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Cowboy in My PocketIf you like your cowboys sexy, your heroines forgetful and your marriages convenient, this gentle parody of cowboy romances will leave you with a smile on your face and a sigh on your lips. Discover romantic comedy at its best in this captivating tale of a woman who finds her one true love and the cowboy hero afraid to give his heart.
Mari Davis of marienela reviews says:
"...just reading the blurb made me laugh. And I did not stop laughing until I finished the book.Saying that 'Cowboy in My Pocket' is laugh out loud funny is not enough. As author Kate Douglas said herself, it is a parody. And the author’s wicked sense of humor says it all." 
Romantic Times Top Pick!
"...Kate Douglas...creates a delightful love story that proves there's a good reason why certain plot devices become clichés...the author might have thought she was poking fun, but the romance reader has the last laugh with this sparkling romantic comedy!" Gerry Benninger for ROMANTIC TIMES MAGAZINE 
"... wonderful characters and a mish-mash of happy, sad, funny, and touchingly tender moments that...had me hooked from the first chapter.
Reviewed by Angie for The Romance Reviews |
."...Kate Douglas has produced a wondrous tale with Cowboy In My Pocket - it is, without doubt, full of everything we read romances for!!"
Reviewed by Celia for A Romance Review
"... Take a look at this goodhearted dig at every Western romance cliché on the books, up to and including the love scene on horseback."
Lynn Coddington for the Contra Costa Times:
"...For a purely fun and flat out entertaining cowboy read, check out this contemporary romance, Cowboy In My Pocket."
Reviewed by Beth for Tome Tender Book Blog
Reviewed by Celia for A Romance Review
"... Take a look at this goodhearted dig at every Western romance cliché on the books, up to and including the love scene on horseback."
Lynn Coddington for the Contra Costa Times:
"...For a purely fun and flat out entertaining cowboy read, check out this contemporary romance, Cowboy In My Pocket."
Reviewed by Beth for Tome Tender Book Blog
Read an Excerpt:
COWBOY IN MY POCKET
PROLOGUE
"MICHELLE, DARLING, it's good to see you. How've you been?"
"Cut the crap, Mark. You, of all people, know how I've been. Forget the pleasantries. Why did you reject my story?"
"Let's order first, sweetheart." Mark Connor, never one to make eye contact in the first place, studied the oversized menu in front of him. Michelle Garrison seethed and drummed her freshly manicured fingernails on the damask tablecloth. Suddenly she realized she was tapping the toe of her left shoe in the same staccato rhythm. She took a deep, struggle-for-some-semblance-of-control breath that ended in a frustrated sigh. The waiter appeared, leather-bound notepad in hand, to take their orders.
"Michelle?" Mark smiled at her.
"I'm not hungry. You order." Michelle glared at him, imagining large winged crows pecking his eyes. No, buzzards... buzzards made a much more impressive image.
"We'll both have the luncheon salad...Roquefort for me, the low-fat house dressing for the lady." Mark returned Michelle's glare with an innocent look. "Well, you have put on a few pounds, darling. You need to exercise more."
"I haven't had time, darling. I've been sitting in front of my computer without a break for the past six weeks, finishing a manuscript for you to reject. The same manuscript I wrote following your 'suggestions,' using your ideas for plot and characterization. Now, before my healthy, low-fat lunch arrives, would you so kindly tell me why you aren't buying my western?"
Mark smiled beatifically, the smile Michelle had once thought attractive until she realized he used that ubiquitous expression to hide everything going on behind those pale blue eyes of his. She waited for what seemed hours for his answer, returning his smile with a scowl.
Finally he tapped his fingertips together in a little steeple, pursed his lips, opened his mouth, shut it again, hmmmm'ed as if pondering a new amendment to the Constitution, then said, "Well, you have to understand..."
"No, Mark. I don't understand. I did everything you asked. 'Put a cowboy on the cover, it'll fly off the shelves,' he says. 'Marriages of convenience are always popular, the readers love them,' so it's got a blasted MOC. Mark, I did it all, right down to the baby. Remember telling me, 'If it's got a baby in it, the story's gonna be a gold mine?' Well, it can't be a gold mine if it doesn't get published. I want to know what gives!"
Mark unfolded his napkin and spread it across his lap, ignoring Michelle and smiling politely at the waiter while the young man placed their salads on the table and departed.
"I'm waiting, Mark." Michelle picked up her fork, thought briefly how it would look embedded in Mark's impeccably white shirt somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone, then stabbed a large section of tomato instead.
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't give me that 'sweetheart' crap."
"Michelle." Michelle swore silently. She practically heard the gears engaging in the gray matter behind his high forehead. Mark always considered every word so carefully. Another irritating editorial trait, she thought. Right up there with rejecting her western. "Michelle, you have written forty-three books for us, and almost all of them have had an impressive return. All, that is, except the last three." He paused, resting his lips against his forefingers. "How can I say this without being blunt?"
"Go ahead, Mark. Be blunt...it suits you."
"Yes, well, it's my job to be honest. So, to put it bluntly, your ideas are tired, darling. Your characters all sound the same. That's why I wanted you to try a western."
