Also by Joanne Kennedy
Cowboy Trouble
One Fine Cowboy
Cowboy Fever
Tall, Dark and Cowboy
Cowboy Crazy
Cowboy Tough
Cowboys of Decker Ranch
How to Handle a Cowboy
How to Kiss a Cowboy
How to Wrangle a Cowboy
Blue Sky Cowboys
Cowboy Summer
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2020 by Joanne Kennedy
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks
Cover art by Rob Lang
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks, Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
www.sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Excerpt from Cowboy Summer
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
To Brian Davis, Jackie Littlefield Davis, and of course Alan!
Merry First Christmas to all three of you!
You are the best gifts ever.
Chapter 1
The snow globe on the dashboard rocked and sloshed as Griff Bailey’s Jeep dropped off the pavement onto the dirt road that led to his father’s ranch. The music-box base tinkled out a few hesitant notes, but they were lost in the racket of icy flakes clattering on the windshield.
Griff had picked up the globe at an airport gift shop, remembering how his sister loved Christmas kitsch. He’d set it on the dashboard in an effort to inspire his own Christmas spirit, but it was just making him sad. There was Santa, the most senior of senior citizens, frozen forever with one foot in a chimney and a heavy pack slung over one shoulder while phony snowflakes swirled around him. It was obvious the bag wasn’t going to fit down the chute, and the jaunty, tinkling rendition of “Here Comes Santa Claus” was just plain rude. This Santa wasn’t going anywhere.
Neither was Griff, in the long run. Like Santa, he’d flown halfway around the world only to find his life shaken and stirred by unseen forces.
As the wipers thwacked out their restless rhythm, he saw a light burning in the distance.
Almost home.
He was surprised to find his heart lifting at the thought. His sole ambition from boyhood had been to escape the everyday sameness of ranch life, with its early mornings, late nights, and chores that were never done well enough, soon enough, or fast enough.
So why was he coming home?
Simple. The last place he wanted to go was now the only place that would have him.
At least, he thought they would. As far as his family knew, he was still deployed. His dad and stepmom were on an RV trip in the Southwest, while his sister was honeymooning in California. He wasn’t sure how long they’d be gone, but he was hoping for a couple weeks of solitude so he could shake off the dark memories that had smudged his bright military future. Bit by bit, day by day, he would become the man he’d been before.
Before what?
Ghosts of the past rattled their chains in the back of his brain, threatening to rise and walk, but he knocked his head with the heel of his hand and sent them skittering back to their caves. He’d deal with them later. Right now, he needed to concentrate on the road.
As he nudged the Jeep around an icy curve, he laid eyes on his father’s house for the first time in four years—and slammed on the brakes, sliding sideways, feeling the tug of a snowdrift hauling him into the ditch. White-knuckling the wheel, he spun right, then left, and lurched to a sudden stop that slammed his chest against the shoulder harness.
Breathing hard, he stared at his childhood home. He’d expected to feel reluctance, nostalgia, even a surge of relief at the sight of it—but all he felt was shock.
The entire front wall of the house was demolished, with beams and boards scattered like matchsticks in the snow. He might not be a fan of ranch life, but the Diamond Jack was the one safe, unchanging place in his world. And it had exploded.
Unbuckling, he opened the door and fell to his knees. A low buzzing began inside him, blind bees bumbling for a way out. They were with him every day, simmering beneath any emotion he dared to feel, pushing for release in a roar of rage, a howl of fear, a savage strike at something, anything. But releasing them would make the outside world match the darkness inside him, so he held them in.
The docs ought to give him some credit for that. They ought to let him go back. They would if he could control it, so he followed their advice.
Breathe.
As he drank in the cold air, the buzzi
ng faded and died.
Surprised, oddly empty, he rose to his feet and trudged toward the house through snow up to his thighs. It was slow going, but that gave him time to assess the situation.
There were lights on in the upstairs bathroom, his sister’s bedroom, and the kitchen. That was all wrong. Nobody was supposed to be home. And what was that weird shape in the wreckage? Had it moved?
Holy crap. What is that?
It looked like an animal—one with beaming yellow eyes that reflected the Jeep’s headlights. Had he started hallucinating now?
