“It’s obvious there’s something between us …”

Having sex with Jesse Chisholm would be the worst idea ever.

They were polar opposites. He was wild and exciting and Gracie wasn’t. At least, she was doing her damndest to prove that she wasn’t.

And that was the problem in a nutshell. Jesse called to the bad girl inside of her.

Not happening. She had an image to uphold. A reputation to protect. She was the mayor, for heaven’s sake.

Anxiety rushed through her, because as committed as she was to the path she’d chosen, she couldn’t help but feel as if she’d missed out on something.

She wanted one more night with Jesse. One more memory. Then she could stop fantasizing and go back to her nice, conservative life and step up as the town’s new mayor without any worries or regrets.

She would. But not just yet.

She slammed on the brakes, swung the car around and headed for the motel.

“Okay,” she blurted ten minutes later when Jesse opened his motel room door. “Let’s do it.”

Texas Outlaws: Jesse

Kimberly Raye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling author KIMBERLY RAYE started her first novel in high school and has been writing ever since. To date, she’s published more than fifty novels, two of them prestigious RITA® Award nominees. She’s also been nominated by RT Book Reviews for several Reviewer’s Choice awards, as well as a career achievement award. Kim lives deep in the heart of the Texas Hill Country with her very own cowboy, Curt, and their young children. She’s an avid reader who loves Diet Dr. Pepper, chocolate, Toby Keith, chocolate, alpha males (especially vampires) and chocolate. Kim also loves to hear from readers. You can visit her online at www.kimberlyraye.com.

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This book is dedicated to Curt,

my loving husband and best friend,

You still know how to rock a pair of Wranglers!

Contents

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

Epilogue

Excerpt

1

THIS WAS TURNING into the worst ride of his life.

Jesse James Chisholm stared over the back of the meanest bull this side of the Rio Grande at the woman who parked herself just outside the railing of the Lost Gun Training Facility, located on a premium stretch of land a few miles outside the city limits.

His heart stalled and his hand slipped. The bull lurched and he nearly tumbled to the side.

No way was she here.

No frickin’ way.

The bull twisted and Pro Bull Riding’s newest champion wrenched to the right. He was seeing things. That had to be it. He’d hit the ground too many times going after that first buckle and now it was coming back to haunt him. His grip tightened and his breath caught. Just a few more seconds.

One thousand three. One thousand four.

“Jesse!” Her voice rang out, filling his ears with the undeniable truth that she was here, all right.

Shit.

The bull jerked and Jesse pitched forward. He flipped and went down. Hard.

Dust filled his mouth and pain gripped every nerve in his already aching body. The buzzer sounded and voices echoed, but he was too fixated on catching his breath to notice the chaos that suddenly surrounded him. He shut his eyes as his heart pounded in his rib cage.

Come on, buddy. You got this. Just breathe.

In and out. In. Out. In—

“Jesse? Ohmigod! Are you all right? Is he all right?”

Her desperate voice slid into his ears and stalled his heart. His eyes snapped open and sure enough, he found himself staring into a gaze as pale and blue as a clear Texas sky at high noon.

And just as scorching.

Heat swamped him and for a split second, he found himself sucked back to the past, to those long, endless days at Lost Gun High School.

He’d been at the bottom of the food chain back then, the son of the town’s most notorious criminal, and no one had ever let him forget it. The teachers had stared at him with pity-filled gazes. The other boys had treated him like a leper. And the girls... They’d looked at him as if he were a bona fide rock star. The bad boy who was going to save them from the monotony of their map-dot existence.

Every girl, that is, except for Gracie Stone.

She’d been a rock star in her own right. Buck wild and reckless. Constantly defying her strict adoptive parents and pushing them to the limits. They’d wanted a goody-goody daughter befitting the town’s mayor and first lady, and Gracie had wanted to break out of the neat little box she’d been forced into after the tragic death of her real parents.

They’d both been seniors when they’d crossed paths at a party. It had been lust at first sight. They’d had three scorching weeks together before they’d graduated and she’d ditched him via voice mail.

We just don’t belong together.

For all her wicked ways, she was still the mayor’s daughter, and he was the son of the town’s most hated man. Water and oil. And everyone knew the two didn’t mix.

Not then, and certainly not now.

He tried to remember that all-important fact as he focused on the sweet-smelling woman leaning over him.

She looked so different compared to the wild and wicked girl who lived and breathed in his memories. She’d traded in too much makeup and too little clothes for a more conservative look. She wore a navy skirt and a white silk shell tucked in at the waist. Her long blond hair had been pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. Long thick lashes fringed her pale blue eyes. Her lips were full and pink and luscious.

Different, yet his gut ached just the same.

He stiffened and his mouth pressed into a tight line. “Civilians aren’t allowed in the arena.” He pushed himself to his feet, desperate to ignore the soft pink-tipped fingers on his arm. “Not without boots.” Her touch burned through the material of his Western shirt and sent a fizzle of electricity up his arm. “And jeans,” he blurted. “And a long-sleeve shirt, for Chrissake.” Damn, but why did she have to keep touching him like that? “You’re breaking about a dozen different rules.”

“I’m sorry. You just hit the ground so hard and I thought you were hurt and...” Her words trailed off and she let her hand fall away.

He ignored the whisper of disappointment and concentrated on the anger roiling inside him. “You almost got me killed.” That was what he said. But the only thing rolling over and over in his mind was that she’d put herself in danger by climbing over the railing with a mean sumbitch bull on the loose.

He pushed away the last thought because no way—no friggin’ way—did Jesse care one way or the other when it came to Gracie Stone. He was over her.

Finished.

Done.

He held tight to the notion and focused on the fact that she’d ruined a perfectly good training session. “You don’t yell at a man when he’s in the middle of a ride. It’s distracting. I damn near broke my neck.” He dusted off his pants and reached for his hat a few feet away. “If you’re looking for City Hall—” he shook off the dirt and parked the worn Stetson on top of his head “—I think you’re way off the mark.”

“Actually, I was looking for you.” Unease flitted across her face as if she wasn’t half as sure of herself as she pretended to be. She licked her pink lips and he tried not to follow the motion with his eyes. “I need to talk to you.”

He had half a mind to tell her to kick her stilettos into high gear and start walking. He was smack-dab in the middle of a demonstration for a prospective buyer who’d flown in yesterday to purchase the black bull currently snorting in a nearby holding pen.

Because Jesse was selling his livestock and moving on.

Finally.

With the winnings and endorsements from his first championship last year, he’d been able to put in an offer for a three-hundred-acre spread just outside of Austin, complete with a top-notch practice arena. The seller had accepted and now it was just a matter of signing the papers and transferring the money.

“Yo, Jesse.” David Burns, the buyer interested in his stock, signaled him from the sidelines and Jesse held up a hand that said hold up a minute.

