Going Cowboy Crazy

Book 1: Deep in the Heart of Texas

by Katie Lane

Genres: Mystery; International Crime & Mystery; Romance

Synopsis

Acclaimed romance author Katie Lane inspires listeners to believe in true love. When Faith Aldridge learns she has a twin sister, she treks to Bramble, Texas, to find her. But Bramble’s residents think Faith is her sister, Hope, and they take action to reunite Faith with Hope’s ex-flame, Slate. When the real Hope finally shows up, Faith pulls out all the stops to hold onto her newfound passion.

Release date: May 1, 2011

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 384

Sample

IF YOU THINK MY TRUCK IS BIG…

Faith Aldridge did a double take, but the bold black letters of the bumper sticker remained the same. Appalled, she read through
the rest of the signs plastered on the tail end of the huge truck: DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS; REBEL BORN AND REBEL BRED AND WHEN I DIE I’LL BE REBEL DEAD; I LIVE BY THE THREE B’S: BEER, BRAWLS
AND BROADS; CRUDE RUNS THROUGH MY VEINS.


She could agree with the last one. Whoever drove the mammoth-sized vehicle was crude. And arrogant. And chauvinistic. And a perfect example of the rednecks her aunt Jillian had warned her about. Not that
her aunt Jillian had ever met a redneck, but she’d seen Jeff Foxworthy on television. And that was enough to make her fear
for her niece’s safety when traveling in a state filled with punch lines for the statement—


You might be a redneck if…


You have a bumper sticker that refers to the size of your penis.

The front tire of her Volvo hit yet another pothole, pulling her attention away from the bumper stickers and back to her quest for an empty parking space. There was no defined
parking in the small dirt lot but, even without painted lines, the occupants of the bar had formed fairly neat rows. All except
for the crude redneck whose truck was blatantly parked on the sidewalk by the front door.


Someone should report him to the police.

Someone who wasn’t intimidated by law enforcement officers and didn’t worry about criminal retaliation.

Faith found an empty space at the very end of the lot and started to pull in when she noticed the beat-up door on the Ford
Taurus next to her. Pulling back out, she inched closer to the cinder block wall, then turned off the car, unhooked her seat
belt, and grabbed her purse from beneath her seat.


Ignoring the trembling in her hands, she pulled out the tube of lip gloss she’d purchased at a drugstore in Oklahoma City.
But it was harder to ignore the apprehensive blue eyes that stared back at her from the tiny lit mirror on the visor. Harder,
but not impossible. She liberally coated her lips with the glistening fuchsia of Passion Fruit, a color that didn’t match
her plain brown turtleneck or her conservative beige pants. Or even the bright red high heels she’d gotten at a Payless ShoeSource
in Amarillo when she’d stopped for lunch.


A strong gust of warm wind whipped the curls around Faith’s face as she stepped out of the car. She brushed back her hair
and glanced up. Only a few wispy clouds marred the deep blue of the September sky. Still, it might be a good idea to get her
jacket from the suitcase in the trunk, just in case it got colder when the sun went down. Of course, she didn’t plan on staying
at the bar past dark. In fact, she didn’t plan on staying at the bar at all. Just long enough to get some answers.


After closing the door, she pushed the button on her keychain twice until the Volvo beeped. Then, a few feet away, she pushed
it again just to be sure. One of her fellow computer programmers said she had OCD—Overly Cautious Disorder. Her coworker was
probably right. Although there was nothing cautious about walking into a bar filled with men who paraded their egomaniacal
thoughts on the bumpers of their trucks. But she didn’t have a choice. At seven o’clock on a Saturday night, this was the
only place she’d found open in the small town.


As Faith walked past the truck parked by the door, she couldn’t help but stare. Up close it looked bigger… and much dirtier.
Mud clung to the huge, deep-treaded tires, hung like stalactites from the fender wells, splattered over the faded red paint
and blotchy gray primer of the door, and flecked the side window. A window her head barely reached. And in the heels, she
was a good five-foot-five inches. Well, maybe not five inches. Maybe closer to four. But it was still mind-boggling that a
vehicle could be jacked up to such heights.


