by Lia Riley
Dedication
To Nick,
sorry I flood the kitchen, stick frozen peas in the pantry,
and can’t park the car to save my life—but hey look, I wrote another book!
Love you.
Acknowledgments
GRATITUDE, AS ALWAYS, to my brilliant editor, Amanda Bergeron, who makes everything I write way better. Special appreciation is also due to the fabulous and patient Gabrielle Keck. To my lovely agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, you always know when to give the perfect pep talk and it’s so appreciated.
Love to my dear writing compadres: Jennifer Ryan, Jennifer Blackwood, Natalie Blitt, Jules Barnard, Megan Erickson, and A.J. Pine.
Super special thanks to my family for putting up with me. When I grunt an answer or stare off into the distance, what I’m really saying is “I love you.”
To my readers, I couldn’t do any of this without you. Your support means the world.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Legend of Hidden Rock Ranch
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
An Excerpt from Last First Kiss
About the Author
Also by Lia Riley
An Excerpt from Close to Heart by T.J. Kline
An Excerpt from The Maddening Lord Montwood by Vivienne Lorret
An Excerpt from Chaos by Jamie Shaw
An Excerpt from The Bride Wore Denim by Lizbeth Selvig
Copyright
About the Publisher
The Legend of Hidden Rock Ranch
(excerpt from Brightwater: Small Town, Big Dreams)
FIELDER KANE, THE youngest son of a Rhode Island textile worker, ran away to seek his fortune during the Gold Rush. He arrived in the Brightwater Valley’s first wagon train, one of the thousands of adventurous young men flocking to California. Slowly but surely, the rugged town began to thrive despite the harsh weather. A merchant arrived with a raven-haired daughter, Margaret, rumored to be the most beautiful woman in the region. He made it clear that his beloved child would settle for nothing less than the man with the most land, the greatest potential.
For five long years, Fielder put his head down, gathering a sizeable cattle herd, a loyal cadre of working men as well as land, position, and power. At long last, when he had amassed his fortune, he purchased a ring as elegant and beautiful as the woman he loved.
Margaret joyfully accepted the handsome young cattleman’s proposal. They were soon wed and she bore him three healthy sons. But alas, consumption also migrated to California, and the pernicious, deadly disease soon found home in her lungs. All too soon, she wasted away, leaving behind a grief-stricken husband.
Fielder vowed never to love again. Instead, he secreted that hard-won engagement ring on his property, never telling a soul of its whereabouts. He claimed it was a gift of true love and only another with equal grit and conviction deserved to discover such a prize.
To this day, though many have tried, no one has ever found the hidden rock.
Chapter One
ARCHER KANE PLUCKED a dangly gold nipple tassel off his cheek and sat up in the king-sized bed, scrubbing his face. Overturned furniture, empty shot glasses, and champagne flutes littered the hotel room while a red thong dangled from the flat screen. He inched his fingers to grab the Stetson resting atop the tangled comforter. The trick lay in not disturbing the two women snoring on either side of him. Vegas trips were about fillies and fun—mission accomplished.
Right?
“What the?” A dove dive-bombed him, swooped to his left, and perched on the room-service cart to peck at a peanut from what appeared to be the remnants of a large hot fudge sundae. Who knew how a bird got in here, but at least the ice cream explained why his chest hair was sticky and, farther below, chocolate-covered fingerprints framed his six-pack. Looked like he had one helluva night. Too bad he couldn’t remember a damn thing. He should be high-fiving himself, but instead, he just felt dog-tired.
He emerged from beneath the covers and crawled to the bottom of the bed, head pounding like a bass drum. As he stood, the prior evening returned in splintered fragments. Blondie, on the right cuddling his empty pillow, was Crystal Balls aka the Stripping Magician. The marquee from her show advertised, “She has nothing up her sleeve.” Dark-hair on the left had been the assistant . . . Destiny? Dallas? Daisy?
Something with a D.
How in Houdini they all ended up in bed together is where the facts got fuzzy.
A feather-trimmed sequined gown was crumpled by the mini bar and an old-man ventriloquist’s dummy appeared to track his furtive movements from the corner. Archer stepped over a Jim Beam bottle and crept toward the bathroom. Next mission? A thorough shower followed by the strongest coffee on the strip.
Coffee. Yes. Soon. Plus a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, a Denver omelet, and enough bacon to require the sacrifice of a dozen hogs. Starving didn’t come close to describing the hollow feeling in his gut, like he’d run a sub-four-hour marathon, scaled Everest, and then wrestled a two-ton longhorn. His reflection stared back from the bathroom mirror, circles under his green eyes and thick morning scruff. For the last year a discontented funk had risen within him. How many times had he insisted he was too young to be tied down to a serious committed relationship, job . . . or anything? Well, at twenty-seven he might not be geriatric, but he was getting too old for this bed-hopping shit.
“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself.
The facts were Mr. Brightwater wasn’t looking his best. His second cousin, Kit, gave him that nickname after he graced the cover of a “Boys of Brightwater” town calendar last year to support the local Lions Club. He’d been February and posed holding a red cardboard heart over his johnson to avoid an X rating, although as his big brother Sawyer dryly noted, “Not like most women around here haven’t already seen it.”
In fairness, Brightwater, California, didn’t host a large population. For a healthy man who liked the ladies, it didn’t take long to make the rounds at The Dirty Shame, the local watering hole. Vegas getaways meant variety, a chance to spice things up, although a threesome with Crystal and Donna—Deborah? Deena? Dazzle?—was akin to swallowing a whole habanero.