David wanted to make a deal and Jesse needed to get a move on. He didn’t have time for a woman who’d ditched him twelve years ago without so much as a face-to-face.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder what could be so almighty important that it had Lost Gun’s newly elected mayor slumming it a full ten miles outside the city limits.

He shrugged. “So talk.”

Her gaze shifted from the buyer to the group of cowboys working the saddle broncs in the next arena. Several of the men had shifted their attention to the duo standing center stage. “Maybe we could go someplace private.”

The words stirred all sorts of possibilities, all treacherous to his peace of mind since they involved a very naked Gracie and a sizable hard-on. But Jesse had never been one to back down from a dangerous situation.

He summoned his infamous slide-off-your-panties drawl that had earned him the coveted title of Rodeo’s Hottest Bachelor and an extra twenty thousand followers on Twitter and eyed her. “Sugar, the only place I’m going after this is straight into a hot shower.” He gave her a sly grin he wasn’t feeling at the moment and winked. “If you’re inclined to follow, then by all means, let’s go.”

Her eyes darkened and for a crazy instant, he glimpsed the old Gracie. The wild free spirit who’d stripped off her clothes and gone skinny-dipping with him their first night together.

But then the air seemed to chill and her gaze narrowed. “We’ll talk here,” she said, her voice calm and controlled. A total contradiction to the slight tremble of her bottom lip. She drew a deep breath that lifted her ample chest and wreaked havoc with his self-control. “A fax came in from the production company that filmed Famous Texas Outlaws.”

The mention of the television documentary that had nearly cost him his livelihood all those years ago was like a douse of ice water. “And?”

“They sold rights to a major affiliate who plans to air the show again and film a live ‘Where Are They Now?’ segment. They’re already running promos for it. Sheriff Hooker had to chase two fortune hunters off your place just yesterday.”

His “place” amounted to the burned-down shack and ten overgrown acres on the south end of town that he’d once shared with his father and brothers. As for the fortune hunters, well, they were out of luck. There was nothing to find.

His lawyer had been advising him to sell the property for years now, but Jesse had too many bad memories to want to profit off that sad, miserable place. Ignoring it had been better. Easier.

He eyed her. “When?”

“It’s airing next Tuesday.” She squared her shoulders, as if trying to gather her courage. “I thought you deserved fair warning after what happened the last time.”

His leg throbbed at the memory. “So that’s why you’re here?” He tamped down the sudden ache. “To give me a heads-up?”

She nodded and something softened inside him.

A crazy reaction since he knew that her sudden visit had nothing to do with any sense of loyalty to him. This was all about the town. She’d traded in her wild and wicked ways to become a model public servant like her uncle. Conservative. Responsible. Loyal.

He knew that, yet the knotted fist in his chest eased just a little anyway.

“I know you just got back yesterday,” she went on, “but I really think it would be better to cut your visit short until it’s all said and done.” She pulled her shoulders back. The motion pressed her delicious breasts against the soft fabric of her blouse. He caught a glimpse of lace beneath the thin material and he knew then that she wasn’t as conservative as she wanted everyone to think. “That would make things a lot easier.”

“For me?” He eyed her. “Or for you?”

Her gaze narrowed. “I’m not the one they’ll be after.”

“No, you’re just in charge of the town they’ll be invading. After all the craziness the last time I think you’re anxious to avoid another circus. Getting rid of me would certainly help.” The words came out edged with challenge, as if he dared her to dispute them.

He did.

She caught her bottom lip as if she wanted to argue, but then her mouth pulled tight. “If the only eyewitness to the fire is MIA, the reporters won’t have a reason to stick around. I really think it would be best for everyone.” Her gaze caught and held his. “Especially you.”

Ditto.

He sure as hell wasn’t up to the pain he’d gone through the first time. The show had originally aired a few months after he’d graduated high school, five years to the day of his father’s death. He’d been eighteen at the time and a damn sight more reckless.

He’d been ground zero in the middle of a training session with a young, jittery bull named Diamond Dust. A group of reporters had shown up, cameras blazing, and Diamond had gone berserk. More so than usual for a mean-as-all-get-out bucking bull. Jesse had hit the ground, and then the bull had hit him. Over and over, stomping and crushing until Jesse had suffered five broken ribs, a broken leg, a dislocated shoulder and a major concussion. Injuries that had landed him in a rehab facility for six months and nearly cost him everything.

Not that the same thing wouldn’t have happened eventually. He’d been on a fast road to trouble back then, ignoring the rules and riding careless and loose. The reporters had simply sped up the inevitable, because Jesse hadn’t been interested in a career back then so much as an escape.

From the guilt of watching his own father die and not doing a damned thing to stop it.

It wasn’t your fault. The man made his own choice.

That was what Pete Gunner had told him time and time again after the fire. Pete was the pro bull rider who’d taken in thirteen-year-old Jesse and his brothers and saved them from being split up into different foster homes after their father had died. Pete had been little more than a kid himself back then—barely twenty—and had just won his first PBR title. The last thing he’d needed was the weight of three orphans distracting him from his career, but he’d taken on the responsibility anyway. The man had been orphaned himself as a kid and so he’d known how hard it was to make it in the world. Cowboying had saved him and so he’d taught Jesse and his brothers how to rope and ride and hold their own in a rodeo arena. He’d turned them into tough cowboys. The best in the state, as a matter of fact. Even more, he’d given them a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs, and hope.

And when Diamond had nearly killed Jesse, it had been Pete who’d paid for the best orthopedic surgeons in the state. Pete was family—as much a brother to Jesse as Billy and Cole—and he was about to marry the woman of his dreams this Saturday.

That was the real reason Jesse had come back to this godforsaken town. And the reason he had no intention of leaving until the vows were spoken, the cake was cut and the happy couple left for two weeks in the Australian outback.

Then Jesse would pack up what little he had left here and head for Austin to make a real life. Far away from the memories. From her.

He stiffened against a sudden wiggle of regret. “Trust me, there’s nothing I’d like better than to haul ass out of here right now.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page—”

“But I won’t,” he cut in. “I can’t.”

A knowing light gleamed in her eyes. “I’m sure Pete would understand.”

“I’m sure he would, but that’s beside the point.” Jesse shook his head. “I’m not missing his wedding.”

“But—”

“You’ll just have to figure out some other way to defuse the situation and keep the peace.”

And then he did what she’d done to him on that one night forever burned into his memory—he turned and walked away without so much as a goodbye.

2

WAIT A SECOND.

Wait just a friggin’ second.

That was what Gracie wanted to say. She’d envisioned this meeting about a zillion times on the way over, and this wasn’t the way it had played out. Where was the gratitude? The appreciation? The desperate embrace followed by one whopper of a kiss?

She ditched the last thought and focused on the righteous indignation that came with violating about ten different city ordinances on someone else’s behalf. Leaking private city business to civilians was an unforgivable sin and the memo from the production company had been marked strictly confidential.