"Well I did, dammit!" Michelle impaled a large piece of lettuce. How dare he find more fault with her story? "I worked hard on that western. My hero is a tall, dark and sexy cowboy; my heroine is an even sexier single mom with a disgustingly adorable little baby girl. They live on neighboring ranches, they ride horses, they chase cows around the field, they..."
"They don't know a thing about being cowboys, they've obviously never been in Colorado, where your story is supposedly set, and I might as well have been reading about an insurance agent as a cowboy. Our readers aren't stupid. When you write a scene about saddling a horse and you don't know that the pommel's at the front and the cantle's at the back, or how to tighten the cinch so the saddle won't slip, well your reader is going to laugh—at you for writing it, and us for publishing it. Look at the stupid name you gave your heroine! Lee Stetson? Come on. I'm sorry, Michelle. Westerns are hot right now, and you don't have a clue how to write them. You even have the hero make love to the heroine while they're riding a horse. That's physically impossible, darling. It hurts merely to think of it." His pained expression might have been funny under other circumstances.
"But it's a really sexy scene...it's..."
Mortified, Michelle stared into her perforated salad. Mark loved her stories, he loved everything about her writing. Now he was saying it was awful? Worse than awful, embarrassing? She thought Lee Stetson was a really cute name. The hefty advance that was going to pay off Michelle's VISA bill suddenly dissolved into a puff of smoke and faded away. She gazed longingly after the imaginary cloud. She blinked and the cloud disappeared. "Wait a minute," she said, leaning forward. "How do you know the difference between a pommel and a, um, kettle?"
"It's a cantle, Michelle. That's what I'm trying to explain, if you'd only pay attention." He waved a glossy magazine under her nose. "I spent two weeks at a dude ranch. It was a terrific experience. All these western manuscripts suddenly started making sense. I want you to go. Just two weeks at the Columbine Camp in Colorado. That's all. You'll learn everything you need to know about horses and cows and cowboys and the great outdoors. Trust me on this, darling. It'll be good for you. You need a break, it's not that expensive and besides, you can write it off. We want to keep you in our stable, Michelle..." He grinned, obviously impressed with his play on words.
"You want me to go to a dude ranch? I don't think so." Michelle jabbed her fork in Mark's direction, inordinately pleased when he backed away. "I don't even like horses, and I'm certain I'd like cowboys even less. I imagine they're both smelly, ill-tempered and impossible to control. I'll just do a little more research, maybe watch an old John Wayne movie or two. Trust me, Mark. I'll have my revision to you in, oh, about two weeks."
She pushed away from the table. "Now, thanks for lunch, and have a really nice..." Mark reached across the table, lightly grabbed her wrist, and stopped her. She sat back, stunned. Mark was never forceful, not ever. There wasn't a trace of humor, or even sarcasm in his voice.
"No revision, Michelle. This comes down from the senior editor, and we all know she takes her orders from marketing. Either you spend two weeks at Columbine Camp, which includes riding instructions...yes, dear, don't look so surprised...on a real horse, and an authentic dusty trail ride following authentic, smelly, dusty cows, or you find someone else to buy your stories. Competition's too steep, and there're a lot of hungry writers out there willing to take a lot less money. My advice is to jump through the hoops and learn what you can. Then write the freshest, most knowledgeable romantic western ever."
"You're not my agent, Mark. You're my editor. I thought you were my friend."
"I am, Michelle. That's why I bought you this issue of Western Horseman to read on the plane." He held the thick magazine up in front of her and smiled broadly, his blue eyes sparkling and his dimples dimpling until he looked more like a cover model than a book editor. Michelle thought seriously of telling him the effect was totally wasted on her. A dude ranch...cows and flies and dust, and waking up with the chickens, and more charges on the VISA bill...
"I can't do this Mark. It's impossible. I..."
"You'll do it, Michelle. Call me when you get back. Don't forget your magazine." He flipped the brand new issue of Western Horseman open to a glossy spread of photos and text. "Read it, sweetheart. Besides a great article about Columbine Camp, it's just full of information about rodeos and barrel racing and horses and cowboys and cowgirls...you're gonna love it. Have fun. Think western. I expect you to come home with a drawl." He winked and smiled, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth.
Michelle stared at the photos in the magazine. Her breath caught in her throat. "That's him," she whispered. She pointed at a photo of a dark haired cowboy with a devil-may-care smile. "That's my hero, the one you rejected." She glared accusingly at Mark. "That's exactly how I described him, tall, dark and handsome with broad shoulders and a sexy grin, and you tell me I don't know what I'm writing about? This should prove to you that I wrote about a real cowboy. How could you reject my story?"
She slapped the magazine down on the table, but couldn't take her eyes off the man staring back at her. Actually, she hadn't pictured her hero as quite so, well, elemental, but Mark didn't need to know that.
Mark glanced at the photo, then grinned at Michelle. "His name's Taggart Martin, and according to this article he lives right next door to Columbine Camp, on a huge ranch called the Double Eagle. Go, Michelle. Meet a real cowboy. Maybe you'll be able to write a real western for a change." Mark tipped an imaginary hat and sauntered out of the restaurant.