He reached into the shower and flicked on the tap as a warm furry body hopped across his foot. “Shit!” He vaulted back, nearly going ass over teakettle, before bracing himself on the counter. A bewildered white rabbit peered up, nose twitching.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He squinted into the steam with increased suspicion. Hopefully, Crystal’s act didn’t also involve a baby crocodile or, worse, a boa constrictor. He hated snakes.
The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.
He’d always prided himself on being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a
difference between dwelling on past mistakes and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?
The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose-to-nose with the blank stare of the old-man ventriloquist’s dummy.
“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in shock.
“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.
“Uh . . . morning, beautiful.” Thank God for matching dimples, they’d charmed him out of enough bad situations.
“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw puzzle snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream of becoming a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Great Uncle Sam talk dirty, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.
It was a whole lot less funny now.
“Hey, D, would you mind giving me a sec here? I’m going to finish rinsing off.” When in doubt, he always referred to a woman by her first initial, it made him sound affectionate instead of like an asshole.
“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.
Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.
Okay think . . . Dinah? No. Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”
Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”
And so was her expression.
Not even close.
“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Gorgeous name. Makes me think of rain and . . . and . . . rainbows . . . and . . .”
“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it the next morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him.
Add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.
Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You don’t fight back against a woman, even if she is trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s demented elderly uncle.
“Get the hell out.” Stormy’s real voice sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than genteel Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.
He threw on his Levi’s commando-style while Stormy eyed his package as if prepping to go Category Five hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.
“What’s going on?” Crystal asked as Stormy bellowed, “Prepare to have your manwhore ass kicked back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”
Hat? Boots? Hat? Boots? Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.
“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.
He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.
He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.
With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol, he hit “answer.” “How’s the best grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.
“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma barked. “Where are you?”
“Leaving church,” he fibbed quickly.
“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”
“What do you—”
“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”
Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his fucking cherry tree.
“Did you forget about our plans for this weekend?”
“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that upcoming coffee and bacon like a nose needed picking.
Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase-order software on the computer.”
Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas road trip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”
“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane died before Archer was born and Grandma never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven, could spend their spare time busting his balls.
He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “I’m sorry, I completely forgot, okay?” Not okay. Grandma counted on him and he let her down.
“Funny, guess you’re probably too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Her tone sounded anything but amused. “Even funnier will be when I forget to put you in my will.”
Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted Biggest Partier and Class Flirt his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.
The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.
Whatever. Archer had it good, made great tips as a wrangler at a dude ranch. His middle brother took life seriously enough and he hadn’t seen his oldest one in years. Wilder worked as a smoke jumper in Montana. Sometimes Archer wondered what would happen if he cruised to Big Sky Country and paid him a surprise visit—maybe he had multiple sister wives or was a secret war lord.
Growing up after their parents died in a freak house fire, they all slipped into roles. Wilder withdrew, brooding and angry, Sawyer became Mr. Nice Guy, always the teacher’s pet or offering to do chores. Archer rounded things out by going for laughs and practical jokes and causing trouble because someone had to remind everyone else not to take life so seriously. None of them were getting out alive.
He kept marching down the flights of stairs, tucking in his shirt. Grandma’s words played on a loop in his mind. “Using women like disposable silverware.”
Lord knew—those women used him right back. It was fun, didn’t mean anything.
Meaningless.
He ground his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Casual sex on pool tables, washing machines, countertops, and lawn chairs filled his physical needs, but these random hookups were starting to make him feel more and more alone.
On the ground floor, he slammed open the stairwell door. There were two corridors ahead. He turned left for no reason other than that’s the hand he favored. Seemed like he chose wisely because a side entrance gave him a quick exit. He walked out, wincing at the morning sun even as he gulped fresh air, fresh for the Vegas Strip, but a far cry from the Eastern Sierras’s clean mountain breeze. His heart stirred. He’d have some breakfast and hit the road. As much as he liked leaving Brightwater, he always missed home.
Archer reached to adjust his hat and grabbed a handful of wet hair instead. Twelve stories above, a stripping magician had found herse
lf a mighty fine Stetson.
He stepped onto the street, jumping back on the curb when a city bus turned, the side plastered with a shoe ad sporting the slogan, “Can You Run Forever?”
Hell, he’d been running from accountability, stability, and boring routines his whole life.
Another thought crept in and sank its roots deep. Was he really running from those things, or was he letting his fears of commitment and responsibility run him instead?
Chapter Two
EDEN BANKCROFT-KEW HAD a secret so dark, so terrible, that she never confessed it to anyone. It wasn’t that she sang “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” when she showered or that her left boob was bigger than her right. Those facts were a little embarrassing but nothing to make anyone raise an eyebrow.
But who can admit to hating Forrest Gump? People might chase her with pitchforks.
First off, life was no box of chocolates. Boxes of chocolates came with helpful identification charts that allowed you to choose the chocolate-covered cherries and ignore the nougat. Secondly, the film suggested that if a man kept after you¸ eventually you’d love him.
Eden hit mute on the hotel television as jogging Forrest, beard to his belly button, wiped his face on a bystander’s towel, leaving a cheesy ’70s-era smiley face behind. With a sigh, she reached across the bed and plucked up her veil, cut to land stylishly at the end of her chin, like a bride from a bygone era. She crossed her legs, thank goodness her dress was a comfortable 1940s tea-length style, and gave herself a pat on the victory rolls—focusing on her complicated hairdo rather than her impending fate.