But this was Jesse, and while she’d made it a point to avoid him for the past twelve years, she couldn’t in good conscience sit idly by and let him be broadsided by the news crew currently on its way to Lost Gun.

Not because she cared about him.

Lust. That was all she’d ever felt for him. The breath-stealing, bone-melting, desperate lust of a hormone-driven sixteen-year-old. A girl who’d dreamed of a world beyond her desperately small town, a world filled with bright lights and big cities and a career in photojournalism.

She’d wanted out so bad back then. To the point that she’d been wild and reckless, eager to fill the humdrum days until her eighteenth birthday with whatever excitement she could find.

But then she’d received the special-delivery letter announcing that her older brother had been killed in the line of duty and she’d realized it was time to grow up, step up and start playing it safe right here in Lost Gun.

For her sister.

Charlotte Stone was ten years younger than Gracie. And while she’d been too young—four years old, to be exact—to remember the devastation when their parents had died in a tragic car accident, she’d been plenty old enough at nine to feel the earthquake caused by the death of their older brother. She’d morphed from a happy, outgoing little girl, into a needy, scared introvert who’d been terrified to let her older sister out of her sight.

Gracie had known then that she could never leave Lost Gun. Even more, she’d vowed not only to stay but to settle down, play it safe and make a real home for her sister.

She’d traded her beloved photography lessons for finance classes at the local junior college and ditched everything that was counterproductive to her new safe, settled life—from her favorite fat-filled French fries to Jesse Chisholm himself.

Especially Jesse.

He swiped a hand across his backside to dust off his jeans and her gaze snagged on the push-pull of soft faded denim. Her nerves started to hum and the air stalled in her lungs.

While time usually whittled away at people, making them worn around the edges, it had done the opposite with Jesse. The years had carved out thick muscles and a ripped bod. He looked even harder than she remembered, taller and more commanding. The fitted black-and-gray retro Western shirt framed broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Worn jeans topped with dusty brown leather chaps clung to trim hips and thighs and stretched the length of his long legs. Scuffed brown cowboy boots, the tips worn from one too many run-ins with a bull, completed the look of rodeo’s hottest hunk. The title had been held by local legend Pete Gunner up until he’d proposed to the love of his life just two short years ago. Since then Jesse had been burning up the rodeo circuit, determined to take the man’s place and gain even more notoriety for the Lost Boys, a local group of cowboy daredevils who were taking the rodeo circuit by storm, winning titles and charming fans all across the country.

Wild. Fearless. Careless.

He was all three and then some.

Her gaze shifted to the face hidden beneath the brim of a worn Stetson. While she couldn’t see his eyes thanks to the shadow, she knew they were a deep, mesmerizing violet framed by thick sable lashes. A few days’ growth of beard covered his jaw and crept down his neck. Dark brown hair brushed his collar and made her fingers itch to reach out and touch.

“If I were you, I’d stop staring and put my tongue back in my mouth before somebody stomps on it.”

The voice startled her, and she turned to see the ancient cowboy who came up beside her.

Eli McGinnis was an old-school wrangler in his late seventies with a head full of snow-white hair that had been slicked back with pomade. His handlebar mustache twitched and she knew he was smiling even though she couldn’t actually see the expression beneath the elaborate do on his top lip.

“You’d do well to stop droolin’, too,” he added. “We got enough mud puddles around here already. A few shit piles, too.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Drooling?” he cut in. “While I ain’t the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, I know drooling when I see it and, lemme tell ya, it ain’t attractive on a fine upstanding public servant like yourself. Then again, you ain’t actually the mayor yet, so I guess I should be talking to your uncle when it comes to serious public-health issues.”

“Uncle E.J. already left for Port Aransas. He and my aunt just bought a house there.” Her brow wrinkled as the impact of his words hit. “A public-health issue?” The notion killed the lingering image of Jesse and snagged her complete attention. “What health issue?” A dozen possibilities raced through her mind, from a city-wide epidemic of salmonella to a flesh-eating zombie virus.

Okay, so she spent her evenings watching a little too much cable TV since Charlie had moved into the dorms at the University of Texas last year. A girl had to have some fun.

Anxiety raced up her spine. “It’s mercury in the water, isn’t it?” Fear coiled and tightened in the pit of her stomach. “E. coli in the lettuce crops? Don’t tell me Big Earl Jessup is making moonshine in his garage again.” At ninety-one, Big Earl was the town’s oldest resident, and the most dangerous. He came from a time when the entrepreneurial spirit meant whipping up black diamond whiskey in the backyard and hand-selling it at the annual peach festival. Those days were long gone but that hadn’t stopped Big Earl from firing up last year to cook a batch to give away for Christmas. And then again at Easter. And for the Fourth of July.

“You got bigger problems than an old man cooking up moonshine in his deer blind, that’s for damn sure.”

“Big Earl’s cooking in his deer blind?”

Eli frowned. “Stop trying to change the subject. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“Which is?”

“Fake cheese on the nachos. Why, the diner used to put a cup of real whole-milk cheddar on all the nacho platters, but now they’re tryin’ to cut costs, so they switched to the artificial stuff.”

“Fake cheese,” she repeated, relief sweeping through her. “That’s the major health concern?”

“Damn straight. Why, I was up all night with indigestion. As the leader of this fine community—” he wagged a finger at her “—it’s your job to clean it up.”

O-kay.

“I’ll, um, stop by the diner and see what I can do.”

He threw up his hands. “That’s all I’m askin’, little lady.”

Her gaze shifted back to Jesse, who now stood on the other side of the arena talking to two men she didn’t recognize. They weren’t real working cowboys but rather the slick, wealthy types who flew in every now and then to buy or sell livestock. With their designer boots and high-dollar hats, they probably intimidated most men, but not Jesse. He held his own, a serious look on his face as he motioned to the black bull thrashing around a nearby stall.

“That boy’s too damned big for his britches sometimes,” Eli muttered.

Her gaze dropped and her breath caught. Actually, he filled out said britches just right.

She watched as he untied his chaps and tossed them over a nearby railing, leaving nothing but a tight pair of faded denims that clung to him like a second skin, outlining his sinewy thighs and trim waist and tight, round butt—

“It’s mighty nice of you to come out and warn him.” Her gaze snapped up and she glanced at the old man next to her. “Even if he don’t realize it.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I stop by every day.”

Not anymore.

But for those blissful three weeks before they’d graduated, she’d been a permanent fixture on the corral fence, watching him every afternoon after school. Snapping pictures of him. Dreaming of the day when she could leave Lost Gun behind and turn her hobby into a passion.

She’d wanted out of this map dot just as bad as he had. Then.

And now.

She stiffened against the sudden thought. She was happy with her life here. Content.

And even if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. She was here. She was staying. End of story.

“Still, you didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” Eli went on.

“Just looking out for my soon-to-be constituents.” No way did Gracie want to admit that she’d come because she still cared about Jesse. Because she still dreamed of him. Because she still wanted him.

