Love was the last thing on this untamed cowboy’s mind...until she stole his heart away.
Cleo Delaney will do anything to keep her promise and raise her best friend’s sons—even if it means telling a little white lie to the state to keep them. So Cleo turns to the only person she can trust to help her—her first love, Judd Laramie. If he fosters the three young brothers in name only, she’ll do all the heavy lifting. It’s a foolproof plan...but she never imagined that the feelings they once shared would return. With a vengeance.
Texas deputy Judd Laramie is stunned by Cleo’s request. Being a dad—even on paper—is the last thing this cowboy needs right now. But no one knows better than Judd how flawed the foster system is and how much these brothers need Cleo’s protective love. What starts as a simple lie becomes so much more, and soon it’s clear Judd needs Cleo and the family they’ve created as much as they need him. Now he’ll do whatever it takes to win Cleo’s heart and claim the future they all deserve.
Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Delores Fossen
“An amazing, breathtaking and vastly entertaining family saga, filled with twists and unexpected turns, cowboy fiction at its best.”
—Books and Spoons on The Last Rodeo
“With a great combination of drama and romance, plus a huge twist, this might be the best one in the [Blue River Ranch] series. Roughshod Justice has it all.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Fossen certainly knows how to write a hot cowboy, and when she turns her focus to Dylan Granger...crank up the air-conditioning!”
—RT Book Reviews on Lone Star Blues
“Overall, this romance is a little sweet and a little salty—and a lot sexy!”
—RT Book Reviews on Texas-Sized Trouble
“This is much more than a romance.”
—RT Book Reviews on Branded as Trouble
“Nicky and Garrett have sizzling chemistry!”
—RT Book Reviews on No Getting Over a Cowboy
“Clear off space on your keeper shelf, Fossen has arrived.”
—New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde
“Delores Fossen takes you on a wild Texas ride with a hot cowboy.”
—New York Times bestselling author B.J. Daniels
Also available from Delores Fossen
and HQN Books
Coldwater Texas
Lone Star Christmas
Lone Star Midnight (ebook novella)
Wrangler’s Creek
Lone Star Cowboy (ebook novella)
Those Texas Nights
One Good Cowboy (ebook novella)
No Getting Over a Cowboy
Just Like a Cowboy (ebook novella)
Branded as Trouble
Cowboy Dreaming (ebook novella)
Texas-Sized Trouble
Cowboy Heartbreaker (ebook novella)
Lone Star Blues
Cowboy Blues (ebook novella)
The Last Rodeo
The McCord Brothers
What Happens on the Ranch (ebook novella)
Texas on My Mind
Cowboy Trouble (ebook novella)
Lone Star Nights
Cowboy Underneath It All (ebook novella)
Blame It on the Cowboy
To see the complete list of titles available from Delores Fossen, please visit www.deloresfossen.com.
Hot Texas Sunrise
Delores Fossen
Contents
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
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
EXCERPT FROM UNDER THE COWBOY’S PROTECTION BY DELORES FOSSEN
CHAPTER ONE
DEPUTY JUDD LARAMIE glanced up at the sign that dangled and squeaked from a wrought-iron hinge mounted over the door of the bar.
The Angry Angus.
Well, that’s what it was supposed to be, anyway, but someone had slapped some black paint over the second g, making it the Angry Anus.
Judd was betting a variation of “hold my beer and watch this” had been a factor in the vandalism. Of course, this was a bar so it didn’t require any of his cop skills to figure out that one.
Despite the closed sign, Judd opened the door that was meant to mimic one from an old barn. Rustic with crisscrossed boards. It, too, squeaked, and he stepped in, the cool air from the AC immediately spilling over him. It felt good, considering the afternoon April temps were in the high nineties and still expected to climb.
The place smelled like a bar. That was the first thing he noticed. The clash of wine, beer and limes. There was a chalkboard sign on the shiplap wall right next to the door. Stupid Sh*t Men Say was scrawled out in cursive letters.
And, yes, it had the asterisk instead of the i.
Beneath that were comments and examples. Some were also in cursive, some in print, and one was so illegible that he again suspected large amounts of alcohol had been involved.
Tell your tits to quit staring at my eyes.
Whoa, you’ve put on a few pounds, haven’t you?
Think you can get your friend’s number for me?
He had to study the last one a bit because of the drunken scrawl, but Judd was pretty sure that it said: “You’re only three feet away from having the best sex of your life.”
Sh*t indeed.
Sometimes, there wasn’t much good he could say about his gender.
Judd let go of the door so that it swung shut behind him, and he glanced around at the rest of the place. Black-and-white cowhide seats with whitewashed floors. Hay bales, saddles and other tack were big in the decor. But the focal points, if you could call them that, were the life-size plastic cows and steers. There was one in every corner and a pair on each side of the bar, and they looked downright spooky with their blank, wide-eyed gazes.