Speechless, seething with resentment, Michelle glared at his retreating figure. Then she glanced at the table, littered with the remnants of their lunch. Damn him! He'd left her with the check.
CHAPTER 1
TAG MARTIN slammed the telephone down on the table with enough force to rattle the windows in the tiny ranch office, took a deep breath, then counted to ten in Spanish. When that didn't work, he tried Japanese, and he was practically shouting his numbers in French by the time his foreman stepped into the room.
"You start countin' in German, son, I'll pack my bags and leave. I ain't seen you get all the way to French in a long time."
"That's because I haven't talked to my dear grandmother in a long time." Tag swiveled around in his worn leather chair and stared at his foreman. Old Coop...he knew the man had a real name, but there'd never been much need to use it. Other than when Tag wrote out Coop's weekly check, which he'd been doing for over twenty years. Something he might have to stop doing if his bullheaded grandmother had her way.
"I hate to chance it, but we need to set Operation Betsy Mae in gear, Coop. She back from Austin yet?"
The old man grinned. "She's due back today. Saw her brother yesterday. Will thought it was a brilliant idea. Of course, I didn't tell him all the details." He polished his stained fingernails against his skinny chest with an air of great superiority. "As I recall, you laughed when I suggested it."
"It's a hare-brained scheme, but for both our sakes, it damned well better work." Tag scowled at Coop, who was still grinning like an idiot. Didn't he realize how serious this was?
"I told you. It's my idea," Coop said smugly. "Of course it'll work."
Obviously he didn't have a clue. Tag rounded on the old cowboy. "Don't get so cocky, old man. You wanna move into one of those little tin can mobile homes in the seniors' park? Get chased around the recreation hall by some old widow woman with blue hair? 'Cus that's exactly what's gonna happen if I'm not married within the next couple of weeks. You know my grandmother. She's hard-headed enough to go through with it."
Coop's grin disappeared. He shuddered visibly, slapped his dusty Stetson against his skinny thigh, and straightened as much as his bowed legs would allow. "I'll head over to Columbine Camp and fetch Betsy Mae." He shot a level gaze at Tag. "I don't understand your grandmother," he muttered. "Lenore Martin is a beautiful, kind and generous lady. I can't imagine her taking this ranch away from you. It just don't seem right."
"It's not right, dammit. Now go get Betsy Mae."
Tag watched the old man climb into a faded blue pickup truck as weathered and scarred as its driver. He couldn't believe it had come to this, faking marriage to a woman he didn't love just to appease his grandmother. It was either that, or watch Gramma Lenore donate the Double Eagle Ranch, the only home he'd ever known, to the Foundation for the Preservation of Wild Horses.
It wasn't fair. Not fair at all. So what if his grandmother felt guilty because her late husband had captured and sold the last wild horses off his land? Should Tag have to bear the punishment for his grandfather's mistake? Right or wrong, Lenore Martin had given Tag an ultimatum when he was barely twenty. Marry or lose the Double Eagle.
He raked his fingers through his hair and stared forlornly out the window. "I never thought you'd do it," he said quietly. "Didn't Dad's marriage teach you anything?" Obviously not. It had certainly taught Tag. He didn't plan to marry, never had...and if he had things his way, never would. He had everything he needed here, the land, the cattle, the towering mountains, and occasional visits from Betsy Mae Twigg.
Except he was just about ready to lose the land, the cattle and the towering mountains. Thank goodness Betsy Mae had agreed to this stupid idea of Coop's. For a price. Well, it was worth every penny. A marriage of convenience, Coop called it. A quick wedding, all for show, of course, even a nice little reception. That should make his grandmother happy, enough so that when he turned forty at the end of the month she'd do as she'd promised and deed the ranch over to him. Once that was accomplished, he and Betsy Mae would conveniently decide they didn't really love each other and go their separate ways.
He knew he could count on Betsy Mae, especially now. She'd said she needed a break from the rodeo circuit. Barrel racing took a tremendous toll on a woman's body, and hers wasn't getting any younger. Tag briefly allowed himself a moment to contemplate Betsy Mae's body. She wasn't half bad for a woman who'd spent as many years as she had following the rodeo. They'd been...well, friends, for a long time. It shouldn't be difficult to convince Gramma Lenore they were a loving couple.
Good Lord, he was actually preparing to go through with this damned charade. His father'd always said it was the sign of a desperate man, when he started taking desperate measures. Coop's plan was about as desperate a measure as Tag could imagine. Where did that man get his schemes?
Tag realized he was actually smiling as he went over the list of arrangements he and Coop had made. He placed a few calls, then settled back to wait for Betsy Mae to arrive. At least with Betsy Mae, he knew there was always the chance of fringe benefits.
The shrill ringing of the phone jarred him out of his contemplative daydreams of Betsy Mae's assets, but it wasn't enough to wipe the smile off his face. "Double Eagle Ranch, Tag Martin here."
Coop's frantic voice, however, was. Tag listened and forgot to breathe, listened and saw his entire future go down the drain. His only response to Coop's call was an expletive that would have sent Gramma Lenore running for a bar of soap.