What kind of a brute owned it, anyway? Obviously, the kind who thought it went with his large penis. The kind who didn’t think
it was overkill to have not one, but two huge flags (one American and the other who knew) hanging limply from poles on either
side of the back window. A back window that displayed a decal of a little cartoon boy peeing on the Toyota symbol, two blue-starred
football helmet stickers, and a gun rack with one empty slot.


Faith froze.

On second thought, maybe she wouldn’t ask questions at this bar. Maybe she would drive down the main street again and try to find some other place open. Someplace that didn’t
serve alcohol to armed patrons. Someplace where she wouldn’t end up Rebel Dead. Not that she was even close to being a rebel.
Standing in the parking lot of Bootlegger’s Bar in Bramble, Texas, was the most rebellious thing she’d ever done in her life.
If she had a bumper sticker, it would read: CONFORMIST BORN, CONFORMIST BRED, AND WHEN SHE DIES SHE’LL BE CONFORMIST DEAD. But she just didn’t want to be Conformist Dead yet.


Unfortunately, before she could get back to the leather-upholstered security of her Volvo, the battered door of the bar opened
and two men walked out. Not walked, exactly. More like strutted—in wide felt cowboy hats and tight jeans with large silver
belt buckles as big as brunch plates.


Faith ducked back behind the monster truck, hoping they’d walk past without noticing her. Except the sidewalk was as uneven
as the parking lot and one pointy toe of her high heel got caught in a crack, forcing her to grab on to the tailgate or end
up with her nose planted in the pavement. And as soon as her fingers hit the cold metal, an alarm went off—a loud howling
that raised the hairs on her arms and had her stumbling back, praying that at least one of the men was packing so he could
shoot the thing that had just risen up from the bed of the truck.


“For cryin’ out loud, Buster. Shut up.” One of the men shouted over the earsplitting noise.

The howling stopped as quickly as it had started. Shaken, Faith could only stare at the large, four-legged creature. With
its mouth closed, the dog didn’t look threatening as much as… cute. Soulful brown eyes looked back at her from a woolly face.
While she recovered from her scare, it ambled over to the end of the truck and leaned its head out.


Faith stepped back. She wasn’t good with dogs. Or cats, gerbils, birds, hamsters, or fish. Pretty much anything living. She
had a rabbit once, but after only three months in her care, it died of a nervous condition.


“Hope?”

The name spoken by the tall, lean cowboy with the warm coffee-colored skin caused her stomach to drop, and she swiveled around
to look behind her.


No one was there.

“Baby, is that you?” The man’s Texas twang was so thick that it seemed contrived.

Faith started to shake her head, but he let out a whoop and had her in his arms before she could accomplish it. She was whirled
around in a circle against his wiry body before he tossed her over to his friend, who had a soft belly and a chest wide enough
to land a 747.


“Welcome home, Little Bit.” The large man gave her a rough smack on the lips, the whiskers of his mustache and goatee tickling.
He pulled back, and his blue eyes narrowed. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”


“She cut it, you idiot.” With a contagious grin, the lean cowboy reached out and ruffled her hair. “That’s what all them Hollywood
types do. Cut off their crownin’ glory like it’s nothin’ more than tangled fishin’ line.” He cocked his head. “But I guess
it don’t look so bad. It’s kinda cute in a short, ugly kinda way. And I like the color. What’s that called—streakin’?”


The man who still held her in his viselike grip grinned, tobacco juice seeping from the corner of his mouth. “No, Kenny, that’s
what we did senior year.”


“Right.” Kenny’s dark eyes twinkled. “But it’s like streakin’. Tintin’? Stripin’? Highlightin’! That’s it!” He whacked her
on the back so hard she wondered if he’d cracked a rib. “Shirlene did that. But it don’t look as good as yours. She looked
a little like a polecat when it was all said and done. Does she know you’re back? Hot damn, she’s gonna shit a brick when
she sees you. She’s missed you a lot.”