No, this was about doing the right thing to make up for the wrong she’d done so long ago. She’d had her chance to warn him the first time, and she’d chickened out for fear that seeing him would crumble her resolve and resurrect the wild child she’d been so desperate to bury.

She’d lived with the guilt every day since.

“Tell him to be careful.” She took one last look at Jesse, fought against the emotion that churned down deep and walked away.

* * *

“THAT MAGAZINE ARTICLE was right about you. You sure put on one helluva show.” The words were followed by a steady clap-clap-clap as Billy Chisholm, Jesse’s youngest brother, walked toward him. Billy was four years younger and eagerly chasing the buckle Jesse had won just last year. “I particularly liked that little twist you did when you flew into the air.” He grinned. “Right before you busted your tail.”

Jesse glared. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I wouldn’t be either if I’d just ate it in front of everyone and the horse they rode in on.”

But Jesse wasn’t concerned about everyone. Just a certain buttoned-up city official with incredible blue eyes.

He barely resisted the urge to steal one last look at her. Not that he hadn’t seen her over the years when he’d happened into town—across a crowded main street, through the dingy windows of the local feed store. It was just that those times had been few and far between because Jesse hated Lost Gun as much as the town hated him, and so he’d kept his distance.

But this was different.

She’d been right in front of him. Close enough to touch. To feel. He could still smell her—the warm, luscious scent of vanilla cupcakes topped with a mountain of frosting.

Sweet.

Decadent.

Enough to make him want to cross the dusty arena separating them, pull her into his arms and see if she tasted half as good as he remembered.

Want.

Yep, he still wanted her, all right. The thing was, he didn’t want to want her, because she sure as hell didn’t want him.

He’d thought so at one time. She’d smiled and flirted and rubbed up against him, and he’d foolishly thought she was into him. He’d been a hormone-driven eighteen-year-old back then and he’d fallen hard and fast.

He was a grown-ass man now and a damn sight more experienced. Enough to know that Gracie Stone was nothing special in the big scheme of things. There were dozens of women out there, and Jesse indulged in more than his fair share. And while they all tasted as sweet as could be at first, the sweetness always faded. The sex soon lost its edge. And then Jesse cut ties and moved on to the next.

“...can’t remember the last time you bit the bullet like that,” Billy went on. “What the hell happened? Did someone slap you with a ten-pound bag of stupid?”

Okay, maybe Gracie was a little special. She’d been the only woman in his past to break things off with him first, before he’d had a chance to lose interest.

He would have, he reminded himself.

Guaran-damn-teed.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her disappear around the holding pens. The air rushed back into his lungs, but his muscles didn’t ease.

He was still uptight. Hot. Bothered.

Stupid.

He stiffened and focused on untying the gloves from his hands.

“Alls I can say is thanks, bro,” Billy went on. “I bet a wad of cash on your ride just now. My truck payment, as a matter of fact.”

Jesse arched an eyebrow. “And you’re thanking me for losing your shirt?”

Billy clapped him on the shoulder and sent an ache through his bruised body. “I didn’t bet on you, bro. I bet against you.” He winked. “Saw that little gal come round the corner and I knew things were going to get mighty interesting.”

Forget stupid. He was pissed.

“She came to warn me,” Jesse bit out, his mouth tight. “They’re shooting a ‘Where Are They Now?’ special next week,” he told his brother. “A follow-up to Famous Texas Outlaws.”

Billy’s grin faltered for a split second. “You okay with that?”

Jesse shrugged. “I can handle my fair share of reporters. You know that.”

“True enough.” Billy nodded before sliding him a sideways glance. “But if you want a little peace and quiet, you can always send them my way.” He winked and his grin was back. “I like getting my picture taken.”

Billy had been fourteen at the time and excited about being in the limelight. He hadn’t been the least bit unnerved by the endless questions about their father’s death six years prior, because he’d been too young to really comprehend the gravity of what Silas Chisholm had done. Too young to remember the police and the accusations and the desperate search to recover the money that their father had stolen. Rather, he’d seen the media circus as a welcome distraction from an otherwise shitty life.

“Gracie wants me to lie low,” Jesse added. “She thinks it’ll help the town.”

“And here I thought she came all the way out here because she wanted a piece of PBR’s reigning champion.”

If only.

Jesse stuffed his gloves into his pocket and fought the longing that coiled inside of him.

Gracie Stone was off-limits.

She’d broken his heart and while it was all water under the bridge now, he had no intention of paddling upstream ever again.

Then again, it wasn’t his heart that had stirred the moment he’d come face-to-face with her again. Despite the years that had passed, the chemistry was still as strong as ever.

Stronger, in fact.

And damned if that realization didn’t bother him even more than the fact that he’d just landed on his ass in front of an arena full of cowboys. Since Tater Tot had been the ornery bull responsible, he’d just become that much more valuable to the two buyers now waiting inside Jesse’s office in a nearby building.

So maybe Gracie’s visit wasn’t a complete bust after all.

“I’ve got papers to sign.” He motioned to the glass-walled office that overlooked the corral. “Get your gear and get in the chute if you want a turn on Tater Tot before they pack him up and ship him out. And you’d better make it quick because we’ve got a tuxedo fitting in a half hour and the clock’s ticking.”

“Sure thing, bro.” A grin cut loose from ear to ear. “After that piss-poor display, somebody’s gotta show you how it’s done.”

3

IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower Gracie had to bypass the one and only bakery in Lost Gun and head for the town square.

Sure, she eased up on the gas pedal and powered down her window to take in the delicious scent of fresh-baked goodies as she rolled past Sarah’s Sweets, but still. She didn’t slam on the brakes and make a beeline for the overflowing counter inside. No red velvet cupcakes or buttercream-frosted sugar cookies for this girl. And no—repeat no—Double-Fudge Fantasy Brownies rich in trans fat and high in cholesterol.

Which explained why her hands still trembled and her stomach fluttered when she walked into City Hall.

“How’s my favorite mayor-elect?” asked the thirtysomething bleached blonde sitting behind the desk in the outer office with a chocolate Danish in front of her.

Longing clawed down deep inside of Gracie, but she tamped it back down. “Fine.”

“Methinks you are one terrible liar.” Trina Lovett popped a bite of pastry into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of black coffee.

Trina had been working for Gracie’s uncle—the current mayor—since she’d graduated high school sixteen years ago—four years before Gracie. Trina had been part of a rise-above-your-environment program that helped young people from impoverished homes—a trailer on the south end of town in Trina’s case—find jobs.

He’d hit the jackpot with Trina, who was not only a hard worker but knew everything about everybody. She’d been instrumental in the past few elections—particularly in a too-close-for-comfort runoff with the local sheriff a few years back. E.J. had won, of course, due to his compassionate nature and Trina’s connections down at the local honky-tonk. The young woman had bought five rounds of beers the day of the election and earned the forty-two votes needed to win.