Betsy Mae the barrel racer had run off with a rodeo clown. His buddy Betsy Mae, his one ace in the hole, had found true love with a guy in a fright wig and a dress. How could she?
He let his gaze slide about the ranch office, lingering on the framed photos of himself as a youngster astride a horse, the bulletin board covered in ribbons and awards for his 4H projects through the years, and the efficient computer center with the equipment essential to running a modern cattle ranching operation. This room was a time capsule of his life, the Double Eagle his heart and soul. In less than a month, it would all be gone.
Tag dropped the phone on the desk, buried his face in his hands and fought the urge to weep. Only Coop's insistent caterwauling over the line snapped him back to reality. A few minutes later, Tag silently placed the phone back in the cradle and stared out the window at the freshly mowed field beyond the barn. The clean scent of bailed hay filled the air; the distant bawling of cattle soothed his soul.
"Damn you, Betsy Mae, this better work." She hadn't completely abandoned him, he had to give her that. She'd left instructions with her brother, Will. She had a friend, another barrel racer who even did community theater in the off season. The gal had taken one look at Tag's photo in the current issue of Western Horseman and decided she wouldn't mind pretending to be Tag Martin's wife. For a price.
"I sure hope you explained we were just gonna play at marriage," Tag muttered. That was all he needed, some danged woman looking for a husband. He'd noticed they tended to get a little desperate once they hit a certain age. Unlike men like himself.
He'd make sure she knew the score the minute she arrived. In the meantime, he had two days to pull off a wedding and reception. Coop said he'd take care of the preacher, but the rest was up to Tag.
He thought of his rapidly dwindling savings account. Then he considered the alternative. Tag figured, if Coop's scheme worked, it would be worth every penny.
Whatever it took to convince Gramma Lenore.
Colorado, somewhere east of Montrose
ACCORDING TO the tattered map spread out on the seat next to her, Columbine Camp was still miles up this godforsaken road. Michelle glared through the rental car's rain-swept windshield and solemnly considered the pros and cons of murder. Actually, she thought, there weren't any negatives. All she need concern herself with at this point were methods.
Mark was going to die. There was no doubt at all in her mind. He deserved worse than death for suggesting, no, ordering her on this stupid trip. That was, if she didn't die first. Up to now she'd been too angry to be frightened.
Not any more.
A brilliant flash of lightning split the Colorado sky. A vicious gust of wind swirled through the narrow river canyon, carrying a twisted branch that bounced and skittered across the hood of the car.
Fear replaced anger in a heartbeat. Lightning shattered the cliff, above and to her left. Huge rocks and boulders pitched and tumbled across the road just ahead of the car.
Michelle screamed, slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the right. The tiny rental car fish-tailed and slid into a two-wheeled spin toward the edge of the road.
She screamed again.
Her world tilted, shifted.
Stopped.
Then slowly bounced up and down like a boat on the ocean.
Slowly, carefully, Michelle raised her forehead from its contact point on the steering wheel. It took a conscious effort to focus her eyes when all they wanted to do was close. She stared at, then through the cracked windshield.
Comprehension dawned gradually...she looked out into...nothing. The car continued swaying, the gentle motion almost lulling Michelle back into her benumbed state.
A loud crack shocked her into awareness.
Another sound, the roar and tumble of rushing water, filled her ears. Then more crackling and a few short jerks of the car.
Another crack.
The car jerked.
Her world tilted.
She slid forward.
Her breasts smashed against the steering wheel, her head wobbled closer to the windshield. The leafy canopy of whatever bush she'd hit, parted, and the chocolate brown froth of a storm-swept river filled her view.
The car shuddered again. Michelle's befuddled mind kicked into overdrive.
She hadn't hit a bush, she'd flown off the road and landed smack-dab in the top of a tree growing up from the steep canyon below. From the groaning, crackling and lurching, it was obvious the tree was not going to support the weight of the car—or Michelle—much longer.
She tried the door...jammed.
"Oh no-o-o-o..." Sobbing, panting with fear, pain and shock, Michelle rolled the window down, eyed the small opening dubiously, shoved the stupid cowboy hat Mark had insisted she wear firmly down on her head, and tried to squeeze her jeans-clad butt through the open window.
Damn those extra pounds!
She grabbed both sides of the window frame and grunted, wriggling and twisting her hips through the opening. What was holding her back? The car lurched and Michelle moaned in abject terror, then realized the issue of Western Horseman she'd practically memorized on the flight out was still in her back pocket, hung up against the frame.
She slipped back, yanked the magazine free and threw it in the back seat. It landed next to her carry-on bag, the one stuffed with all those expensive western clothes she'd bought at the airport. The receipt was in the bag, blast it.
The image of her tax accountant glowering at her when she tried to explain a write-off of a bunch of fancy western clothing without a receipt was all the incentive she needed.
Michelle snagged the handle. Grunting, she dragged the bag along behind as she squeezed through the window. She thought longingly of the matched set of luggage filled with the rest of her clothes, locked securely in the trunk.
One of her boots tangled in the twisted seatbelt. Her priorities suddenly shifted.
"Oh, God," she sobbed, scrabbling to free herself. "Please...?"