Apparently not. The creature proved itself disturbingly real by launching itself from the wreckage and loping toward him with an awkward, lolloping gait. Feet like paddles flung snow all around, and its drooling jowls flapped as it ran, revealing long, white teeth that gleamed in the starlight. Those teeth were the last thing he saw before it leapt up and knocked him to the ground.
Pressing Griff’s shoulders into the snow with paws the size of dinner plates, the beast dripped a cold string of drool onto his cheek as its amber eyes burned into his with a passion for…
For pats, probably. Because it was just a dog. A big, weird-looking dog, but a friendly one. As a goofy grin spread across its slobbery face, Griff heaved it off his chest.
“Who the heck are you?”
The dog sat back and presented its paw as if introducing itself. Confused, Griff shook it, glancing around, and noticed a pickup in front of the barn.
“Shoot,” he mumbled. “I didn’t think there’d be anybody here.”
The dog shimmied close and leaned hard against him, tossing its head back and almost clonking Griff in the nose. It gazed adoringly into his face, and he suddenly felt better than he had in a year.
It might be nice to have a dog around. Trouble was, dogs generally came with people, and he wasn’t ready for people.
* * *
Riley James was slight as a ballerina, but nobody who knew her ever asked her to dance. She preferred a tool belt to a tutu, and her walk, usually in steel-toed work boots, was an ungainly git-’er-done stomp.
But rising from the steaming luxury of the Baileys’ jetted bathtub made her feel like Venus on the half shell, or maybe Beyoncé at Coachella. Tipping up onto her toes, Riley raised her arms and twirled like a music-box dancer, then reached for a towel. She’d gotten herself profoundly filthy demolishing her client’s front porch, and while that always made her happy, it felt even better to be clean. Wrapping her long hair in one fluffy cotton bath sheet, her body in another, she hummed along with Johnny Cash—her father figure, her man in black, the patron saint of recovery. The Man was proof that a life can change, and his songs were her Bible.
Glancing at the polished pink marble walls of the Baileys’ elegant bathroom, she caught her rosy reflection staring back, all clean and serene.
That serenity hadn’t come easy. Most of Riley’s life had been gritty and dirty and sad, but for the past few years, she’d found sanctuary in the most unexpected place: small-town Wyoming. Here, the past couldn’t touch her.
Not much, anyway. She’d heard the whispered rumors that still followed her down Wynott’s cracked sidewalks. But she’d found a home at Boone’s Hardware and a mentor in old Ed Boone, who had all but adopted her as a daughter.
The thought of Ed made her hug herself in happy expectation. Tonight, she’d finally meet the rest of his family—her family now. Shifting her focus to the mirror, she decided to put on some eyeliner and blush so she’d look extra nice. She’d heard so many stories about Ed’s sisters and their funny, fussbudget ways. He called them the Harpies, but he smiled when he said it. The stories always had the same moral: the sisters might be difficult, but they were always looking out for him because they were family.
Geez, Riley hoped they liked her. She’d spent her childhood watching wide-eyed from the outskirts of other people’s Christmases, memorizing traditions, collecting images and ideas, and soaking up that precious, holy feeling of love and goodwill. Now she was ready to celebrate Christ’s birth smack-dab in the middle of a family, one who knew her and forgave her flaws, because they shared a bond that couldn’t be broken. A bond like blood.
Frowning into the mirror, she tamped down her excitement. She’d had high hopes before, only to have them dashed, so she had to keep her expectations reasonable—as in low. But her heart wouldn’t settle down, so she spun away, twirling to Johnny Cash and nearly levitating with joy—until something hit the house.
Bam!
Holy cats, was somebody at the door?
Only if they can fly.
She’d finished demolishing the porch, so the door opened onto thin air, almost four feet above the ground. Plus a visitor would have to get past the Baileys’ dog. Bruce was a big, old love bucket, but you couldn’t tell to look at him. Half mastiff and half something undetermined—tiger, or maybe rodeo bull—he was a real guard dog, or so Heck Bailey said. Bruce inspired fear even in dog lovers, and she had no doubt he’d protect her if necessary.
Bam!
Well, not much doubt. He did have a weakness for Milk Bones—and for any sort of human attention. The love bucket was never, ever full.