His eyes lost some of their twinkle. “Of course, we all have. But especially Slate.” He grabbed her arm and tugged her toward
the door. “I can’t wait to see his face when he sees you. Of course, he ain’t real happy right now. The Dawgs lost last night—twenty-one
to seven—but I’m sure you’ll put an end to his depression.”


Faith barely listened to the man’s constant chatter as he dragged her through the door and into the dark, smoky depths of
the bar. She felt light-headed, and emotion crept up the back of her throat. Did they really look so much alike that these
men couldn’t tell the difference? It made sense, but it was still hard to absorb. All this time, she thought she was an only
child and to realize…


“Here.” Kenny slapped his black cowboy hat down on her head and tipped it forward. “We don’t want to start a stampede until
Slate gets to see you. Not that anyone would recognize you in that getup.” He shook his head as his gaze slid down her body
to the tips of her high heels. “Please don’t tell me you got rid of your boots, Hope. Gettin’ rid of all that gorgeous hair’s
bad enough.”


Faith opened her mouth with every intention of telling him she never owned a pair of western boots to get rid of, or had long
gorgeous hair, for that matter. But before she could, he tucked her under his arm and dragged her past the long bar and around the crowded dance floor with his friend following obediently behind.


“So how’s Hollywood treatin’ ya?” Kenny yelled over the loud country music, then waved a hand at a group of women who called
out his name. “It’s been way too long since you came for a visit. But I bet you’ve been busy knockin’ them Hollywood directors
on their butts. Nobody can act like our little Hope. You flat killed me when you was Annie in Annie Get Your Gun. Of course, you did almost kill Colt—not that I blame you since he was the one who switched out that blank with live ammo.
But the crowd sure went crazy when you shot out them stage lights. I still get chills just thinkin’ about it.”


Chills ran through Faith’s body as well. Hollywood? Actor? Live ammo? Her mind whirled with the information she’d received
in such a short span of time.


“Yep, things sure ain’t been the same without you. I can barely go into Josephine’s Diner without gettin’ all misty-eyed.
’Course those onions Josie fries up will do that to a person. Still, nobody serves up chicken-fried steak as pretty as you
did. Rachel Dean is a nice old gal, but them man hands of hers can sure kill an appetite.”


Kenny glanced down at her, then stopped so suddenly his friend ran into him from behind. From beneath the wide brim of her
hat, she watched his dark brows slide together.


“Hey, what’s the matter with you, anyway? How come you’re lettin’ me haul you around without cussin’ me up one side and down
the other?”


Probably because Faith didn’t cuss—up one side or down the other. And because she wasn’t a pretty waitress who was brave enough to get on stage and perform in front of a crowd of people. Or move away from the familiarity of home for the bright lights of Hollywood.


Hollywood.

Hope was in Hollywood.

For a second, Faith felt an overwhelming surge of disappointment, but it was quickly followed by the realization that all
the hundreds of miles traveled had not been in vain. This was where Hope had grown up. And where Faith would find answers
to some of the questions that had plagued her for the last year.


Except once Kenny found out she wasn’t Hope, she probably wouldn’t get any more answers. She’d probably be tossed out of the
bar without even a “y’all come back now, ya hear.” She’d become a stranger. An uppity easterner with a weird accent, chopped-off
ugly hair, and not one pair of cowboy boots to her name. A person who was as far from the popular Hometown Hope he’d described
as Faith’s Volvo was from the redneck’s truck.


But what choice did she have? She had never been good at lying. Besides, once she opened her mouth, the truth would be out.
Unless… unless she didn’t open her mouth. Unless she kept her mouth shut and let everyone assume what they would. It wouldn’t
be a lie exactly, more of a fib. And fibs were okay, as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. And who could possibly get hurt if
she allowed these people to think she was someone else for just a little while longer?


Hope wasn’t there.

And Faith wouldn’t be, either, after tonight.

Swallowing down the last of her reservations, she tapped her throat and mouthed, “Laryngitis.”