Frantically, she kicked and twisted her foot. Suddenly she was hanging onto a bowed limb like a monkey on a branch, the bulging suitcase tucked against her chest. She gasped for breath against the driving rain and stared, trembling, as her car slid slowly through the leaves until, with a tiny twist and a flip it tumbled into the raging water below.
Released from the substantial weight of the car, the thick branch whipped back to its original shape. In the process, it threw Michelle Garrison, wearing her brand new Stetson cowboy hat, her pointy-toed cowboy boots, yoke-fronted shirt and tight fitting Lee jeans half-way across the rain-slick road.
She landed next to her suitcase, a crumpled heap of humanity tossed against a wall of rocks and mud. A few tiny pebbles dislodged by the impact skittered across the asphalt.
Unrelenting, the rain continued its assault on the motionless figure lying in the road.
COWBOY IN MY POCKET
PROLOGUE
"MICHELLE, DARLING, it's good to see you. How've you been?"
"Cut the crap, Mark. You, of all people, know how I've been. Forget the pleasantries. Why did you reject my story?"
"Let's order first, sweetheart." Mark Connor, never one to make eye contact in the first place, studied the oversized menu in front of him. Michelle Garrison seethed and drummed her freshly manicured fingernails on the damask tablecloth. Suddenly she realized she was tapping the toe of her left shoe in the same staccato rhythm. She took a deep, struggle-for-some-semblance-of-control breath that ended in a frustrated sigh. The waiter appeared, leather-bound notepad in hand, to take their orders.
"Michelle?" Mark smiled at her.
"I'm not hungry. You order." Michelle glared at him, imagining large winged crows pecking his eyes. No, buzzards... buzzards made a much more impressive image.
"We'll both have the luncheon salad...Roquefort for me, the low-fat house dressing for the lady." Mark returned Michelle's glare with an innocent look. "Well, you have put on a few pounds, darling. You need to exercise more."
"I haven't had time, darling. I've been sitting in front of my computer without a break for the past six weeks, finishing a manuscript for you to reject. The same manuscript I wrote following your 'suggestions,' using your ideas for plot and characterization. Now, before my healthy, low-fat lunch arrives, would you so kindly tell me why you aren't buying my western?"
Mark smiled beatifically, the smile Michelle had once thought attractive until she realized he used that ubiquitous expression to hide everything going on behind those pale blue eyes of his. She waited for what seemed hours for his answer, returning his smile with a scowl.
Finally he tapped his fingertips together in a little steeple, pursed his lips, opened his mouth, shut it again, hmmmm'ed as if pondering a new amendment to the Constitution, then said, "Well, you have to understand..."
"No, Mark. I don't understand. I did everything you asked. 'Put a cowboy on the cover, it'll fly off the shelves,' he says. 'Marriages of convenience are always popular, the readers love them,' so it's got a blasted MOC. Mark, I did it all, right down to the baby. Remember telling me, 'If it's got a baby in it, the story's gonna be a gold mine?' Well, it can't be a gold mine if it doesn't get published. I want to know what gives!"
Mark unfolded his napkin and spread it across his lap, ignoring Michelle and smiling politely at the waiter while the young man placed their salads on the table and departed.
"I'm waiting, Mark." Michelle picked up her fork, thought briefly how it would look embedded in Mark's impeccably white shirt somewhere in the vicinity of his breastbone, then stabbed a large section of tomato instead.
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't give me that 'sweetheart' crap."
"Michelle." Michelle swore silently. She practically heard the gears engaging in the gray matter behind his high forehead. Mark always considered every word so carefully. Another irritating editorial trait, she thought. Right up there with rejecting her western. "Michelle, you have written forty-three books for us, and almost all of them have had an impressive return. All, that is, except the last three." He paused, resting his lips against his forefingers. "How can I say this without being blunt?"
"Go ahead, Mark. Be blunt...it suits you."
"Yes, well, it's my job to be honest. So, to put it bluntly, your ideas are tired, darling. Your characters all sound the same. That's why I wanted you to try a western."
"Well I did, dammit!" Michelle impaled a large piece of lettuce. How dare he find more fault with her story? "I worked hard on that western. My hero is a tall, dark and sexy cowboy; my heroine is an even sexier single mom with a disgustingly adorable little baby girl. They live on neighboring ranches, they ride horses, they chase cows around the field, they..."
"They don't know a thing about being cowboys, they've obviously never been in Colorado, where your story is supposedly set, and I might as well have been reading about an insurance agent as a cowboy. Our readers aren't stupid. When you write a scene about saddling a horse and you don't know that the pommel's at the front and the cantle's at the back, or how to tighten the cinch so the saddle won't slip, well your reader is going to laugh—at you for writing it, and us for publishing it. Look at the stupid name you gave your heroine! Lee Stetson? Come on. I'm sorry, Michelle. Westerns are hot right now, and you don't have a clue how to write them. You even have the hero make love to the heroine while they're riding a horse. That's physically impossible, darling. It hurts merely to think of it." His pained expression might have been funny under other circumstances.
"But it's a really sexy scene...it's..."
