A Cowboy for Keeps

Book 3: Chestnut Creek

by Laura Drake

Genres: Siblings; Small Town & Rural; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

From a "fabulous new voice in romantic fiction" ( NYT bestselling author Lael Miller): an arrogant cowboy meets a headstrong woman determined to take custody of his niece, only to realize that she may be the family he was always searching for. There's not much that could rattle a cowboy like Reese St. James. But when his twin brother dies in a car accident, Reese is stunned to discover he has a six-month old niece, Sawyer. Wanting to make up for lost time, Reese heads down to Unforgiven, New Mexico, to bring her home. He doesn't plan on Sawyer's guardian giving him any trouble, but the intriguing, independent woman is turning out to be more than he bargained for. Lorelei West had given up hope of having a family of her own until her sister's tragic death brought little Sawyer into her life. And now there's no way she's going to let Reese take her away. Lorelei knows hotshot, good-looking cowboys like him -- she's dated enough of them -- and she intends to stand her ground. Yet the more time Reese and Lorelei spend together, the harder it is to deny the attraction building between them. But opening their hearts to a baby is one thing -- can they also open their hearts to the possibility of a happily-ever-after?

Release date: July 28, 2020

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter 1

Lorelei

It’s been the normal crazy-hectic twelve-hour Saturday at the Chestnut Creek Café, and I’m beat.

Nevada, our cook, ducks her head into my office. “See you on Monday, Lorelei.”

“Enjoy your day off. Say ‘hey’ to Fish for me.”

“Will do.” She waves and the door falls closed. I’m glad Nevada’s happy. Of course I am. She and Joseph “Fishing Eagle” King may be total opposites, but they fit together like layers of a Kit Kat bar.

My sister, Patsy, has her pick of cowboys on the rodeo circuit. Carly has Austin and her baby (soon to be babies). Nevada has Fish, and I…I’m just blue tonight, I guess. I shut down the computer and pull my saddlebag-size purse from the drawer. I’m proud that our railroad-station-turned-café is the social hub of Unforgiven. I’m proud to be the manager, feeding hungry people. It’s a good, clean, honest job. Maybe not the job I dreamed of when I was young, but I like it. I just wish sometimes that I weren’t so…invisible.

I’m a human golden retriever: loving, loyal, dependable. But in my experience, humans with those traits tend to go unnoticed. The dogs, on the other hand, people find adorable.

I walk through the pristine kitchen and push through the swinging door into the diner. The streetlight outside makes little inroads in the room’s deep shadows. In the quiet, the earworm that’s floated through my head all night cranks up, an old melancholy song of yearning and broken hearts. I raise my arms and waltz with a shadow partner across the floor. I try to imagine his face, but of course, a shadow man has none. It’s better that way. Shadow men can’t let you down.

My feet slow, and I drop my arms. My dream of competitive ballroom dancing died years ago, along with my hope of romance, after my great love affair ended with Prince Charming turning into a married, smooth-talking loser. See, happily-ever-afters only happen to stray golden retrievers, not their human counterparts.

That’s okay. Let everyone else have the messy love lives: the heartache, the loss, the pain. I’ll stay above that fray, thank you very much. I have friends. But the last time I had a date, we had a different president. I have so little time for whatever single people do for fun that I sometimes feel like I’m watching life from behind a pane of glass.

But I’m the one who installed the glass. When you put your young heart into the hands of a casual liar the first time, you scrutinize men’s hands after that. I sure didn’t plan to be single at thirty-seven, with no hope of a partner or babies. But the years slipped away, and here I am.

Talking to myself.

“Stop it, Lorelei. You sound whiny. You’re not a whiner.” I take the few steps to the door, unlock it. “Besides, Momma’s waiting.” I step out and lock the door behind me.

Unforgiven doesn’t literally roll up the sidewalks after dark, but if they did, no one would notice. Everyone is home with their families. I drive from the light of one streetlamp to the next, past dark stores, far too many with windows dressed in butcher paper. The square and its dingy gazebo look tired and a bit spooky this time of night. Unforgiven is miles off the interstate, and we’ve struggled since the railroad shut down years ago. Sure, some tourists come through, but fewer every year. Route 66 means nothing to Gen Z.

I turn off the town square and head for home. No streetlights out here to break the vast blackness of a New Mexico summer night. The only beacons are safety lights on poles and outbuildings. Three miles out, I stop at the mailbox with WEST on the side, with the little yellow tube below for the Unforgiven Patriot. Just the usual flyers and bills. I’m silly to think my sister would write when she doesn’t answer calls or texts, but still there’s that little letdown every time I open the box.