Trina had also been instrumental in the most recent campaign, which had seen Gracie take the mayoral race by a landslide.

In exactly two weeks to the day, Gracie Elizabeth Stone would take the sacred oath and step up as the town’s first female mayor.

Two weeks, three hours and forty-eight minutes.

Not that she was counting.

“You saw Jesse, didn’t you?” When Gracie nodded, Trina’s bright red lips parted in a smile. “Tell me everything. I caught him on the ESPN channel a few weeks back, but all I could see was a distant view of him straddling a bull for dear life.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What I wouldn’t have given to be that bull.”

“You work for a public official. You know that, right?”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a wad. It’s not like I’m tweeting it or posting to my Facebook status. This is a private conversation.” She beamed. “So? What’s he really like up close? Does he still have those broad shoulders? That great ass?”

Yes and yes.

She stiffened and focused on leafing through the stack of mail on Trina’s desk. “I’d, um, say he’s aged well.”

“Seriously? I suppose you look ready to scarf an entire box of cupcakes because of some cowboy who’s aged well?”

“I suppose he’s still hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I am.” Trina beamed. “I most definitely am.”

Gracie frowned. “Not that it makes a difference. I went there strictly in an official capacity. I went. I spoke. He heard. End of story.”

Trina regarded her for a long, assessing moment. “He told you to get lost, didn’t he?”

“No.” The brave face she’d put on faltered. “Yes. I mean, he didn’t say it outright—there were no distinct verbs or colorful nouns—but he might as well have.”

“Ouch.” Her gaze swept Gracie from head to toe and she pursed her bright red lips. “But I can’t say as I blame him. You look like you’re going to Old Man Winthrow’s wake.”

“I do black for funerals. This is navy.”

“Same thing.” She gave Gracie another visual sweep with her assessing blue eyes. “Listen here, girlfriend, men don’t take time out of their day to notice navy. It takes a hot color to keep a man from tossing you out on your keister. Red. Neon pink. Even a print—like cheetah or zebra. Something that says you’ve got a sex drive and you know how to use it. And the skimpier, the better, too. Show a little leg. Some cleavage. Men like cleavage. It gets their full attention every time.”

“For the last time—this wasn’t a social visit.” Gracie eyed Trina’s black leather miniskirt. “I’m a public figure. I can’t prance around looking like an extra from Jersey Shore. Besides, he hates me, and a dress—skimpy or not—isn’t going to change that.”

“I’m telling you, a good dress is like magic. Slip it on and it’ll transform you from a stuffy politician into a major slut. You do remember how much fun being a little slutty can be, don’t you?”

As if she could ever forget.

She’d been the baddest girl in high school with the worst reputation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked doing the unexpected and following her gut and having some fun. And she’d really liked Jesse James Chisholm.

So much so that she’d been ready to put off attending the University of Texas—her uncle’s alma mater—to follow Jesse onto the rodeo circuit. To continue their wild ride together, cheer him on and take enough live-action shots to launch her dream career as a photographer.

But then Jackson had been killed, and Charlie had stopped talking for six months. She’d realized then that she couldn’t just turn her back on her little sister and go her own way as her brother had done after their parents had died. Charlie needed her.

And she needed Charlie.

So she’d packed up her camera and her dreams and started playing it safe. She’d followed in her uncle’s footsteps, securing a business degree before taking a position as city planner.

Meanwhile, Jesse had ridden every bull from here to Mexico.

They were worlds apart now, and when they did happen to land within a mile radius of each other, the animosity was enough to keep the wall between them thick. Impenetrable.

Animosity because not only had Gracie stood him up on the night they were supposed to leave, but she’d refused to talk to him about it, terrified that if she heard his voice or saw him up close, her determination would crumble. Fearful that the bad girl inside of her would rear her ugly head and lust would get the better of her.

Lust, not love.

She hadn’t been able to leave with Jesse, and she’d refused to ask him to give up his life’s dream to stay with her in a town that had caused him nothing but pain, and so she’d done the best thing for both of them—she’d broken off all contact.

And her silence had nearly cost him his career.

Not this time.

She’d given him fair warning about the inevitable influx of reporters and now she could get back to work and, more important, forget how good he smelled and how his eyes darkened to a deep, fathomless shade of purple whenever he looked at her.

She fought down the sudden yearning that coiled inside of her. “I don’t do slut anymore,” she told her assistant.

“Duh.” Trina shrugged. “You’ve been wearing those Spanx so long, you’ve forgotten how to peel them off and cut loose.”

If only.

But that was the trouble in a nutshell. She’d never really forgotten. Deep in her heart, in the dead of night, she remembered what it felt like to live for the moment, to feel the rush of excitement, to walk on the wild side. It felt good—so freakin’ good—and she couldn’t help but want to feel that way again.

Just once.

Not that she was acting on that want. No way. No how. No sirree. Charlie needed a home and the people of Lost Gun needed a mayor, and Gracie needed to keep her head on straight and her thoughts out of the gutter.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” she blurted, eager to get them back onto a safer subject. “City council meeting? Urgent political strategy session? Constituent meet and greet?” She needed something—anything—to get her mind off Jesse James Chisholm and the fact that he’d looked every bit as good as she remembered. And then some. “Surely Uncle E.J. left a big pile of work before he headed for Port Aransas to close on the new house?”

“Let’s see.” Trina punched a few buttons on her computer. “You’re in luck. You’ve got a meeting with Mildred Jackson from the women’s sewing circle—she wants the city to commission a quilt for your new office.”

“That’s it?”

“That and a trip to the animal shelter.” When Gracie arched an eyebrow, Trina added, “I’ve been reading this article online about politicians and their canine friends. Do you know that a dog ups your favorability rating by five percent?”

“I already have a dog.”

“A ball of fluff who humps everything in sight doesn’t count.” When Gracie gave her a sharp look, she shrugged. “Not that I have anything against humping, but you’ve got a reputation to think of. A horny mutt actually takes away poll points.”

“Sugar Lips isn’t a mutt. She’s a maltipom. Half Maltese. Half Pomeranian.” Trina gave her a girlfriend, pu-leeze look and she added, “I’ve got papers to prove it.”

“Labs and collies polled at the top with voters, and the local shelter just happens to have one of each,” Trina pressed. “Just think how awesome it will look when the new mayor-elect waltzes in on Adopt-a-Pet Day and picks out her new Champ or Spot.”

“Don’t tell me—Champ and Spot were top-polling animal names?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

Gracie shook her head. “I can’t just bring home another dog. Sugar will freak. She has control issues.”

“Think of the message it will send to voters. Image is everything.”

As if she didn’t know that. She’d spent years trying to shake her own bad image, to bury it down deep, to make people forget, and she’d finally succeeded. Twelve long years later, she’d managed to earn the town’s loyalty. Their trust.