Mortified, Michelle stared into her perforated salad. Mark loved her stories, he loved everything about her writing. Now he was saying it was awful? Worse than awful, embarrassing? She thought Lee Stetson was a really cute name. The hefty advance that was going to pay off Michelle's VISA bill suddenly dissolved into a puff of smoke and faded away. She gazed longingly after the imaginary cloud. She blinked and the cloud disappeared. "Wait a minute," she said, leaning forward. "How do you know the difference between a pommel and a, um, kettle?"
"It's a cantle, Michelle. That's what I'm trying to explain, if you'd only pay attention." He waved a glossy magazine under her nose. "I spent two weeks at a dude ranch. It was a terrific experience. All these western manuscripts suddenly started making sense. I want you to go. Just two weeks at the Columbine Camp in Colorado. That's all. You'll learn everything you need to know about horses and cows and cowboys and the great outdoors. Trust me on this, darling. It'll be good for you. You need a break, it's not that expensive and besides, you can write it off. We want to keep you in our stable, Michelle..." He grinned, obviously impressed with his play on words.
"You want me to go to a dude ranch? I don't think so." Michelle jabbed her fork in Mark's direction, inordinately pleased when he backed away. "I don't even like horses, and I'm certain I'd like cowboys even less. I imagine they're both smelly, ill-tempered and impossible to control. I'll just do a little more research, maybe watch an old John Wayne movie or two. Trust me, Mark. I'll have my revision to you in, oh, about two weeks."
She pushed away from the table. "Now, thanks for lunch, and have a really nice..." Mark reached across the table, lightly grabbed her wrist, and stopped her. She sat back, stunned. Mark was never forceful, not ever. There wasn't a trace of humor, or even sarcasm in his voice.
"No revision, Michelle. This comes down from the senior editor, and we all know she takes her orders from marketing. Either you spend two weeks at Columbine Camp, which includes riding instructions...yes, dear, don't look so surprised...on a real horse, and an authentic dusty trail ride following authentic, smelly, dusty cows, or you find someone else to buy your stories. Competition's too steep, and there're a lot of hungry writers out there willing to take a lot less money. My advice is to jump through the hoops and learn what you can. Then write the freshest, most knowledgeable romantic western ever."
"You're not my agent, Mark. You're my editor. I thought you were my friend."
"I am, Michelle. That's why I bought you this issue of Western Horseman to read on the plane." He held the thick magazine up in front of her and smiled broadly, his blue eyes sparkling and his dimples dimpling until he looked more like a cover model than a book editor. Michelle thought seriously of telling him the effect was totally wasted on her. A dude ranch...cows and flies and dust, and waking up with the chickens, and more charges on the VISA bill...
"I can't do this Mark. It's impossible. I..."
"You'll do it, Michelle. Call me when you get back. Don't forget your magazine." He flipped the brand new issue of Western Horseman open to a glossy spread of photos and text. "Read it, sweetheart. Besides a great article about Columbine Camp, it's just full of information about rodeos and barrel racing and horses and cowboys and cowgirls...you're gonna love it. Have fun. Think western. I expect you to come home with a drawl." He winked and smiled, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth.
Michelle stared at the photos in the magazine. Her breath caught in her throat. "That's him," she whispered. She pointed at a photo of a dark haired cowboy with a devil-may-care smile. "That's my hero, the one you rejected." She glared accusingly at Mark. "That's exactly how I described him, tall, dark and handsome with broad shoulders and a sexy grin, and you tell me I don't know what I'm writing about? This should prove to you that I wrote about a real cowboy. How could you reject my story?"
She slapped the magazine down on the table, but couldn't take her eyes off the man staring back at her. Actually, she hadn't pictured her hero as quite so, well, elemental, but Mark didn't need to know that.
Mark glanced at the photo, then grinned at Michelle. "His name's Taggart Martin, and according to this article he lives right next door to Columbine Camp, on a huge ranch called the Double Eagle. Go, Michelle. Meet a real cowboy. Maybe you'll be able to write a real western for a change." Mark tipped an imaginary hat and sauntered out of the restaurant.
Speechless, seething with resentment, Michelle glared at his retreating figure. Then she glanced at the table, littered with the remnants of their lunch. Damn him! He'd left her with the check.
CHAPTER 1
TAG MARTIN slammed the telephone down on the table with enough force to rattle the windows in the tiny ranch office, took a deep breath, then counted to ten in Spanish. When that didn't work, he tried Japanese, and he was practically shouting his numbers in French by the time his foreman stepped into the room.
"You start countin' in German, son, I'll pack my bags and leave. I ain't seen you get all the way to French in a long time."
"That's because I haven't talked to my dear grandmother in a long time." Tag swiveled around in his worn leather chair and stared at his foreman. Old Coop...he knew the man had a real name, but there'd never been much need to use it. Other than when Tag wrote out Coop's weekly check, which he'd been doing for over twenty years. Something he might have to stop doing if his bullheaded grandmother had her way.
"I hate to chance it, but we need to set Operation Betsy Mae in gear, Coop. She back from Austin yet?"