Patsy’s living an exciting rodeo-road life. That life isn’t for me, but it would be nice to get a glimpse of it now and again—from a safe distance, of course. Living vicariously would suit me just fine.

The headlights of my old Smart car sweep the house, highlighting that it needs a coat of paint—or three. But I have no time, and there’s no money to pay someone to do it. Besides, if I had the money, it’d go for a new roof. The warm light from the kitchen spills onto the porch, raising my smile. That light has welcomed me home every one of my thirty-seven years. Well, since I was old enough to leave it, anyway.

The screen door shushes over the lintel, and home wraps around me with the smell of meat loaf and the sound of laughter.

“That piece doesn’t go there, Mary.”

“Yes it does, see?”

“No, you can’t force it. You know better than that.”

I cross the worn linoleum to the living room. Mom and Mrs. Wheelwright are at the card table, putting together their latest jigsaw puzzle.

“What’s up, ladies?”

Mom’s small, dried-apple face comes up, wreathed in smiles. “Oh, Patsy’s home!” She stands and, ignoring her walker, shuffles over and throws her arms around me. I hug her back, inhaling her dusting-powder scent, choking back the sticky wad of disappointment in my throat. “It’s Lorelei, Momma.”

She backs up enough to look into my face, a wrinkle of worry between her brows. “When is Patsy coming home?”

“Don’t know, Momma.”

“Mary, I need help. Can you find where this piece goes?”

Momma totters off, Patsy forgotten. For now.

Mrs. Wheelwright gives me a small, sad smile. She is a godsend, staying days with Momma for next to nothing. She’s only a few years younger than my mother, but she’s a former nurse and says she’s happy to help out. I think she wants to escape her too-quiet house since her husband passed last year. I blow her a kiss and wander back to the kitchen to get dinner finished and on the table.

Momma mistaking me for Patsy usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight it does. I have been the constant in Momma’s life even before her stroke two years ago. I’ve stayed in Unforgiven, kept up the house, worked to pay the bills, and taken care of her.

Still, she longs for Patsy.

Not that I blame her. My younger sister got all the charm, looks, and glitter—everyone’s favorite. I don’t begrudge her that—I’m right there in her pack of admirers. You can’t not like Patsy. She’s so full of herself, and confidence, and…life. She lights up the room when she walks in, and when her focus is on you, you feel special, smart, important.

I pull on the worn oven mitts and take the meat loaf pan from the oven, setting it on the back of the stove to cool. I cross to the pantry by the back door, reach behind the gingham curtain, and pull out the Potato Buds without looking. They’ve been on the same shelf, always. It would be great if Patsy could make it home sometime. The last time we saw her was after Momma’s stroke. But she was antsy and made more work than she helped. My sister is many great things, but a caregiver isn’t one of them. Within the week, she was gone, back on the road with her latest cowboy boyfriend. And except for a sporadic text or two, checking on Momma, nothing since. But I know she cares. We love each other in this family—it’s our superpower.

I pour the tea, finish whipping the potatoes, and move everything to the table. “Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Wheelwright starts dinner, I finish it—that’s the deal. When they’re seated, we hold hands, I say a quick prayer over the food, then pass the plates.

After dinner, when Mrs. Wheelwright has left and I’ve gotten Momma into her nightgown and in bed, I sit in her rocker and pick up the book we’ve been waiting to start. Reading is beyond Momma now, but she loves to be read to. I enjoy it, too; it calms me, helping me put the day down, relaxing my mind for sleep.

Momma loves all romance, but ever since I happened on a sci-fi romance last year, she’s been hooked on intergalactic love battles. I picked up this one by Fae Rowen at the library. “You ready, Momma?”

She fists her hands on the sheet and nods, her eyes bright. Her stroke mostly affected her mind, making her childlike and apt to forgetting. Her face is as full of delight as a ten-year-old’s—in bad need of ironing. I lean over and kiss her forehead. “Do you know how much I love you?”

“I love you too, dear.” She pats my face. “Where would I be without you?”

“Well, you’ll never have to find out, so you settle in.” I turn to the first page. “‘O’Neill never expected a glorious red and purple sunset to be her enemy…’”

* * *

I love late spring for a lot of reasons, but especially because I can drive to work on a Monday with the sun coming up over the Sandia Mountains.

The opening notes of “Amarillo by Morning” ping from my phone. If this is our busboy calling in sick, I swear…“Hello?”