Now it was just a matter of keeping it.

She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get another dog.”

“And a date,” Trina added. “That way people can also envision you as the better half of a couple, i.e., family oriented.”

“Where do you get this stuff?”

“PerfectPolitician.com. They say if you want to project a stable, reliable image, you need to be in a stable, reliable relationship. I was thinking we should call Chase Carter. He’s president of the bank, not to mention a huge campaign contributor. He’s also president of the chamber of commerce and vice president of the zoning commission.”

And about as exciting as the 215-page car-wash proposition just submitted by the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary for next year’s fundraiser.

Gracie eyed her assistant. “Isn’t Chase gay?”

“A small technicality.” Trina waved a hand. “This is about image, not getting naked on the kitchen table. I know he isn’t exactly a panty dropper like Jesse James Chisholm, but—”

“Call him.” Chase wasn’t Jesse, which made him perfect dating material. He wouldn’t be interested in getting her naked and she wouldn’t be interested in getting him naked. And she certainly wouldn’t sit around fantasizing about the way his thigh muscles bunched when he crossed a rodeo arena.

She ignored the faint scent of dust and leather that still lingered on her clothes and shifted her attention to something safe. “Do you know anything about Big Earl Jessup?” She voiced the one thing besides Jesse Chisholm and his scent that had been bothering her since she’d left the training arena.

“I know he’s too old to be your date. That and he’s got hemorrhoids the size of boulders.” Gracie’s eyes widened and Trina shrugged. “News travels fast in a small town. Bad news travels even faster.”

“I don’t want to go out with him. I heard through the grapevine that he might be cooking moonshine in his deer blind.”

Trina’s eyebrow shot up. “The really good kind he used to make for the annual peach festival?”

“Maybe.”

“Hot damn.” When Gracie cut her a stare, she added, “I mean, damn. What a shame.”

“Exactly. He barely got off by the skin of his teeth the last time he was brought up on charges. Judge Ellis is going to throw the book at him if he even thinks that Big Earl is violating his parole.”

“Isn’t Big Earl like a hundred?”

“He’s in his nineties.”

“What kind of dipshit would throw a ninetysomething in prison?”

“The dipshit whose car got blown up the last time Big Earl was cooking. Judge Ellis had a case of the stuff in his trunk at the annual Fourth of July picnic. A Roman candle got too close and bam, his Cadillac went up in flames.”

“Isn’t that his own fault for buying the stuff?”

“That’s what Uncle E.J. said, which was why Big Earl got off on probation. But Judge Ellis isn’t going to be swayed again. He’ll nail him to the wall.” And stir another whirlwind of publicity when Lost Gun became home to the oldest prison inmate. At least that was what Uncle E.J. had said when he’d done his best to keep the uproar to a minimum.

“I need to find out for sure,” Gracie told Trina.

“If you go nosying around Big Earl’s place, you’re liable to get shot. Tell you what—I’ll drop by his place after I get my nails done. My daddy used to buy from him all the time when I was a little girl. I’ll tell him I just stopped by for old times’ sake. So what do you think?” She held up two-inch talons. “Should I go with wicked red or passionate pink this time?”

“Don’t you usually get your nails done on Friday?”

“Hazel over at the motel called and said two reporters from Houston are checking in this afternoon and I want to look my best before the feeding frenzy starts.”

“Reporters?” Alarm bells sounded in Gracie’s head and a rush of adrenaline shot through her. “Already?”

Trina nodded. “She’s got three more checking in tomorrow. And twenty-two members of the Southwest chapter of the Treasure Hunters Alliance. Not to mention, Lyle over at the diner called and said the folks from the Whispering Winds Senior Home stopped by for lunch today. They usually go straight through to Austin for their weekly shopping trip, but one of them read a preview about the documentary in the TV listings and now everybody wants to check out Silas Chisholm’s old stomping grounds. A few of them even brought their gardening trowels for a little digging after lunch.”

“But there’s nothing to find.” According to police reports, the wad of cash from Silas Chisholm’s bank heist had gone up in flames with the man himself.

“That’s what Lyle told them, but you know folks don’t listen. They’d rather think there’s some big windfall just waiting to be discovered.” Which was exactly what the documentary’s host had been banking on when he’d brought up the missing money and stirred a whirlwind of doubt all those years ago.

Maybe the money hadn’t gone up in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, it was still out there waiting to be discovered. To make someone rich.

“I should head over to the diner and set them all straight.”

“Forget it. I saved you a trip and stopped by myself on my way in.” Trina waved a hand. “Bought them all a complimentary round of tapioca, and just like that, they forgot all about treasure hunting. Say, why don’t you come with me to the salon?”

“I can’t. The remodeling crew will be here first thing tomorrow and I promised I’d have everything picked out by then.”

It was a lame excuse, but the last thing she needed was to sit in the middle of a nail salon and endure twenty questions about her impromptu visit with Jesse Chisholm and the impending media circus.

“That and I still need to unpack all the boxes from my old office.”

“Suit yourself, but I’d take advantage of the light schedule between now and inauguration time. You’ll be up to your neck in city business soon enough once you take your oath.”

A girl could only hope.

Trina glanced at her watch and pushed up from her desk. “I’m outta here.” Her gaze snagged on the phone and she smiled. “Right after I hook you up with Mr. Wrong, that is.”

She punched in a number on the phone. “Hey, Sally. It’s Trina over at the mayor’s office. Is Chase in?...The mayor-elect would like to invite him to be her escort for the inauguration ceremony....What? He’s hosting a pottery class right now?...No, no, don’t interrupt him. Just tell him the mayor-elect called and wants to sweep him off his feet....Yeah, yeah, she loves pottery, too....”

Gracie balled her fingers to keep from pressing the disconnect button, turned and headed for the closed door. A date with Chase was just what she needed. He was perfect. Upstanding. Respectable. Boring.

She ignored the last thought and picked up her steps. Hinges creaked and she found herself in the massive office space that would soon be the headquarters of Lost Gun’s new mayor.

Under normal circumstances, the new mayor moved into the old mayor’s office, but just last week the city had approved budget changes allocating a huge amount to renovate the east wing of City Hall, including the massive space that had once served as a courtroom. Gracie was the first new face they’d elected in years and change was long overdue. She was getting a brand-new office and reception area, as well as her own private bathroom.

Everything had been cleared out and the floors stripped down to the concrete slab. A card table sat off to one side. Her laptop and a spare phone sat on top, along with a stack of paint colors and flooring samples and furniture selections all awaiting her approval. A stack of boxes from her old office filled a nearby corner.

She drew a deep steadying breath and headed for the boxes to decide what to keep and what to toss.