Those deep eyes grew more puzzled. “Huh?”

“My throat,” she croaked in barely a whisper.


His brows lifted. “Oh! Your throat’s hoarse. Well, that explains it.” He gathered her back against his side and started moving
again. “For a second, I thought I had someone else in my arms besides Miss Hog Caller of Haskins County five years runnin’.”
He chuckled deep in his chest. “ ’Course, Slate’s gonna love this. He always said you talked too much.”


“Hey, Kenny! What ya got there?” A skinny man stepped off the dance floor with a young woman in a tight T-shirt with the words
“Keepin’ It Country” stretched across her large breasts and an even tighter pair of jeans that pushed up a roll of white flesh
over her tooled leather belt.


“None of your damned beeswax, Fletch.” Kenny winked at the young woman. “Hey, Twyla.”

She scowled. “I thought you was goin’ home, Kenny Gene.”

“I was, darlin’, but I have to take care of something first.”

“I got eyes, Kenny. And if this is the somethin’ you need to take care of, then don’t be callin’ me to go to the homecomin’
game with you. I got other plans.”


“Now don’t be gettin’ all bent out of shape, honey,” Kenny yelled at the woman’s retreating back. “Man, that gal’s got a temper,”
he chuckled. “Almost as bad as yours.”


Faith didn’t have a temper. At least not one anyone had witnessed.

“Now don’t go and ruin the surprise, Hope. Let me do all the talkin’.” He shot her a weak grin. “Sorry, I forgot about your
voice. Man, is Slate gonna be surprised.”


For the first time since allowing this man to take charge of her life, Faith started to get worried. Surprises weren’t always well received. Her mother had dropped a surprise
a few months before she passed away, a surprise Faith was still trying to recover from.


But this was different. It sounded like this Slate and Hope had been good friends. He would probably whoop like Kenny had
done, give her a big hug and possibly a little more razor burn—and hopefully a lot more information before she made her excuses
and slipped out the door.


And no one would be the wiser. Except maybe Hope, if she came home before Faith found her. But that wouldn’t happen. Faith
had every intention of finding Hope as soon as possible. She might not be a rebel, but she was tenacious.


Tenacious but more than a little scared when Kenny pulled her inside a room with two pool tables, a gaggle of cowboy hats,
and a sea of blue denim. The light in the room was better but the smoke thicker. The music softer but the conversation louder.
They hesitated by the door for a few seconds as Kenny looked around; then Faith was hauled across the room to the far table
where a man in a crumpled straw cowboy hat had just leaned over to take a shot.


Faith had barely taken note of the strong hand and lean forearm that stretched out of the rolled-up sleeve of the blue western
shirt before Kenny whipped the hat off her head and pushed her forward.


“Lookie what the cat drug in, Slate!”

The loud conversation came to a dead halt, along with Faith’s breath as every eye turned to her. But she wasn’t overly concerned
with the other occupants of the room. Only with the man who lifted his head, then froze with his fingers steepled over the skinny end of the pool cue. He remained that way for what seemed like hours. Or what seemed
like hours to a woman whose knees had suddenly turned as limp as her hat hair.


Someone coughed, and slowly, he lifted his hand from the table and unfolded his body.

He was tall. At least, he looked tall to a woman who wasn’t over five foot four in heels. His chest wasn’t big enough to land
a 747 on but it looked solid enough to hold up a weak-kneed woman. It tapered down to smooth flat cotton tucked into a leather
belt minus the huge buckle. His jeans weren’t tight or pressed with a long crease like most of the men in the room; instead
the soft well-worn denim molded to his body, defining his long legs, muscular thighs, and slim hips.


The hand that wasn’t holding the cue stick lifted to push the misshaped sweat-stained cowboy hat back on his high forehead,
and a pair of hazel eyes stared back at her—a mixture of rich browns and deep greens. The eyes sat above a long, slim nose
that boasted a tiny white scar across the bridge and a mouth that was almost too perfect to belong to a man. It wasn’t too
wide or too small, the top lip peaking nicely over the full bottom.