The furnishings were obviously “Western,” meant to go along with the name when the second g hadn’t been blacked out. But there were enough glass-and-silver whatnots and doodads throughout to make it look trendy.
It definitely wasn’t a bar that would have been a fit in Coldwater, where he lived, but then that applied to a lot of places. The small Texas ranching town might be only forty miles from this bar in San Antonio, but they were worlds apart.
“We’re closed,” someone called out, and Judd spotted the bald sumo-sized guy wiping some glasses behind the bar—which was also simulated black-and-white cowhide. He spared Judd a glance but didn’t give him a chance to respond before he added, “You here about the cowboy stripper’s job?”
Since he’d been a cop for over a decade, and was fully dressed, Judd hadn’t thought he could be surprised by any question tossed at him, but he’d never heard that one before. However, he was wearing cowboy clothes because he was one. Part-time, anyway.
Judd tapped the badge clipped to his belt. “I’m Deputy Judd Laramie.�
�
The guy shrugged, kept on wiping. “If you’re here about the job, the auditions are by the mechanical bull.” He tipped his head toward the back of the building. “You’d better hurry, though, ’cause they’re almost done.”
Judd considered another badge tap. Considered, too, adding “You here about the stripper’s job?” to the Stupid Sh*t Men Say board, but a direct question was the way to go here.
“Where’s Cleo Delaney?” Judd asked, making sure he sounded more cop than cowboy. Sometimes that laid-back drawl worked, but instinct told him the “good ol’ boy” approach would be lost on...Tiny.
Yep, that was according to the name tag he was wearing.
This time, Judd’s repeated question and tone earned him more than a mere glance from the bartender, and he actually stopped his glass-wiping duties to look at Judd. “We got all the right permits,” Tiny volunteered, adding some growl to his tone. “What you want with the boss lady?”
There was a dull ache throbbing in Judd’s right temple, but he resisted the urge to try to rub it away. “What I want is to talk to her. I don’t care about permits or auditions. Where is she?”
Tiny narrowed his eyes, probably trying to look like a badass, but Judd was better at it than he was. They played an eyeball game of chicken for a few seconds before Tiny tipped his head again. “Back there.”
In the same direction as the cowboy stripper auditions. Of course.
So that’s where Judd headed, and with each step he cursed Cleo. Cursed himself, too, for not trying to call her back so that maybe he could have cleared this up without driving all this way. Or seeing her.
Sometimes, blasts from the past could eat a hole in him. And even though Cleo had been somewhat of a bright spot, a hole was still a hole, and it’d taken him a long time to climb out of the last one.
Still...here he was. Intrigued, curious and hoping this visit didn’t undo him. Putting the pieces back together was a bitch he didn’t want riding him again.
“Judd, it’s me, Cleo,” the voice mail had said. “Cleo Delaney,” she’d added as if he might not recognize her voice.
He would have had an easier time not recognizing his own hand.
She’d chuckled in the voice mail then, and repeated his name—twice. It was the kind of repeat a person would do when they were trying to figure out how or what to say, except Cleo had said it in that whispery sigh voice of hers. A voice that reminded him of things that could be put on the Stupid Sh*t Men Say board.
“Look, Judd, I need to talk to you,” Cleo had finally said, “and it’s not something I want to get into over the phone. Call me when you get a chance so we can set up a meet.”
He hadn’t called. Instead, Judd had gotten in his truck and driven first to her apartment. When no one had answered the door, he’d looked up the address of the bar—the one she’d emailed him about shortly after she’d told him she’d bought the place. That’d been three months earlier, with the subject header of “Catching up.” It went with her other emails over the past ten years or so of “Just saying hello” and “Long time, no see.” Phone calls and voice mails were rare. So rare that it’d spurred him to come to her right away.
By the time Judd reached the hall at the back of the building, he heard the music. “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy).” There was also the occasional male whoop and yee-haw, and Judd followed those sounds into a large room that might have been used for private parties. There were tables that circled a stage with a mechanical bull, where three men were dancing.
Cowboys.
And Judd used that term loosely.
They were wearing boots, cowboy hats and small swatches of denim fabric that covered their crotches. There was so much oil slathered on their bodies that Judd was surprised it wasn’t dripping onto the stage floor.
He spotted Cleo right off. She was seated with a blonde woman at a table at the front of the room, and both had their attention fixed on the greasy cowboys who were gyrating and grinding to the song.
“Uh, cowboy on the right, something fell out of your G-string during that last kick,” Cleo called out.
“Cowboy on the right” quickly shoved what appeared to be a wad of cotton back into the swatch. Considering the other things that could have come tumbling out, Judd decided that had been the best option of what he’d just witnessed.
Not wanting to interrupt the audition, Judd leaned against the wall, waited. And watched. Not the cowboys but Cleo. She was typing something on a tablet and didn’t look especially into the entertainment. Unlike the blonde. She was doing some whooping and yee-hawing of her own. Despite Cleo’s indifference, though, she lasted through the entire song before she stood.