A half hour later she was halfway through the third box when she unearthed a stack of framed pictures. She stared at the first. The last rays of a hot summer’s day reflected on the calm water of Lost Gun Lake and a smile tugged at her lips. She could still remember sitting on the riverbank, the grass tickling her toes as she waited for the perfect moment when the lighting would be just right. She’d taken the photograph her freshman year in high school for a local competition. She hadn’t won. The prize—a new Minolta camera—had gone to the nephew of one of the judges, who’d done an artsy shot of a rainy day in black-and-white film.

A lesson, she reminded herself. Photography was a crapshoot. Some people made it. Some didn’t. And so she’d given it up for something steady. Reliable.

If only her brother had done the same.

But instead, he’d enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday, just weeks after their parents had died. He’d gone on to spend four years on the front lines in Iraq while she and Charlie had tried to make a new life in Lost Gun with Uncle E.J. and Aunt Cheryl. But it had never felt quite right.

It had never felt like home.

Her aunt and uncle had been older and set in their ways—acting out of duty rather than love—and so living with them had felt like living in a hotel.

Cold.

Impersonal.

And so Gracie had made up her mind to leave right after graduation, to make her own way and forget the tragedy that had destroyed her family. She’d snapped picture after picture and dreamed of bigger and better things far away from Lost Gun. But then Jackson had died and Charlie had become clingy and fearful. She’d followed Gracie everywhere, even into bed at night, terrified that fate would take her older sister the way it had snatched up their brother.

Gracie couldn’t blame her. She’d felt the same crippling fear when their parents had died. She’d reached out for Jackson, but he’d left and so she’d had no one to soothe the uncertainty, to give her hope.

She stuffed the framed picture back inside the box, along with a dozen others that had lined the walls of her city planner’s office, and reached for a Sharpie. Once upon a time, she’d hated the idea of tossing them when they could easily serve as cheap decoration, and so she’d kept them.

No more.

With trembling fingers, she scribbled Storage on the outside and moved on to the next box loaded with old files.

She rifled through manila folders for a full thirty minutes before she found herself thinking about Jesse and how good he’d looked and the way he’d smelled and—

Ugh. She needed something to get her mind back on track.

Maybe a brownie or a cupcake or a frosted cookie—

She killed the dangerous thought, grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Forget waiting on Trina. She would head out and check on Big Earl herself, and she wouldn’t—repeat, would not—stop at the bakery on the way. She’d cleaned up her eating habits right along with everything else when she’d decided to play it safe and stop being so wild and reckless.

And safe meant looking both ways when she crossed the street and wearing her seat belt when she climbed behind the wheel and eating right. She had her health to think of and so she followed a strict low-carb, low-sugar, low-fat diet high in protein and fiber. That meant no brownies, no matter how desperate the craving.

No sirree, she wasn’t falling off the wagon.

Not even if Jesse himself stripped naked right in front of her and she desperately needed something—anything—to sate her hunger and keep her hands off of him.

Okay, so maybe if he stripped naked.

A very vivid image of Jesse pushed into her thoughts and she saw him standing on the creek bed, the moonlight playing off his naked body. Her lips tingled and her nipples tightened and she picked up her steps.

No naked and no brownies.

4

GRACIE PULLED TO a stop in front of the bakery over an hour later and killed the engine.

She wasn’t going to blow her diet with a brownie. She was headed straight for the health food store next door and a carob cookie with tofu frosting or a bran muffin with yogurt filling or something. A healthy alternative with just a teeny tiny ounce of sweetness to help steady her frantic heartbeat after the visit to Big Earl’s place.

She hadn’t actually had a face-to-face with the man himself, but she had come this close to being ripped to shreds by his dogs.

Charlie would freak fifty ways till Sunday if she found out. Luckily, she’d moved into the dorms at the University of Texas last year and so Gracie didn’t have to worry about explaining the ripped hem of her skirt or the dirt smears on her blouse. At least not until this weekend when her little sis came home for her weekly visit and caught wind of the gossip.

If she came home.

She’d canceled the past three weeks in a row with one excuse after the other—she was studying; she had a date; she wanted to hit the latest party.

Not that Gracie was counting. She knew Charlie would much rather go out with friends than make homemade pizza with her older sister. Charlie was growing up, pulling away, and that was good. Still, when her little sister finally did make it home, Gracie would be here.

She would always be here.

Because that’s what home meant. It was permanent. Steady. Reliable.

Her gaze swiveled to the two old men nursing a game of dominoes in front of the hardware store directly across the street.

At ninety-three, Willard and Jacob Amberjack were the oldest living twins in the county. And the nosiest.

She debated making a quick trip home to change, but that would put her back at the health food store after hours and she needed something now—even something disgustingly healthy.

She drew a deep breath, braced herself for the impending encounter and climbed out of her car.

“Don’t you look like something the dog just dragged in,” Jacob called out the moment her feet touched pavement. “What in tarnation happened to you?”

“Was it a hit-and-run?” Willard leaned forward in his rocking chair. “Was it a car? A truck? Or maybe you got molested.” He pointed a bony finger at his brother. “I been tellin’ Jacob here that the world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket.”

“It wasn’t a hit-and-run. And I wasn’t molested,” she rushed on, eager to set the record straight before their tongues started wagging. “I was just cleaning out my office and I snagged my skirt on a loose nail.”

“You sure? ’Cause there’s no shame if’n’ you was molested. Things happen. Why, old Myrtle Nell over at the VFW hall accosted me just last night on account of I’m the best dancer in the place and she really wanted to waltz. Had to let her down easy and I can tell you, she was none too happy about it. Poor thing headed straight home, into a bottle of Metamucil. Ain’t heard from her since.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Damn straight. Everybody knows there ain’t no substitute for good ole-fashioned prune juice.”

O-kay. “Enjoy your game, fellas.” Before they could launch into any more speculation, Gracie put her back to the curious old men and stepped up onto the curb.

“Afternoon, Miss Gracie.”

“Hey there, Miss Gracie.”

“See you at the church bake sale tomorrow, Miss Gracie.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she told the trio of women who exited the bake shop, glossy pink boxes clutched in their manicured hands.

The youngest one, a thirtyish soccer mom by the name of Carleen Harwell, held up two of the boxes that emanated a yummy smell. “Sarah donated ten dozen Rice Krispies Treats.”

“Excellent.” She waved as the women headed down the street and said hello to a few more people passing by before turning her attention to the display case that filled the massive storefront window. Dozens of pies lined the space, along with a sign that read It’s Pick Your Pie Tuesday!

Not that she was going to pick a pie. Or a cake. Or anything else tempting her from the other side of the glass. But looking... There suddenly seemed nothing wrong with that.

“Go for the chocolate meringue.”

The deep, familiar voice vibrated along her nerve endings. Heat whispered along her senses. Her stomach hollowed out.

“Or the Fudge Ecstasy. That’s one of my personal favorites.”

Excitement rippled up her spine, followed by a wave of oh, no because Jesse James Chisholm was the last person she needed to see right now.

He was the reason she was so worked up in the first place. So anxious. And desperate. And hungry.