The corners hitched up in a smile.

“Hog?”

Hog?

Her mind was still trying to deal with the raw sensuality of the man who stood before her; there was no way it could deal
with the whole “hog” thing. Especially when the man leaned his pool cue against the edge of the table and took a step toward
her.


She prepared herself for the loud whoop and the rough manhandling that would follow. But what she was not prepared for was the gentleness of the fingers that slid through her hair,
or the coiled strength of the hand that pulled her closer, or the heat of the body that pressed up against hers. And she was
definitely not prepared for the soft lips that swooped down to bestow a kiss.


It wasn’t a long kiss or even a deep one. It was merely a touch. A teasing brush. A sweep of sweet, moist flesh against startled
gloss. But it was enough. Enough to cause Faith’s heart to bang against her ribs and her breath to leave her lungs.


Wow.

Her hands came up and pressed against the hard wall of his chest in an effort to balance her suddenly tipsy world. Her eyelids,
which she hadn’t even realized she’d closed, fluttered open. Unlike her, he didn’t look passion-drugged. Just cocky and confident.


“Don’t tell me I left you speechless, darlin’.” The words drizzled off his tongue like honey off a spoon, with very little
twang and a whole lot of southern sizzle.


She swallowed hard as Kenny spoke.

“She can’t talk. She’s got that there lar-in-gitis, probably from all that actin’ she’s been doin’.”

A smirk a mile wide spread across Slate’s devastating, handsome face. “Is that so? Well now, ain’t that an interesting state
of affairs.”


“Who cares if she can talk, Coach.” A man behind him yelled. “You call that a welcome-home kiss?”

Two other men joined in.

“Yeah, Slate, I kiss my cousin better than that.”

“That’s ’cause you’re married to her.”

“And you got a problem with that?”

“Shut up, you two,” Kenny said. “Come on, Slate, remind her of what she’s been missin’ out on. Give her the good stuff.”


A look of resignation entered those hazel eyes, a strange bedfellow for the dazzling grin. “Sorry, Hog,” he whispered, right
before he dipped his head for another taste. Except, this time, his lips were slightly parted, and the soft kiss brought with
it the promise of wet heat.


If it hadn’t been a year since she’d been kissed, she probably could’ve ignored the tremor that raced through her body and
the zing that almost incinerated her panties. But it had been a year, a year filled with loss, pain, and revelation. A year
that made a cautious conformist want to be something different. Something more like an arrogant rebel, Miss Hog Caller of
Haskins County, or Annie Oakley with a loaded gun.


Or just a woman who gave a handsome cowboy a kiss he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

With a moan, she threw her arms around his neck, knocking off his cowboy hat and forcing him to stumble back a step. A chorus
of whoops and whistles erupted, but didn’t faze her one-track mind. Not when his lips opened wider, offering up all the good
stuff. Teetering on the tiptoes of her high heels, she drove her fingers up into the silky waves of his hair, encasing his
head and angling it so she had better access to the wet heat of his mouth. She dipped her tongue inside and sipped and tasted.
But it still wasn’t enough.


She wanted to consume this man. Wanted to slide her fingers over every square inch of fevered skin and sculptured muscles.
Wanted to press her nose into the spot between his neck and shoulder and fill her lungs to capacity with the smoky laundry-detergent scent of him. But most of all, she wanted to stare into the rich fertile earth and
endless sea of his eyes and see a reflection of her own desires—her own wants and needs.


Slowly, her eyes drifted open.

But it wasn’t desire she saw in the hazel depths. And it wasn’t cocky satisfaction. This time, it looked more like stunned
disbelief. Obviously, Slate’s relationship with Hope didn’t involve sexual assault.


Stunned by her uncharacteristic behavior, Faith pulled away from his lips and dropped back down to her heels. What had she
been thinking? Had she lost her mind? How could she throw herself at a complete stranger? And not just any complete stranger,
but Hope’s close friend? Her gaze settled on those perfect lips—lips that were slightly parted, wet, and smeared with glittery
Passion Fruit—and it became crystal clear why she had lost her mind. The man was beyond hot. He was one sizzling stick of
yummy, and she was a deprived child with a sweet tooth.