The old man grinned. "She's due back today. Saw her brother yesterday. Will thought it was a brilliant idea. Of course, I didn't tell him all the details." He polished his stained fingernails against his skinny chest with an air of great superiority. "As I recall, you laughed when I suggested it."
"It's a hare-brained scheme, but for both our sakes, it damned well better work." Tag scowled at Coop, who was still grinning like an idiot. Didn't he realize how serious this was?
"I told you. It's my idea," Coop said smugly. "Of course it'll work."
Obviously he didn't have a clue. Tag rounded on the old cowboy. "Don't get so cocky, old man. You wanna move into one of those little tin can mobile homes in the seniors' park? Get chased around the recreation hall by some old widow woman with blue hair? 'Cus that's exactly what's gonna happen if I'm not married within the next couple of weeks. You know my grandmother. She's hard-headed enough to go through with it."
Coop's grin disappeared. He shuddered visibly, slapped his dusty Stetson against his skinny thigh, and straightened as much as his bowed legs would allow. "I'll head over to Columbine Camp and fetch Betsy Mae." He shot a level gaze at Tag. "I don't understand your grandmother," he muttered. "Lenore Martin is a beautiful, kind and generous lady. I can't imagine her taking this ranch away from you. It just don't seem right."
"It's not right, dammit. Now go get Betsy Mae."
Tag watched the old man climb into a faded blue pickup truck as weathered and scarred as its driver. He couldn't believe it had come to this, faking marriage to a woman he didn't love just to appease his grandmother. It was either that, or watch Gramma Lenore donate the Double Eagle Ranch, the only home he'd ever known, to the Foundation for the Preservation of Wild Horses.
It wasn't fair. Not fair at all. So what if his grandmother felt guilty because her late husband had captured and sold the last wild horses off his land? Should Tag have to bear the punishment for his grandfather's mistake? Right or wrong, Lenore Martin had given Tag an ultimatum when he was barely twenty. Marry or lose the Double Eagle.
He raked his fingers through his hair and stared forlornly out the window. "I never thought you'd do it," he said quietly. "Didn't Dad's marriage teach you anything?" Obviously not. It had certainly taught Tag. He didn't plan to marry, never had...and if he had things his way, never would. He had everything he needed here, the land, the cattle, the towering mountains, and occasional visits from Betsy Mae Twigg.
Except he was just about ready to lose the land, the cattle and the towering mountains. Thank goodness Betsy Mae had agreed to this stupid idea of Coop's. For a price. Well, it was worth every penny. A marriage of convenience, Coop called it. A quick wedding, all for show, of course, even a nice little reception. That should make his grandmother happy, enough so that when he turned forty at the end of the month she'd do as she'd promised and deed the ranch over to him. Once that was accomplished, he and Betsy Mae would conveniently decide they didn't really love each other and go their separate ways.
He knew he could count on Betsy Mae, especially now. She'd said she needed a break from the rodeo circuit. Barrel racing took a tremendous toll on a woman's body, and hers wasn't getting any younger. Tag briefly allowed himself a moment to contemplate Betsy Mae's body. She wasn't half bad for a woman who'd spent as many years as she had following the rodeo. They'd been...well, friends, for a long time. It shouldn't be difficult to convince Gramma Lenore they were a loving couple.
Good Lord, he was actually preparing to go through with this damned charade. His father'd always said it was the sign of a desperate man, when he started taking desperate measures. Coop's plan was about as desperate a measure as Tag could imagine. Where did that man get his schemes?
Tag realized he was actually smiling as he went over the list of arrangements he and Coop had made. He placed a few calls, then settled back to wait for Betsy Mae to arrive. At least with Betsy Mae, he knew there was always the chance of fringe benefits.
The shrill ringing of the phone jarred him out of his contemplative daydreams of Betsy Mae's assets, but it wasn't enough to wipe the smile off his face. "Double Eagle Ranch, Tag Martin here."
Coop's frantic voice, however, was. Tag listened and forgot to breathe, listened and saw his entire future go down the drain. His only response to Coop's call was an expletive that would have sent Gramma Lenore running for a bar of soap.
Betsy Mae the barrel racer had run off with a rodeo clown. His buddy Betsy Mae, his one ace in the hole, had found true love with a guy in a fright wig and a dress. How could she?
He let his gaze slide about the ranch office, lingering on the framed photos of himself as a youngster astride a horse, the bulletin board covered in ribbons and awards for his 4H projects through the years, and the efficient computer center with the equipment essential to running a modern cattle ranching operation. This room was a time capsule of his life, the Double Eagle his heart and soul. In less than a month, it would all be gone.
Tag dropped the phone on the desk, buried his face in his hands and fought the urge to weep. Only Coop's insistent caterwauling over the line snapped him back to reality. A few minutes later, Tag silently placed the phone back in the cradle and stared out the window at the freshly mowed field beyond the barn. The clean scent of bailed hay filled the air; the distant bawling of cattle soothed his soul.
"Damn you, Betsy Mae, this better work." She hadn't completely abandoned him, he had to give her that. She'd left instructions with her brother, Will. She had a friend, another barrel racer who even did community theater in the off season. The gal had taken one look at Tag's photo in the current issue of Western Horseman and decided she wouldn't mind pretending to be Tag Martin's wife. For a price.
