Romance Writers’ Award of Excellence, Romantic Times Magazine W.I.S.H. awards, Career Achievement and Reviewers’ Choice nominations, and the Romance Writers of America’s RITA Award nomination for Best Short Contemporary Romance.
This book is dedicated to my husband, Tom,
who has taught me everything I’ll ever need to know
about outlaws and how special they can be.
One
Dog Face Skoal was giving the chute crew fits, tossing his great horned head and bellowing like a scalded dog. The old boy loved to buck cowboys but he’d never liked to stand still long enough to get a bull rope pulled good and tight. It took a seasoned rider and nerves of steel to hold his concentration and then stick for an eight count when the gate finally flew open.
If anyone could handle ole Dog Face, Sloan Gantry figured it was the cowboy easing his long legs over the big brindle’s back. Watching with interest, Sloan hitched a boot heel over the lower rung of the arena fence and tossed her heavy black braid over her shoulder. Folding her arms over the top rail, she glanced around the packed stadium, then settled her gaze back on chute number four.
Jesse James, she thought to herself, as memories stole into the noise and excitement of the moment. Just like tonight, it had been a hot July night the first time they’d met face-to-face—and it had been right here at the Rapids City annual rodeo.
She’d been seventeen. Seventeen and a later bloomer. Awkwardly tall and beanpole slim, she’d been all elbows and knees with a mouthful of metal that had never failed to embarrass her out of smiling. Jesse had barely been aware she existed as she’d trailed her father around the rodeo circuit that summer seven years ago. She’d been aware of him, though. She’d been smitten by that long, lean woman magnet with his grin that promised sin and a loose-hipped cowboy swagger that suggested he was darn good at delivering it.
From all the accounts she’d heard, he did deliver. In fact, word was that Jesse James had stolen hearts from Jackson Hole to Fort Worth over the past few years. It didn’t take much thought to figure out why.
Even at seventeen, Sloan had comprehended and appreciated all that made Jesse, Jesse. Then as now, he’d been a heartbreak waiting to happen. The difference was that now, at twenty-four, Sloan had learned some life lessons the hard way. She was experienced enough to know that Jesse James and his kind were just rainbow-riding cowboys. They’d always be chasing the next rodeo, the next rank bull, the dream of a national championship. She was also independent enough to know she didn’t need the kind of hassles or the heartache a man like Jesse could bring to her life.
Still, she couldn’t help but watch as he made ready for his ride. And just like the crowd that packed the outdoor arena on this balmy summer night, she couldn’t help but wonder about the bull rider who had won America’s heart with his infectious grin and reckless ways.
She knew that he was about twenty-nine by now, that he was the youngest of three brothers, and of the three, it was Jesse who made it a point to live up to his outlaw name. She’d read an article about him a few months ago in the Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association News that said he’d been born on the wild side of a Wyoming blizzard, and that like that blizzard, he’d been cheerfully causing trouble ever since. Not bad trouble. More like the kind of trouble that stalled breaths with his fearless rides and broke hearts with his irresistible smile.
Like the crowd, Sloan watched with mounting anticipation as Jesse squared his broad shoulders, then shot one of his twin-dimpled grins at the chute boss when ole Dog Face made another rumbling lurch. The cl
ang of banging metal gates and the challenging bellow of a royally ticked-off bull rang through the suddenly hushed crowd.
The man had nerves of steel, all right. And like his brothers, who were businessmen and who’d been pictured with him in that same PRCA article, he was more than easy on the eyes. Beneath his black Resistol hat, his dark hair was thick and supple and a little longer than most cowboys chose to wear it—another testimony to his renegade ways.
He was taller than most bull riders, too—pushing six feet—but like all the good ones, he was a dedicated athlete. Lots of hard, toned muscle and flexing sinew went along with that rangy frame. The wide mouth that grinned in anticipation of the wild ride to come lit up his face, feeding on sparks shot from the electric blue of his eyes—eyes so full of mayhem and mischief, she shook her head and knew she should look away.