Clutching the towel to her chest, she tiptoed down the stairs, telling herself there was no need to worry. In case anybody got past Bruce, Heck Bailey had shown her how to use the shotgun that hung above the door.
Her damp feet left funny barefoot prints on the stairs. She’d be sure to clean those up, clean everything long before the Baileys got home. She’d make sure…
Bam!
The door flew open, the knob slamming against the wall and knocking a sprinkle of chipped plaster to the floor. Clutching the banister, Riley watched a massive figure climb into the opening and stand, silhouetted against the starry, snow-filled night. It was a mountain of hulking male. Powerful muscles. Lowering brows. And beneath those brows, dark eyes focused and fierce as a beast spotting prey.
Bruce, Heck Bailey’s mighty guard dog, stood beside the visitor, grinning from ear to ear and dripping drool, utterly failing his first test as a guard dog.
Riley glanced up at the shotgun and realized she could reach for it or clutch the towel around herself. Not both.
Maybe she wouldn’t have that family Christmas after all.
Maybe she wouldn’t make it home.
Chapter 2
For the first time, Griff had to admit his command sergeant might have been right when he’d said something inside Griff’s psyche had snapped. Because surely Riley James wasn’t standing nearly naked in his father’s front hallway to welcome him home.
“Bruce!” she cried. “Come! Sit.”
The dog flashed Griff an apologetic grin and trotted inside to lower his enormous butt to the floor beside nearly naked Riley.
Yep, he was definitely hallucinating.
“Griff. It’s you.” Riley’s eyes were so wide, she looked like a startled doe poised to run. “The porch… Um, it fell down. I mean, mostly. That’s why I’m here. To fix it.”
That odd, throaty voice was real enough. Griff almost groaned as it stroked his backbone like the slow glide of a bow. That slim body, that pale narrow face, those otherworldly eyes—there was something about Riley James that got to him. She’d always tugged at his loins like she had him on a string.
Which she did, in a way. How often had he thought of her in the desert, remembering his last night at home? Stars winking overhead, the quarry a dark mystery beyond the rocks, the flicker of the bonfire lighting her face, and the warmth of her hand in his. Those eyes, those crazy eyes, had drawn out all his secrets and dreams.
He’d thought of that night too often—and for all the wrong reasons.
“You should go,” he said.
“Wow, thanks. Hi to you, too.” She clutched the towel tighter. “I will, soon as I can, okay? Nobody told me you were coming. I’m
n—I need to get dressed.”
He nodded, strangely bereft. Partly because she was going to get dressed, but also because he could tell he scared her. There wasn’t much that scared Riley, so apparently he wasn’t hiding his issues as well as he thought.
“I need to get back to the store,” she said. “I’m making dinner for Ed’s sisters. They’re coming in tonight for the holidays.”
“Okay. You should probably hurry.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders. “I came here to be alone.”
He wasn’t sure if that night at the quarry mattered anymore or if she wanted it to. He did—but then, he wanted lots of things. A fifth of Jim Beam, a tin of Red Man chewing tobacco, and something, anything, that would make him forget what had happened overseas. None of those things was good for him, any more than he’d be good for Riley.
But those things he could resist. Her? Wrapped in a towel, looking so clean and untouched? That was a challenge he wasn’t sure he could meet, so he needed to get her gone.
* * *
Riley remembered a long-ago night by the quarry and wondered what had happened to that Griff Bailey. The one who was strong but gentle. The one she’d trusted instinctively. The one who’d set her free.
Up until that night, her encounters with men had been ugly and short, but Griff had been different—sweet, really, and kind in a way that resurrected all her foolish dreams. She’d seen him ride a bucking bronco to a standstill at the local rodeo once and thought he might be the cowboy she’d always wanted. Not that she deserved her very own cowboy, one that came with a normal life and a family—but her friends had found theirs, and she sure wanted one. And back then, Griff had been an honest-to-God, true-blue, one hundred percent cowboy.
But something had changed. His presence filled the air with a strange, simmering intensity. She sensed fierce need and too much testosterone smoldering in his gaze. All this time, she’d thought of him as a protector, not a predator, but now danger came off him in waves.
She was through with dangerous men. She’d promised herself she’d never risk her heart—or her safety—again. So why did she have to press her legs together to still the fluttering butterfly wings thrumming down there, demanding his attention, his touch?
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