“Is this Lorelei West?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Officer Beaumont, New Mexico State Police. Do you know a Patsy Lynn West?”

“What?” My hand jerks, and the car takes a sharp swerve. My heart beats timpani in my ears; my blood swirls in a dizzying storm surge. I pull off the road, skid to a stop in the gravel, and throw the car into park. “She’s my sister. What—”

“Ma’am. I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I need to inform you there was a vehicular accident last night—”

“Where?”

“Out on Highway 10—”

“No, where are you calling from? What city?”

“Oh, Las Cruces. Ma’am, I’m so sorry to inform you, but your sister died on the way to the hospital last night.”

I’m dreaming. I’m in my bed, and this is just a nightmare, probably from the chilis in the meat loaf—

“Ma’am? Are you there?”

“Yes.” The word comes out on an emphysemic wheeze.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am, but I need to know—”

“You’re sorry?” The word spirals up as pounding blood spreads over my vision in a red-tinged haze. “Where do you get off, calling at”—I check the clock on the dash, like the time of day could make the least bit of difference—“five a.m. to tell me you’re sorry?” My shout echoing off the windshield slaps me, making me realize I could be a tad hysterical.

“Ma’am.”

I heave in a lungful of air and come back to myself. “No, I’m sorry. Give me a second here.” My arm loses function, and the phone drops to my lap. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m not dreaming. Patsy is…gone. A picture flashes, of the last time I saw her. She gave me a hug and a dazzling smile, told me she loved me to pieces. Then she hopped in her truck, threw me a kiss in the rearview, and dust billowing, rode into the sunset.

If I’d had any inkling of the future, I’d still be holding on to her, even though she’d be kicking and screaming; she loved the excitement of the next rodeo down the road. How could she be gone for good? Forever? I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate universe. Because this world has my baby sister in it.

“Ma’am? Ms. West?”

When I become aware of a faraway chirping, I realize I’ve been hearing it for a while. The phone weighs a ton when I lift it to my ear. “I’m here.”

“I am truly sorry, ma’am. I just need to know what you plan to do about the baby, since neither the mother nor the father survived the accident.”

I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. Either I am sleeping, or he’s crazy. Or maybe both. “What are you talking about?”

“Your sister’s baby.”

“You’re telling me Patsy had a baby.” Yeah, sleeping. This has the same tilted, off-the-rails feel to it. I dig my nails into my palm hard enough to draw blood. Funny, I never felt pain in a dream bef—

“Yes, ma’am. A”—papers shuffle—“Sybil Renfrow was apparently babysitting and called us when Ms. West didn’t return.” For the first time, his voice shifts from administrative to human. “I know this is a shock, but if you don’t want custody of the baby, I need to let Social Services know. Are you aware of any other—”

“Stop! Stop right there!” My brain does a slow, sluggish turn from the past to the present. “I’ll be there, okay? I’m on my way.” I check the clock again. “I’ll be there by lunchtime. I’ll take the baby. Text your address to my phone. You called me, so you have the number.”

“I do.”

“And, sir?” I take a breath. “How old is the baby? Do you know its name?”

More rustling. “Six months old, ma’am. Her name is Sawyer. Sawyer West.”

Somehow knowing her name makes this real. A baby.

Oh, Patsy.

Chapter 2

Lorelei

I hang up and sit, trying to absorb what is unabsorbable. My baby sister, dead. All that beauty, that love of life, all that potential. Why on earth didn’t she tell us she had a baby?

It’s wrong to hate the dead, but I’m powerless to halt the searing, self-righteous fury that takes over my body, rattling my bones and putting the taste of bile in my mouth. Six months. For six months I didn’t know there was a baby on the planet that shared my blood. My DNA.

“Sawyer.” I try it out on my tongue.

A big truck blows by, and Einstein rocks on his shocks. I’m wasting time. I jerk myself from my anger and force my mind to work. Oh God, Momma. I’m going to have to tell Momma. Somehow.

First things first. I focus on the red-brown mountains in the distance. How can the view be the same as before the phone call that changed everything? I lift my phone and hit speed dial.

“Lorelei, hi. I was just getting Faith up.”

“Carly. I need your help.” My voice sounds shocky, like I was the one in a car wreck.

“What’s wrong? Oh no, not your momma?”

“Not Momma. Patsy. Carly, Patsy’s dead.” The words are cracked, like broken chunks of granite falling into my lap. Saying it out loud just made this high-def real.