But she held her ground then gripped the rail with white knuckles when he tucked his head, gave a quick, clipped nod, and the gate flew open.
Dog Face exploded out of the chute like a pipe bomb. The scent of dust, adrenaline, and anticipation sucked the air out of her lungs. And then she just watched, as transfixed as the crowd, as for eight wild, heart-stopping, breath-altering seconds, Dog Face bucked, belly rolled, spun, and kicked for the sky, scattering arena dirt like flying pellets.
The crowd’s roar was deafening as Jesse provided every bull riding aficionado within breathing distance another reason to utter his name in the same sentences as legendary riders like Ty Murray and Tuff Heideman.
By the time the buzzer sounded, a loud, serrated bleat that cut through the whistles and applause, Jesse was still on board—and ole Dog Face was beside himself with rage. With the clowns already working to distract the bull, Jesse picked his moment, hitched loose his rope, and hit the ground running.
The crowd went wild. Every man, woman and child in the stadium knew they’d just witnessed a great ride. And when the judges posted the score and the announcer’s voice rang out an amazing eighty-nine points out of a hundred, Jesse whipped his four hundred dollar Resistol into the air like a Frisbee and waved to the riotously cheering fans.
Show-off, Sloan thought, but grinned in spite of it as he retrieved his hat from the dust then sprinted across the dirt-packed arena in her direction. He scaled the fence in two agile steps, vaulted up and over, and landed right beside her.
Without so much as a “hello, how are you,” he pulled her into his arms, grinned into her eyes, and spun her in a quick, wild circle. She couldn’t do anything but hang on for the ride as he lowered his head and planted a kiss on her mouth that had the crowd hooting and heat shooting from her toes to the tips of her ears.
He let her go just as quickly as he’d scooped her up, gave a final wave to the laughing crowd, and took off at a jog behind the chutes.
“Well,” she murmured, stunned and breathless as his slim backside disappeared in a sea of cowboy hats and rough stock. “Hello to you again, too.”
Jesse was stowing his gear in the back of his pickup later that night when he noticed the long-legged cowgirl cutting her way across the trailer parking lot in his direction.
The South Dakota stars were hidden beneath a heavy cover of clouds, but in the well-lit lot, he had no trouble making out her face and form. Leaning an elbow lazily on the rail of the truck bed, he thumbed back his hat and settled in to appreciate the view.
And my, oh my, was it a fine one.
Her purposeful stride was all business. But those legs and the firm, slim hips packed into a pair of Westerncut Wrangler jeans, spelled pure pleasure to him.
Lord, but she was a pretty thing. Glossy hair the color of a midnight sky was twisted into a heavy braid that hung like a trailing ribbon nearly to her waist. Eyes as brown as nutmeg and just as spicy, sparkled from beneath the brim of a sassy straw Stetson hat. Cheekbones made for magazine covers hinted subtly and proudly of a not-so-distant Native American lineage— Cherokee, he’d bet, like his own great-great-granddaddy. The prospect of a confrontation with the warrior he instinctively knew she would be, made his blood stir, heavy and hot.
She’d be a warrior, all right—but she’d be all woman, too. The gentle motion going on underneath the breast pockets of her striped Western shirt couldn’t conceal that sweet fact. But then, he’d already figured that out after his ride tonight when he’d swung over the fence, pulled her into his arms, and kissed the surprise right off her lush, sexy mouth.
She’d been as soft as a summer sunset nestled up against him. As stunned as his buddy D.U. the last time he’d lit in the dirt. And he remembered well that she hadn’t been entirely unresponsive. While the kiss had been sparked by an adrenaline rush and a heart-pumping high, he remembered every second of it. Just like he remembered the taste of her, and the feel of her, and the fragrance of woman in an otherwise dust- and animal-scented environment.
He wasn’t sorry for that impulsive kiss—he was never sorry about kissing a pretty woman—but he supposed he could manage an apology—if for no other reason than to give him an excuse to talk to her, find out who she was.
All manners and smiles, he sprinted to catch up with her when she breezed right on by him. “Ma’am.”