"I sure hope you explained we were just gonna play at marriage," Tag muttered. That was all he needed, some danged woman looking for a husband. He'd noticed they tended to get a little desperate once they hit a certain age. Unlike men like himself.
He'd make sure she knew the score the minute she arrived. In the meantime, he had two days to pull off a wedding and reception. Coop said he'd take care of the preacher, but the rest was up to Tag.
He thought of his rapidly dwindling savings account. Then he considered the alternative. Tag figured, if Coop's scheme worked, it would be worth every penny.
Whatever it took to convince Gramma Lenore.
Colorado, somewhere east of Montrose
ACCORDING TO the tattered map spread out on the seat next to her, Columbine Camp was still miles up this godforsaken road. Michelle glared through the rental car's rain-swept windshield and solemnly considered the pros and cons of murder. Actually, she thought, there weren't any negatives. All she need concern herself with at this point were methods.
Mark was going to die. There was no doubt at all in her mind. He deserved worse than death for suggesting, no, ordering her on this stupid trip. That was, if she didn't die first. Up to now she'd been too angry to be frightened.
Not any more.
A brilliant flash of lightning split the Colorado sky. A vicious gust of wind swirled through the narrow river canyon, carrying a twisted branch that bounced and skittered across the hood of the car.
Fear replaced anger in a heartbeat. Lightning shattered the cliff, above and to her left. Huge rocks and boulders pitched and tumbled across the road just ahead of the car.
Michelle screamed, slammed on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the right. The tiny rental car fish-tailed and slid into a two-wheeled spin toward the edge of the road.
She screamed again.
Her world tilted, shifted.
Stopped.
Then slowly bounced up and down like a boat on the ocean.
Slowly, carefully, Michelle raised her forehead from its contact point on the steering wheel. It took a conscious effort to focus her eyes when all they wanted to do was close. She stared at, then through the cracked windshield.
Comprehension dawned gradually...she looked out into...nothing. The car continued swaying, the gentle motion almost lulling Michelle back into her benumbed state.
A loud crack shocked her into awareness.
Another sound, the roar and tumble of rushing water, filled her ears. Then more crackling and a few short jerks of the car.
Another crack.
The car jerked.
Her world tilted.
She slid forward.
Her breasts smashed against the steering wheel, her head wobbled closer to the windshield. The leafy canopy of whatever bush she'd hit, parted, and the chocolate brown froth of a storm-swept river filled her view.
The car shuddered again. Michelle's befuddled mind kicked into overdrive.
She hadn't hit a bush, she'd flown off the road and landed smack-dab in the top of a tree growing up from the steep canyon below. From the groaning, crackling and lurching, it was obvious the tree was not going to support the weight of the car—or Michelle—much longer.
She tried the door...jammed.
"Oh no-o-o-o..." Sobbing, panting with fear, pain and shock, Michelle rolled the window down, eyed the small opening dubiously, shoved the stupid cowboy hat Mark had insisted she wear firmly down on her head, and tried to squeeze her jeans-clad butt through the open window.
Damn those extra pounds!
She grabbed both sides of the window frame and grunted, wriggling and twisting her hips through the opening. What was holding her back? The car lurched and Michelle moaned in abject terror, then realized the issue of Western Horseman she'd practically memorized on the flight out was still in her back pocket, hung up against the frame.
She slipped back, yanked the magazine free and threw it in the back seat. It landed next to her carry-on bag, the one stuffed with all those expensive western clothes she'd bought at the airport. The receipt was in the bag, blast it.
The image of her tax accountant glowering at her when she tried to explain a write-off of a bunch of fancy western clothing without a receipt was all the incentive she needed.
Michelle snagged the handle. Grunting, she dragged the bag along behind as she squeezed through the window. She thought longingly of the matched set of luggage filled with the rest of her clothes, locked securely in the trunk.
One of her boots tangled in the twisted seatbelt. Her priorities suddenly shifted.
"Oh, God," she sobbed, scrabbling to free herself. "Please...?"
Frantically, she kicked and twisted her foot. Suddenly she was hanging onto a bowed limb like a monkey on a branch, the bulging suitcase tucked against her chest. She gasped for breath against the driving rain and stared, trembling, as her car slid slowly through the leaves until, with a tiny twist and a flip it tumbled into the raging water below.
Released from the substantial weight of the car, the thick branch whipped back to its original shape. In the process, it threw Michelle Garrison, wearing her brand new Stetson cowboy hat, her pointy-toed cowboy boots, yoke-fronted shirt and tight fitting Lee jeans half-way across the rain-slick road.
She landed next to her suitcase, a crumpled heap of humanity tossed against a wall of rocks and mud. A few tiny pebbles dislodged by the impact skittered across the asphalt.
Unrelenting, the rain continued its assault on the motionless figure lying in the road.
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for re-sell or re-print either digitally or in print format by ANY entity other
than the legal publisher of this work listed above. Re- sell or re-print of
this work may not be used without the written permission of the author
AND the publisher or without full monetary compensation of the work
to both the author and legal publisher. Any infringement upon this
copyright will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. If you have
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