“Thatta way, Hope,” a man on the other side of the pool table yelled. “You can take the girl out of the country but you can’t
take the country out of the girl!”


“Ooooo—wee, Coach! It looks like you was missed,” someone else joined in.

“Does this mean you’re stayin’, Little Bit?” Kenny’s friend stepped closer.

“Stayin’?” A voice came from the back. “With enthusiasm like that, I wouldn’t let that woman out of my sight!”

“Is that true, Slate?” Kenny asked. “You gonna let Hope go back to Hollywood after that kind of greetin’?”

Slate blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Slowly, the shock receded from his eyes, but his shoulders remained tense. He cleared his throat twice before he spoke, but it still didn’t
sound as smooth or confident as it had.


“Well, I guess that depends.”

“Depends on what?” someone asked.

“On whether or not she still likes me after she finds out I let The Plainsville Panthers whup our butts.”

The room erupted in laughter, followed quickly with grumbled comments about hometown refs. Then a man with a huge belly and
an even bigger handlebar mustache pushed his way over.


“All right, you’ve had your turn, Slate. Give someone else a chance to welcome our girl home.”

For a fraction of a second, those hazel eyes narrowed, and the hands at her waist tightened. But then he released her and
she was passed from one big bear hug to the next, accompanied with the greeting “Welcome home, Hope.”


She wasn’t Hope.

But, strangely enough, it felt like home.

SLATE CALHOUN SAT BACK IN THE DARK CORNER and watched the woman in the conservative pants and brown sweater take another sip of her beer as if it was teatime at Buckingham
Palace. Hell, she even held her little pinkie out. If that was Hope Scroggs, then he was Prince Charles. And he was no pansy
prince.


Still, the resemblance was uncanny.

The impostor swallowed and wrinkled up her cute little nose. A nose that was the exact duplicate of Hope’s. And so were the
brows that slanted over those big blue eyes and the high cheekbones and that damned full-lipped mouth. A mouth that had fried
his brain like a slice of his aunt’s green tomatoes splattering in hot bacon grease.


The kiss was the kicker. Slate never forgot a kiss. Never. And the few kisses he’d shared with Hope hadn’t come close to the
kiss he’d shared with this woman. Hope’s kisses had always left him with a strange uncomfortable feeling; like he’d just kissed
his sister. It had never left him feeling like he wanted to strip her naked and devour her petite body like a contestant in
a pie-eating contest.


But if the woman wasn’t Hope, then who the hell was she?


He’d heard of people having doubles—people who weren’t related to you but looked a lot like you. He’d even seen a man once
who could pass for George W. in just the right lighting. But this woman was way past a double. She was more like an identical
twin. And since he’d known Hope’s family ever since he was thirteen, he had to rule out the entire twin thing. Hope had two
younger sisters and a younger brother. And not one of them was a lookalike whose kisses set your hair on fire.


The woman laughed at something Kenny said, and her head tipped back, her entire face lighting up. He’d seen that laugh before,
witnessed it all through high school and off and on for years after. Hell, maybe she was Hope. Maybe his lips had played a trick on him. Maybe he was so upset about losing last night’s game that he wasn’t thinking
straight. Or maybe, it being a year since her last visit, he was so happy to see her that he read something in the kiss that
wasn’t there.


It was possible. He’d been under a lot of stress lately. Football season could do crazy things to a man’s mind. Especially
football season in West Texas. Which was why he had planned a two-week Mexican vacation after the season was over. Just the
thought of soft rolling waves, warm sand, and cool ocean breezes made the tension leave his neck and shoulders.


What it didn’t do was change his mind about the woman who sat on top of the bar with her legs crossed—showing off those sexy
red high heels. Hope didn’t cross her legs like that. And she hated high heels. She also hated going to the beauty salon,
which was why her lon. . .