She stopped, turned abruptly. Her open look of curiosity downgraded quickly to a scowl. “Oh.” Her shoulders stiffened. “It’s you.”
He grinned in spite of himself. The lady wasn’t exactly pleased to see him. By the impatient way she planted her hands on her hips, he figured she wasn’t too happy about being held up by the likes of a saddle tramp like him, either.
“Yeah.” He shot for a sheepish look. “It’s me. About that little scene earlier...I figure maybe I owe you an apology.”
She looked him up and down, her dark eyes assessing before tilting her head to one side as if to say, Well...I’m waiting, so get it over with.
It took everything in him not to pull her into his arms again and just hug the hell out of her for being so damn cute. He might have done it, too, if his better judgment and her steady stare hadn’t warned him it was the wrong way to score points with this lady. So, he gave the apology his best shot instead.
“The sorry truth is, I don’t know what came over me.” He lifted a hand in the air. “I guess I was caught up in the moment and the first thing I saw when I hit the ground was your pretty face smiling at me. I couldn’t resist. I didn’t think. I just acted. And I sure am sorry if I embarrassed you.”
When she merely gave him a bland look, he couldn’t stop himself from adding, “Don’t look for an apology for the kiss, though, because as sure as the moon’s round, I’ll never be sorry about that.”
He tried his best humble-pie grin on her then. On most women, the tactic worked wonders. On her, however, it worked as well as a broken handle on a jammed door.
“Word is, you’ve got a lot of kisses to be sorry about, Jesse James.”
His grin spread wider at the sass in her voice and the dismissal in her tone. “Then you’ve been listening to some sad and sorry gossips, Miss . . .”
“Gantry. Sloan Gantry.” The smug glint that lit her dark eyes just before she turned to walk away was as fascinating as it was seductive. He was pretty well caught up in it when his brain synapses finally snapped together and he cued in on her name.
Gantry? Sloan Gantry?
Gravel crunched softly under her boots as she left him standing there—and all Jesse could do was stare after her, his mouth open and his mind whirling a mile a minute.
That was little Sloan Gantry? Skinny, knobby-kneed Sloan, who used to trip all over herself when he called her Country and turn as red as a spiced apple when he teased her about her braces? Little Sloan, who had traveled with her daddy on the circuit during the summer of his rookie year?
He cupped a palm at his nape, tipped his black Resistol forward and did the math. What had it been? Six years? Maybe seven? Man, oh, man. A lot could change in a few years. Like a weed could turn into a wild rose, he thought in pleased astonishment about the same time he
realized he was letting her get away.
Rousing himself out of shock mode, he sprinted to catch up with her. “Hey, Country. Wait up.”
He was too late—and she wasn’t waiting for anybody. She’d already hitched her tidy little backside into the driver’s side of a dusty brown club cab with Montana plates and was peeling out of the lot.
Legs spread wide, fingers tucked into his hip pockets, he watched her go, a little stunned, a lot intrigued.
Tom Stringer, Jesse’s traveling partner, walked up beside him and regarded him with open curiosity. Unlike Jesse, who’d been blessed with dark good looks and a lean, muscular body, Tom, who’d been affectionately dubbed “D.U.”—Double Ugly—by his friends, had been saddled with scrawny shoulders, stubby bowed legs, and a face that looked like it had been formed by a solid whack from a horse hoof.
Jesse like to tease Tom that, in addition to being ugly, he was a little long in the tooth to be competing in a young man’s sport. At forty-two, D.U. was still a helluva bull rider, though, even if he wasn’t in the hunt for a PRCA championship. D.U. rode because he loved to ride. And while Jesse worried about him sometimes, he understood what pulled him to the ultimate risk-and-reward sport of bull riding.
They’d been friends long before they’d teamed up a couple of years ago, and when they weren’t flying from one competition to another in Jesse’s corporate sponsor’s plane, they shared the driving, split the costs, and dragged each other out of the dirt and into the emergency room when the occasion demanded.
“Last time I seen a grin that sappy on your face,” D.U. observed with a grunt, “you’d lit on your head good and hard.”
