To Tame a Wild Cowboy
Dedication
To all the NICU nurses out there. Bless you. You make a huge difference in the lives of those preemies and their families.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
An Excerpt from The Christmas Dare Chapter 1
About the Author
By Lori Wilde
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Cowboy up: Get mentally ready.
“It takes a village.”
Huh?
Rhett Lockhart opened one eye and studied the shapely blonde in the bed next to him. Pouty red lips, which last night had tasted like strawberry gloss, glistened in the bright sunshine pushing against the edges of the light-blocking curtains.
Big smoky brown eyes, circled by smeared mascara, blinked at him. Full perky breasts, which tasted just as delicious in real life as they’d looked in last year’s Rodeo Queens of New Mexico pinup calendar, thrust against his arm.
Miss September.
On the calendar, she’d worn spangles, bangles, a pink cowgirl hat, and little else. Much like she was dressed now, minus the hat. She was cute and perky and just the right kind of wrong.
Too bad his head throbbed like a sonofagun.
The culprit, an empty bottle of cinnamon whiskey, lay wedged between his pillow and the headboard. The celebratory hooch she’d brought with her because, as she’d said, he was red-hot.
“To get you up, cowboy.” She glanced down at his crotch with a knowing smile. “Some bozo’s been hammering on your door for a solid five minutes, and I’ve been calling your name . . .”
Nausea jiggled his stomach. It took him a second to remember where they were. Oh yeah, inside his Featherlite, a horse trailer with living quarters, currently parked on the rodeo fairground’s back lot in Albuquerque.
Last night, he’d come in first place, blistering his biggest rival, Brazilian hotshot Claudio Limon. Claiming a solid ninety-two-point ride on Smooth Operator, one of the orneriest bulls bucking. Life didn’t get much sweeter than that.
It was only May, but he was jockeying a hot streak. Burning through the circuit, racking up points left and right. This was his year. He was on the cusp of earning his lifetime goal and landing the dream he’d been dreaming since he was old enough to strap on chaps.
Come November in Las Vegas, he was finally going to shove Claudio off his lofty perch as a two-time winner of the Professional Bull Riders World Finals Championship and collect the title for himself.
“Rhett?” The blonde snapped her fingers in front of his face. “You with me, hon?”
Quick, what was her name? Carrie . . . Corrie . . . Chrissy . . . no . . . Cassie? Yes, Cassie. That was it. Right? Did he risk calling her Cassie, or just use his old standby?
He flashed her a big smile, winced against the added pressure in his aching temples, and drawled, “Mornin’, sweet cheeks.”
“It’s Carla,” she said, her voice flat, and her smile as fragile as iced lace.
Oops, not Cassie after all. But hey, her name started with a C. He was in the ballpark. Although the look in her eyes told him she wouldn’t find that a plus.
Carla was on her side facing him, hands stacked underneath her cheek, watching him like he was a bug doing the backstroke in her soup.
“I know that,” he lied through his teeth. “But those sweet cheeks of yours are drivin’ me crazy.” He reached to palm her butt.
“You’ve got a bit of the devil running through your veins, Rhett Lockhart,” she breathed out on a wistful sigh. “You ooze temptation with that sexy walk and charmin’ talk. How’s an honest girl supposed to resist?”
She was right. He couldn’t deny it, much as he might want to; he was Duke Lockhart’s son. That ornery sonofabitch.
Bam, bam, bam. A firm and urgent knock on his trailer door.
“Shh.” Rhett brought a finger to his lips. “Let’s pretend we’re not here. Maybe they’ll leave.”
She scooted away, nodded at his mobile phone on the bedside table beside a half-empty box of condoms. “Your cell’s been pinging too.”
“Ignore it.” Rhett walked his fingers up her bare thigh, which was poking out from underneath the covers.
“What if it’s an emergency?”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t you want to spend the day in bed with me?” he wheedled.
“It’s not me. It’s the rude dude at the door.”
“Maybe it’s TMZ wanting an interview.” He gave her another wink and a tickle. “I was pretty spectacular last night.”
Carla laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“Pardon me? Are you making fun of my bedroom prowess?”
“Oh, I have no complaints in that department,” she purred.
Bam, bam, bam.
“It might not be an emergency, but whoever is out there isn’t going away. For once in your life, face the music, Lockhart.” Carla got out of bed.
Face the music? Not his strong suit.
“Rhett!” his lawyer, Lamar Johnston, called out. “Open the damn door. I know you’re in there.”
“Want me to get that?” Carla found his black PBR T-shirt draped over the footboard. Pulled the tee down over her head, covering those beautiful boobs.
Darn it.
“It’s just Lamar.” He reached for her arm and hauled her back onto the mattress beside him. “Ignore him, and he’ll leave.”
“Who is Lamar?”
“My Texas lawyer.”
“Why is your Texas lawyer in New Mexico?”
“I might have been avoiding his calls.”
“What have you gotten yourself messed up in?”
“It’s nothing.” Rhett waved a hand. “People like to sue you when you’re in the public eye.”
“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Bam, bam, bam.