“What?” Her voice is shrill. Patsy and Carly were in the same class at Unforgiven High, though they traveled in different circles. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“I just got the call from Las Cruces. There was a car wreck last night. I’m sorry to do this to you when you’re due to deliver soon, but I’ve got to go—”

“Of course you do. Look, you’re in no condition to drive. Come by here, and—”

“Carly, someone has to cover for me at the diner. You going to leave Nevada in charge?”

“Oh, good point. Put her and my nana together and we’d have no customers left. I’ll go in.”

“I’m so sorry to ask. Your feet will swell, and—”

“Are you kidding? The regulars will take over, just like they did after I fainted in the middle of the dinner rush the night Faith was born. They won’t let me lift a finger. You go. What else can I do? Wait. Your mom…”

“Mrs. Wheelwright is with her. I’ll call them later.”

“Are you okay, hon?”

Her cottony tone and softer sympathy pull a sob-filled cough from my chest. There’s a wad of something down there. Soft, sticky, and a little nasty—like chewed-up black licorice. I push it deeper. I’ll fall apart when I can afford to. “There’s more, but I can’t talk about it right now. I’ve got to git, Carly.”

“I know, but you call me the minute you hit the Las Cruces city limits, y’hear? I’m going to worry until then. It won’t help, but it’s all I can do.”

I check traffic and take the car out of park. “Don’t you worry, or you’ll end up popping out that baby, and then where’ll we be? I’ll call you later.” I hit End, knowing she’ll understand the hang-up. Thinking about any baby makes my voice wobble, and I can’t afford that right now.

Tossing the phone in the passenger seat, I check the mirror and ease onto the road. Two hundred miles is four hours, but if Einstein holds up, I can make it in three and a half. And God help the cop that stops me. When the message pings, I punch the address into my phone’s program and let the GPS lady tell me what to do. I drive, my vision narrowing to only the pavement unrolling ahead, my thoughts zipping past like the white dashed lines down the middle—here, then gone.

Patsy at four, hair tousled from sleep, opens her faded blue eyes and reaches for me. Will the baby have her eyes? The fight we had when she borrowed my favorite sweater for a date, then hot-water washed it to Barbie-size. How do I tell Momma her daughter is gone? I hope Carly’s okay on her feet today. I still need to call Mrs. Wheelwright. Who was the baby’s father? How can there be a future without my sister in it? I’m so sorry, Patsy.

I’m washed out on a surge of helplessness, into a sea of sadness, and the road shimmers. Stop. Stop. Stop it. Look only at the next thing to be done. Then the next. That’s how you’ll do this. I look at the dashboard. The next thing is gas, or I’m going to have to walk to Las Cruces.

* * *

Reese

Late afternoon, I push back from the desk in my bedroom/office to stretch. My muscles are the good kind of tired from a day of riding and checking the herd. I’ve got to solve the breeding problem. God knows, we’ve got land, but keeping the test herd separate is a challenge.

I glance at the shelf over my desk, to the carved wooden pony, an Appaloosa, painted in pastels, prancing. My mother got it for me when I was just little. It’s one of my favorite remembrances of her—a sepia-tinged memory of her warmth and smile, filled with the scent of her perfume.

Hi, Mom.

My phone buzzes on the desk. A number I don’t recognize. “Reese St. James.”

“Mr. St. James, this is Officer Morales, of the New Mexico State Police. Do you have a brother, Carson St. James?”

What has he gotten into now? “I do. Why?”

“Sir, I’m sorry to inform you…”

The rest is a buzz in my ear as shock, like liquid lead, races through my body. The call is short, just the facts. I hang up, thoughts hitting like shrapnel. How can my twin be dead and I’m still here? Bo would be so pissed; his favorite son is gone, and his least is left—the sole surviving St. James.

I toss clothes in a bag and jog for my Cessna. On the way, I stop to inform my ranch manager, and in minutes I’m in the air, the plane on autopilot, and try to absorb the enormity of what’s happened. I always thought that if my crazy brother died in an accident, it would be a collision with a bull’s head, not a deer. The statie said there was a woman driving—another fatality. Carson always had a taste for the wild ones, and this one did more damage than any bull.

I’m not unfeeling; I’m sure his death will sink in and I’ll mourn. But despite being identical twins, we’ve never been close. I was born considered and deliberate (weak, according to Carson and my father), and my brother lives like his ass is on fire.

Lived.