And Judd felt it when he got a look at more than just the side of her face.
That punch of heat below the belt, and he didn’t have any cotton padding to stave it off. However, he did have common sense—some days, anyway...and this was one of those days. Just in case that common sense was about to lapse, he slipped his hand in his pocket and slid his fingers over the bronze sobriety coin.
One year.
Not nearly enough time to forget that whole pit-of-despair shit. Nowhere near enough to risk dragging someone into that pit with him.
The blonde noticed Judd first, and she gave Cleo an elbow nudge that sent Cleo turning to look at him. The smile was instant. Ditto for her starting toward him.
He’d always thought she looked a little like a fairy. Delicate and petite with her curly brunette hair tumbling around her face and onto her shoulders. But looks could be deceiving. Cleo was tough, strong.
And happy.
Somehow, the shit upbringing they’d had in foster care hadn’t rid her of those rose-colored glasses.
The years had settled nicely on her, giving her a few more curves that he had no trouble seeing because of the slim dress she was wearing. What was missing was the riot of bright clothes she usually wore. Today, it was just the sedate blue dress with a thin silver chain around her neck.
“You came,” Cleo said, and she drew him into her arms for a hug. A friendly one that didn’t have a trace of heat on her part.
When she pulled back, she was still smiling, and that smile made it all the way into her sweet-tea-colored eyes. Eyes that looked a little tired. Still, Judd didn’t have to wonder if she was happy to see him.
She was.
However, the nervous way she clamped onto her bottom lip confirmed that something was up. Maybe something wrong with the bar. Or, hell, maybe she wanted him to beat up some guy who was bugging her, as he’d done when Cleo and he were fifteen.
Their gazes held for a moment until the blonde cleared her throat. “I’m guessing he’s not here for the audition?” she asked. “Because if he is, he’s hired.”
Cleo blinked in surprise and then laughed. “No. He’s a friend. This is Judd Laramie.”
The woman grinned, got out of her seat and walked toward them. “Ah. Judd the Stud. Cleo mentioned you,” she added before she stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Daisy Gunderson.” She seemed ready to add something else, but then her eyes landed on his badge. “I own the Angry Angus, but Cleo runs the place.”
Judd looked at Cleo for her to clarify that “stud” mention, or why she’d told him three months ago that she’d bought the bar, but before Cleo could say anything, one of the oiled cowboys waved his arms around, trying to get their attention. It was the one who’d lost his crotch stuffing.
“Uh, hate to interrupt,” oiled guy said, “but I’ve got to get to work. You need to see any more dance moves? I can do another squat hip grind if you want. It’s my signature move.”
“No,” Cleo answered, glancing at each of the stage trio. “You’ve all got the job. Only because no one else auditioned,” she added under her breath to Judd and then raised her voice when she continued with the cowboys. “Just make sure everythi
ng stays tucked away beneath the G-strings.”
Cleo turned to Daisy. “Could you do the contracts and give them the time and date they’ll be needed for the Wainwright bachelorette party?”
“Sure. And I put copies of that catering order on your desk.” Daisy seemed to have another clam-up moment, and she glanced at the badge again. “I’ll sign it after you’ve had a look at it.”
When Daisy walked away to chat with the cowboys, Cleo motioned for Judd to follow her into a hall that threaded off the party room. She also dodged his gaze.
“This is an interesting place,” he commented.
“I’m going to pretend you mean that as a compliment.” There was amusement in her voice. “Yes, it’s cheesy, but there are some fresh plans in the works. A new name, new decor. Less trendy, more intimate. In the meantime, bachelorette parties with cowboy strippers pay the bills.”
“Why’d you decide to manage a bar?” he asked.
Cleo shrugged. “I’d been looking at other possibilities. A coffee shop. Maybe even a bookstore with a wine bar. But this was such a good deal that I couldn’t pass it up.”
All of this sounded like a reasonable explanation, but there was something in her voice that made Judd believe she was having second thoughts about whether or not she should have passed it up.
“Are you going to add a Shit Women Say board?” he added.
Cleo threw him a glance and a smile from over her shoulder. “There’s one in the men’s bathroom. But, yes, I’m considering moving it out front. The customers seem to like venting with chalk.”
She kept up the gaze avoidance until she ushered him into an office. There was cowhide here, too, on the pair of chairs, and there was a large plastic Angus bull shoved into the corner. It was on its butt, its stiff legs jutting out, as if the bull was at attention.
Judd skimmed his gaze around the rest of the room. A cop’s habit. And his attention immediately landed on the framed photo on the bookcase behind the desk.
A photo of Cleo, Judd and his brothers, Kace, Nico and Callen.
Cleo was in the center, grinning, as was Nico. Kace was looking pleased, too, since it was his eighteenth birthday. Callen and Judd sported their usual “pissed off at the world” expressions. Judd was sure he still sported his often, though Callen was smiling more these days.
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