“Rhett, I’m not going anywhere,” Lamar confirmed. His attorney had crap timing. “You might as well let me the hell in.”
Carla rolled out of his arms. Grabbed for the tiny scrap of pink silk that passed for panties lying on the floor and wriggled into them.
Rhett sat up. Shook his head. Wished he had another hour with her. But maybe this was better. Short and sweet.
“This wasn’t how I anticipated the day going,” she muttered. “I had plans for you.”
Yikes, both intriguing and a little frightening.
“Me either,” Rhett said as way of an apology. “I’d intended on taking you out to IHOP for breakfast.”
“You mean lunch.” She nodded at the digital clock on the faux panel walls. One p.m. Was it really that late?
“Rain check?” he asked to be polite.
“If I knew you meant it, I’d say yes.” Carla stepped into faded skinny jeans that fit like a second skin. Wriggled and jiggled to get the zipper up.
&nbs
p; Rhett licked his lips. He remembered why he’d brought her back to his trailer last night. Besides the pretty face and hot bod, she was an easygoing, no-strings-attached woman.
Just his type.
“But we both know this isn’t headed anywhere.” She came around to his side of the bed. Kissed him. A light brush of her lips. “I knew you were a good-time Charlie when I crawled into the sack with you. I had no foolish dreams that I was the one girl who could tie you down.”
“No?” He gave her his best morning-after grin, relief breaking out all over him. “Giving up that easily? I wouldn’t mind if you tried a little harder to lasso me.”
She laughed a soft shame-on-you sound. “Do I look stupid? You’re a fun guy, Rhett. But let’s face it, you’re not cut out for the long haul.”
“That’s it?” he asked, disappointed, and surprised at his disappointment. He liked Carla for sure, but the last thing he wanted was a relationship.
Not now. Not ever.
He wasn’t like most people, hell-bent on finding The One, tying the knot, having a passel of kids, growing old, dying . . .
Just the thought of it made him twitchy.
And that spurred another thought. What would his life have been like if he hadn’t been born to one of the wealthiest men in the Trans-Pecos, who’d swung through women, leaving a trail of broken hearts in his wake?
He recalled a time when he was seven years old and out to dinner with the family. His mother, that gentle soul, his brothers—two half, one full—and his father. They were at the Barbecue King in Alpine. He recalled the smoky smell of mesquite and the taste of mustard potato salad. One of the waitresses had taken one look at his father, let out a cry of shock, and dropped her tray with a clatter. She’d rushed over to slap Duke hard across the face. Rhett’s mother, Lucy, had burst into tears. Duke laughed and rubbed his cheek, which had turned bright red in the shape of a handprint. The restaurant diners gaped. The owner rushed over, fired the waitress, and comped their meal. Ridge punched the old man in the gut. Ranger picked up a book and started reading. Remington threw his arm around their mother and glared at Duke. Rhett crawled underneath the table, stuck his fingers in his ears, and started humming “I Wanna Be a Cowboy.”
Ah, family memories. Good times.
“Some people are born to roam the earth alone. That’s you to a T.” Carla’s eyes gentled. She was a kind woman. “Not everyone is meant to find true love and have a family . . . and there’s nothing wrong with that.”
He agreed. So how come he felt oddly put down?
And a tiny bit sad?
She plunked onto the end of the mattress, tugging on pink rhinestone ankle boots. Stood. Headed for the door. “By the way,” she said, her voice as cheerful as Saturday night, “I’m keeping the T-shirt.”
“You’re welcome to it.”
She brought the neckline of the tee up to her nose, inhaled. Sighed. “God, you do smell good.” Her voice was wistful, but not in a fatalistic way. More like she’d missed out on a sweet deal on a used car.
She picked her cell phone up off the tiny shelf on her side of the bed. Glanced at her messages. “Ah,” she said. “It’s just as well that we didn’t get to spend the day together.”
“What is?” Rhett scratched his chest, yawned.
“My ex just texted. He got called into work and I have to go pick up my daughter.”
“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“Ivy. She’s four.” Carla’s face was ringed with sudden happiness. “Light of my life. Wanna see a picture?”
He held up a palm. “That’s okay. You have to get on the road.”
A new look crossed her face, as if she’d dodged a bullet on that used car that turned out to be a clunker.
Yikes.
Carla was the fourth woman he’d dated this past year that had a child. When did everyone start having kids? Goose bumps sprang up his arms, and his throat tightened. Kids gave him the heebie-jeebies. He had no idea how to relate to them.
She wriggled her fingers and squeezed out of the cramped bedroom loft. He watched her step down to the next level of the trailer, could see only her top half now. She opened the door. “Morning.”
“Um . . . hello.” Lamar’s booming voice filled the trailer.
“Bye,” she said.
Rhett heard them pass on the steps, Carla going out, Lamar coming in. The door closed, and he got the oddest feeling. As if something irrevocable had just happened.
Lamar’s thick head of curly black hair poked into his doorway. “You’re a scoundrel, you know that, right?”
Yawning again, Rhett interlaced his fingers, stretched his arms over his head. “What can I say? I love the ladies, and the ladies love me.”