Really, really hungry.

Run! her gut screamed. Before you do something stupid like turn around and talk to him.

“If memory serves—” the words slid past her lips as she turned “—you were always partial to cherry.” So much for listening to her instincts. “In fact, I seem to recall you wolfing down an entire cherry cobbler at the Travis County Fair and Rodeo.” She didn’t mean to bring up their first date, but her mouth seemed to have a mind all its own. “With two scoops of ice cream on the side.”

“Miss Hazel’s prizewinning cobbler,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips as the memory surfaced. “That woman sure can bake.”

“So can Sarah.” Gracie motioned to the display case and the golden lattice-topped cherry pie sitting center stage. Inside gold certificates and blue ribbons lined a nearby wall, along with an autographed picture of Tom Cruise in his Risky Business heyday. “So why the switch to chocolate?”

“When I was laid up after Diamond Dust, Billy thought he’d cheer me up with some fresh-picked cherries from Old Man Winthrow’s tree. I ate the entire basket in one sitting and made myself sick. I’ve been boycotting ever since.”

“I don’t do chocolate,” she announced. She didn’t mean to keep the conversation going. She had a strict no-talk policy where Jesse was concerned. And a no-closeness policy, too. Because when she got too close, she couldn’t help but talk.

Which explained why she’d avoided him altogether for the past twelve years.

No talking. No touching. No kissing. No—

“I mean, I like chocolate—brownies, in particular,” she blurted, eager to do something with her mouth that didn’t involve planting a great big one smack-dab on his lips, “but I don’t actually eat any.”

“What happened to the Hershey’s-bar-a-day habit?”

“I kicked it. I’m into healthy eating now. No Hershey’s bars or brownies or anything else with processed sugar. I’m headed to the health food store.” She motioned to the sign shaped like a giant celery stalk just to her left. “They make an all-natural apple tart. It has a cornflake crust. It’s really delicious.”

“Cornflakes, huh?” He didn’t look convinced.

She couldn’t blame him. She remembered the small sample she’d tasted the last time she’d been inside the Green Machine and her throat tightened. “Delicious might be pushing it. But it’s decent.” She shrugged. “Besides, deprivation is good for the soul. It builds character.”

“It also makes you more likely to blow at the first sign of temptation.”

And how.

Twelve years and counting.

“Everything all right, Miss Gracie?” Jacob Amberjack’s voice carried across the street and drew her attention.

“It’s fine.” She waved at the old man and his brother.

“’Cause if that there feller’s the one what assaulted you, Willard here would be happy to come over there and defend your honor.”

“I didn’t assault her,” Jesse told the two men.

The old man glared. “Tell it to the judge, Chisholm.”

“No one’s telling anything to anyone, because nothing happened,” Gracie said.

“That ain’t the way we see it,” the two men said in unison.

“I’d give it a rest if I were you,” Jesse advised.

“We ain’t afraid of you, Chisholm. There might be snow on the roof, but there’s plenty of fire in the cookstove. Willard here—” Jacob motioned next to him “—will rip you a new one—”

“How come I’m the one who always has to do the rippin’?” Willard cut in. “Hell’s bells, I can barely move as it is. You know I got a bad back.”

“Well, I got bunions.”

“So? You ain’t fightin’ with your feet....”

The two men turned their focus to each other and Gracie’s gaze shifted back to Jesse. She expected the anger. The hatred. He’d been big on both way back when, particularly when it came to the citizens of Lost Gun. He’d hated them as much as they’d hated him, and he’d never been shy about showing it.

Instead of hard, glittering anger, she saw a flash of pain, a glimmer of regret, and she had the startling thought that while he looked every bit the hard, bulletproof cowboy she remembered so well, there was a softening in his gaze. His heart.

As if Jesse actually cared what the two old men had said to him.

As if.

No, Jesse James Chisholm didn’t give two shakes what the fine people of Lost Gun thought about him. He hated the town and he always would.

Meanwhile, she was stuck smack-dab in the middle of it.

She ignored the depressing thought and searched for her voice. “So, um, what are you doing here?”

He motioned to the bridal salon just two doors down. “I have to see a man about a tux. I’m Pete’s right hand.”

“I didn’t mean here as in this location. I meant—” she motioned between them “—here. You couldn’t wait to get away from me earlier. Now you’re standing here having a conversation. Because?”

He frowned, as if he didn’t quite understand it any more than she did. “You caught me at a bad time, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to warn you before the reporters beat me to it.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I just thought you should know...” Her gaze snapped up. “What did you just say?”

“It’s not about what I just said. It’s about what I should have said earlier.” His gaze caught and held hers. “Thanks for giving me the heads-up.” Where she’d missed the gratitude that morning, there was no mistaking the sentiment now. “Motives aside, you warned me and I am grateful.”

“Me, too.” When he gave her a questioning look, she added, “For the flowers that you sent when my brother died. I should have said thank you back then. I didn’t.”

“I’m really sorry about what happened to him.”

“It was his choice.” She shrugged. “He enlisted. He knew the risks, but he took them anyway.”

“Seems to me,” he said after a long moment, “he died doing something he believed in. I can’t think of a better way to go myself.”

Neither could she at that moment and oddly enough, the tightness in her chest eased just a fraction. “If you’re not careful, you’ll be following in his footsteps. That was a hard fall you took back at the arena.”

A wicked grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “The harder, the better.”

“I’m talking about riding.”

“So am I, sugar.” The grin turned into a full-blown smile. “So am I.” The words were like a chisel chipping away at the wall she’d erected between them. Even more, he stared deep into her eyes and for a long moment, she forgot everything.

The nosy men sitting across the street. The endless stream of people walking past. The all-important fact that she needed to get a move on if she meant to get inside the health food store before they closed.

He made her feel like the only woman in the world.

Which was crazy with a big fat C.

He was flirting, for heaven’s sake. Just the kind of sexy, seductive innuendo she would expect from one of the hottest bachelors on the PBR circuit.

It wasn’t as if he wanted to sweep her up and ride off into the sunset. This wasn’t about her personally. She was simply one of many in a long, long line of women who lusted after him, and he was simply living up to his reputation.

Just as she should be living up to hers.

She stiffened. “It was nice to see you, but I really should get going. I’ve got a ton of work back at City Hall.”

“Duty calls, right?”

Her gaze collided with his and she could have sworn she saw a glimmer of disappointment before it disappeared into the vivid violet depths. “Always.”

And then she turned and hurried toward the Green Machine before she did the unthinkable—like wrap her arms around him, hop on and ride him for a scorching eight seconds in front of God and the Amberjack twins.

She would have done just that prior to her brother’s death, but she was no longer the rebellious teenager desperate to flee the confines of her small town.

She was mature.

Responsible.

Safe.

If only that thought didn’t depress her almost as much as the skinny treats that waited for her inside the health food store.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

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