This news would have killed our father, if he weren’t already dead. Bo “Balls-Out” St. James was bigger than life and believed himself bigger than death, until a massive heart attack a year ago proved him wrong. And if he could talk now, I doubt he’d admit his mistake.

Then it hits me; I’m now the sole owner of Katy Cattle Co. Bo began it before we were born, named it after my mother, and through his bullheadedness, brawn, and (some say) bribery made it into one of the largest cattle ranches in the state. And this is Texas—four hundred thousand acres. A business that big has contingencies to put in motion. I’ve got calls to make, starting with our attorney.

* * *

Lorelei

Three hours, forty-three minutes later, I pull into the state police annex parking lot and sit listening to the wind moan around the window’s worn weather stripping, feeling the push-pull of my wants. Wanting to see Patsy’s baby is a throbbing, bone-deep ache that’s gotten stronger the closer I got to Las Cruces. But pulling open that glass door will mean crossing a barrier, a point of no return, leaving my bigger-than-life sister behind. If I stay here, could it remain not real? Oh, if that were true, I swear I’d sit here until the car rotted out from under me.

Except, there’s a baby. She’s the most innocent victim, and she has to be all that matters right now. I open my door and step out, snatch my purse from the floorboards, and clutch it to my chest like a shield. I force my feet across the tarmac, schooling myself with each step: You can do this. You have to do this. It isn’t about you. Or Momma, or even Patsy. It’s about a baby.

I pull open the door and hike across the dull linoleum to the reception desk. It’s manned by a handsome young man in blue.

“I’m Lorelei West. I’m here about”—focus on what you can handle—“the West baby.”

A line appears between his brows, but when he figures it out, his face falls to official planes. “Could I see some ID, miss?”

He’s just being polite. Thirty-seven is a bit past the “miss” stage. I root in my bag and finally come up with my wallet and flip it open to my license.

He studies it, then me. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. West.”

Not going there. Not now. “Can you tell me where the baby is?”

He shuffles papers. “The bod—um—your sister is at the hospital. You’ll need to go there and fill out paperwork about who to expect to pick up…”

I just stare at him, trying not to think ahead. “The baby?”

“Since you said you’d be here this afternoon, they are keeping her at CYFD.” He pulls off a Post-it and writes. “Here is their address, and the hospital’s. And in case you didn’t know, the passenger in the car also died in the crash.”

“Patsy was driving?”

He looks down at his papers. “Yes. It seems they hit a deer, and she lost control of the vehicle.” He looks up, and his blue eyes find mine. “It doesn’t appear that alcohol was involved, but toxicology reports aren’t back yet.”

I haven’t spared a thought for the passenger. And I can’t right now. “Thank you.” I take the directions and step away from the desk.

“Ma’am?”

I stop.

“They’re running your background check now, and depending, they might release the baby.”

It hadn’t occurred to me I could be going home without the baby. “Depending on what?”

“They’ll have questions for you there.” He points to the note in my hand.

My anger flares, then dies. Of course they have to be sure they’re giving Sawyer to a relative and a good person, not some degenerate. It’s now critical that I hold it together. “Okay, got it.”

My need to see Patsy’s baby propels me to a low-slung building in a not-so-great section of town. I get out and jog to the door, but before I pull it open, I check my shadow in the window and stop to smooth my windblown hair. I don’t want to look unhinged to the decision makers. Thank God they can’t glimpse what’s going on inside. I take a deep breath.

Lord, if you’re not too busy, I could use a hand here.

I pull open the door.

The office is as utilitarian as the DMV, with cubicles marching away into the distance. I tell the receptionist why I’m here, and she buzzes someone, then asks me to have a seat; they’ll be with me in a few.

I sit but can’t keep still. My foot taps and I squirm like a toddler who has to go.

A baby. A shot of adrenaline hits my bloodstream, speeding my heart and weakening my knees.

I gave up hope of a family of my own years ago. I remember my parents when I was young. Loving. Not in big ways, but the small ones that spoke louder: a brush of his hand at her waist when he walked by. Her fixing his collar every morning before he left for work. The way her eyes lit when he walked in the door at the end of the day and said, “There you are.” I’m not sure I ever even saw them kiss, but the love was as plain as the no-smoking sign on the wall in front of me. Daddy knew how to love my momma. I’ve always held out for that.

But I was real about my chances. I’m one of those girls who is so average, I blend in. The beige undertone compared to the bold colors of girls in the high school halls. I’m not saying I don’t have anything to offer. I’m reasonably intelligent, even-keeled and loyal, stead. . .