“Have you no shame?”
“Shame? What for? I have rules.”
“Like what?”
“No one under twenty-one, and no married women, ever.”
Maybe he should start adding “no mothers” to that list too. Kids complicated things. A lot. Last week, he’d spent the night at a woman’s house and woke up to find a little boy in Superman Underoos staring at him. Acting as if it were no big deal to find a strange man in Mom’s bed, the boy took Rhett by the hand, led him to the kitchen, and asked him to make “boo-berry” Pop-Tarts. Rhett threw Pop-Tarts in the toaster, poured the kid some chocolate milk, and got the hell out of there ASAP. That was the extent of his brush with anything remotely like fatherhood. He barely even saw his brother Ridge’s two kids or his eighteen-month-old twin brothers his sixty-year-old father had sired with his third wife, Vivi.
“Oh, what a code of honor.” Sarcasm was Lamar’s touchstone.
“Hey, I don’t make them any promises. The women know right up front where they stand with me.”
“And you go through them like Kleenex.”
“Why are you here?” Rhett lowered his arms. His mouth was as dry as the Chihuahuan Desert he called home. He needed a gallon of water and a fistful of aspirins for his hangover. But the bed was soft, and he was feeling lazy, so he lazed.
“Get dressed.” Lamar turned and moved to the compact kitchenette at the back of the living quarters. Pots and pans clanked. The coffeemaker gurgled to life.
There was something about his lawyer’s tone of voice that grabbed Rhett by the short hairs. He threw back the covers.
“Are you fixin’ my breakfast?” Rhett called, whisking his Wrangler’s from the floor and pulling them on. An uneasy tingling tugged his belly. Something strange was afoot.
Bare-chested, he dropped down off the bedroom platform, landed on the laminate wood flooring with a flat-footed plop, and strolled the short space to the kitchen area.
Lamar stood at the gas stove whisking eggs in a bowl. He pointed at a chair with his elbow. “Sit.”
Bumfuzzled, Rhett slouched at the table.
Lamar plunked a mug down in front of him. Coffeepot in hand, he leaned over to fill Rhett’s mug. “Drink.”
“You can cook?”
Fifteen years ago, Lamar had been the star of the Cupid basketball team; now, he was one of the top civil law attorneys in the Trans-Pecos. Lamar, as always, was impeccably dressed, wearing a tailor-made navy blue pinstripe suit, gold cuff links, a red pocket square, and a big diamond stud in his left ear. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Yeah, like why you’re here cooking me breakfast at one o’clock in the afternoon?”
“Someone has to make sure you’re taken care of since you seem incapable of doing it yourself.” Lamar tsked, and tossed pepper, salt, and onion powder into the eggs. Scrambled them with a spatula.
“Hey!”
“Don’t act offended. You’re the superstar who leaves the grunt work to us mere mortals.” The microwave dinged. Lamar removed a paper plate with two breakfast sausages on it. He added the eggs to the plate, sprinkled cheddar cheese on top, and passed the food to Rhett. “Eat.”
“What’s your problem?”
“You got
bigger issues than me, buddy.”
“Yeah, I don’t have a fork.”
Lamar rummaged around in a drawer, found a fork, and shoved it at him, tines first. Nimbly, he sank into the chair across from Rhett. He looked like a sleek panther that could easily snap Rhett’s neck if he wanted. “We have to talk.”
“What about?”
Lamar reached over for his brown leather briefcase, took out some legal papers stapled together, and dropped them in the middle of the table.
“What’s this?” Rhett asked.
“Got the test results back.”
Rhett stared at the papers in front of him. It was an incomprehensible list of letters and numbers. Oh shit. From the look on Lamar’s face, he knew he was in big trouble. The eggs he’d swallowed hung in his throat. He couldn’t get them to go either up or down. There they sat, making a giant knot, choking him.
“At last.” Lamar chuckled. “You’ve got nothing to say.”
Rhett spat the eggs out into a napkin. “Oh, I got plenty to say. One of these days, you’re gonna walk in here and deliver some happy news. General Mills wants to feature me on a box of Wheaties. Claudio is quitting the PBR for good and returning to Brazil. Hollywood is paying big bucks for my life stor—”
“Surprise!” Lamar interrupted. “This time you won the paternity lottery.” Lamar thumped the paperwork with a thumb. “Congratulations! You’re a father.”
The words didn’t sink in. Father? Him? No way. He’d been sued for paternity three other times, which was why he had Lamar on retainer, and had always come up in the clear.
“I can’t be the father.” Rhett hopped up and paced the tiny trailer, hand on his forehead. “There has to be some kind of mistake.”
“DNA is ninety-nine percent accurate.”
“But I never ride bareback.” Rhett whacked his hip into the counter, barely even noticed. “Nev-er.”
“Accidents happen.” Lamar shrugged as if he’d been expecting such news for a long time. “The only perfect birth control is abstinence, and the whole world knows you’re incapable of that.” He pointed to Carla’s pink bra hanging from the doorknob. “Case in point.”
“I was only with her once.”
“Who? The owner of the pink bra or Rhona White?”