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Synopsis
She never wanted to love a cowboy …
Madeline Harper was a city girl through and through—until she met a rodeo cowboy and didn’t look back. Rodeo king Tanner Callen doesn’t want to be tied down. When he sees Madeline at a local honky-tonk bar and everything about her screams New York, he brings out every trick in his playbook to take her home. But soon he learns that one night is not enough and instead—hopes for forever.
Release date: July 5, 2016
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Print pages: 144
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Learning to Ride
Erin Knightley
Chapter 1
Staring at the rough-and-tumble, straight-out-of-an-eighties-movie roadhouse bar before her, Madeline Harper couldn’t help but reconsider her decision to come here at all. Clearly the echoing silence of the past few days was messing with her sanity.
Neon pink and blue signs buzzed and flickered from the darkened windows at the front, proclaiming the names of several brands of beer she didn’t recognize, while a larger white neon sign proudly spelled out the bar’s name: THE REBEL YELL.
God help her.
At any sane point in her life, she would have turned around, gotten back into her tidy little white two-door BMW, and driven back to her motel room. She would have opened a nice bottle of wine, slipped into her favorite boutique pajamas, and gotten lost in a good book.
However, after doing exactly that every night this week inside the world’s sleepiest motel in the world’s quietest town, well, she needed noise. And people. And energy. She had no illusions about finding the same sort of beautiful, chaotic bustle she was used to back home in New York City. In a town where exactly one place of business was open past eight o’clock on a Thursday night, The Rebel Yell would have to do.
And really, it wasn’t all bad. The parking lot was surprisingly full. While definitely honky-tonk-esque, the building was at least in decent repair, with fresh wooden railings lining the three steps to the door. Best of all, the lively din of music and laughter emanating from within were the first signs of real life she’d seen in a week.
People, music, drinks—not that different from a club in NYC, after all. And she had wanted to do Texas right, hadn’t she? At least that’s what she and her friends had joked about when she’d learned of her promotion and transfer to tiny Sunnybell, Texas, only weeks ago.
They had all crowed with laughter over their caramel appletinis after Aisha had declared Madeline must send pictures of the first cowboy she encountered. “Bonus points if he’s wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a smile.”
She grinned now thinking about it. She wasn’t the type to pick up some random cowboy—or random banker, stockbroker, or bartender, for that matter—but the memory did lighten her mood enough for her to push past her misgivings. Drawing a fortifying breath, she squared her shoulders, climbed the stairs, and pushed through the saloon-style louvered doors.
The place was dark and smoky but full of life. She scanned the room as she made her way to the bar, trying not to look like too much of a tourist. The walls were made of rough-hewn planks and covered in lassos, bridles, old pictures, and beer signs. Something told her this wasn’t the replica stuff you saw on the walls of some of those chain restaurants. Just like the cowboys at the bar weren’t the kind from a Hollywood set.
Everything about the place seemed genuine.
The building itself was actually pretty big, with tall tables lining one wall, pool tables along another, and a stage all the way at the back. A country-western band, complete with bolo ties, cowboy hats, and boots, belted out a rowdy dance rendition of a song she vaguely recognized.
But it was the boxing-ring-sized corral in the center of the building that really caught her eye. There, an honest-to-God mechanical bull swung back and forth, dipping and bucking as a laughing woman with big hair and tiny shorts held on for dear life. The ring was surrounded on all sides by beer-drinking spectators, all of whom were laughing and cheering her on.
“Ride ’em, Amber,” a woman shouted as she bumped past Madeline with two bottles of beer. “Show that steer who’s boss!”
Madeline wasn’t sure if Amber was winning or losing, but her boobs sure looked great in the process, which was probably the point. More power to her, Madeline thought as she stopped in front of the bar. It didn’t matter that the music was completely foreign or that the crowd looked like extras in a country music video—when it came to attracting the opposite sex, it seemed the mechanics were the same.
“What’ll ya have, darlin’?” the bartender asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Though the bar was crowded, he leaned forward and grinned at her as though he had all the time in the world.
A half dozen cocktails came to mind, but the likelihood of getting one here was probably slim to none, judging by the lack of bottles behind the bar. “I think it’s probably safer to ask what you’re serving,” she said with a wry smile.
He ticked off five different types of beer and two rotgut whiskeys. She chose a bottle of the only beer she recognized. It was sufficiently cold and tasted exactly like college. Turning, she surveyed the room again, glad to have something to do with her hands. The place really wasn’t so bad. It would be fun, actually, if her friends were here to share the experience.
As it was, she leaned against the wall and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign across her forehead. She soaked in the noise, bustle, and activity, happy to have something remotely familiar in this strange place. She’d finish her drink, perhaps have another, and then maybe, maybe she’d strike up a conversation.
When in Rome…
Madeline Harper, Calvin Aviation Supply’s newest and youngest-ever acquisitions division manager, was about to get her honky-tonk on.
Tanner Callen saw her the moment she stepped foot in the joint.
Well, well, well. The hot-as-hell Yankee had ventured out from the motel at last. He’d seen her zipping in and out of the parking lot in her fancy Bimmer with the New York plates a few times this week, her face half covered by those dark, oversized sunglasses of hers. But even if he hadn’t seen her plates, he would have known she was an out-of-towner at first glance. Her designer jeans and red-bottomed heels stood out in the sea of worn Levi’s and scuffed boots like a silk rose in a field of bluebonnets.
Her top was low-cut but loose, giving teasing hints of her trim figure as she shimmied her way to the bar and ordered a drink. Tanner shook his head; Evan looked like he was about to trip over his fool tongue as he served her a bottle of beer.
“Better take your shot or I’m callin’ forfeit, Callen.”
Tanner dragged his attention away from the bar and laughed at his friend Mack. “You know that’s the only way you’ll ever win.” He and Mack had been friends since the eighth grade, and ribbing each other was part of the game.
Diego, who was a few years younger and still pretty wet behind the ears, chuckled and gave Mack a solid punch on the shoulder. “Burn. You gonna let him get away with that smack talk?”
Shaking his head, Mack shrugged. “He can talk all he wants, but by the end of the night, dollars to donuts he’ll be the one taking the ride of shame on old Bucky.”
Tanner snorted as he set his beer down on the peanut-shell-covered table and picked up his pool cue. “Big talk, considering it was your backside getting tossed off that old bull last time. And the time before that.”
It was a longstanding bet: whoever lost two out of three games on The Yell’s ancient coin-operated pool tables had a date with Bucky. What better way to give a rodeo star his comeuppance than to have him thrown like a sack of potatoes from a mechanical bull?
Tanner glanced behind him one more time before turning his attention to the game. Miss New York still leaned against the bar, her honey-blond hair grazing those sexy bare shoulders of hers.
Forget Bucky—if Tanner had a date with anyone tonight, he hoped like hell it would be with that little high-heel-wearing Yankee. Lucky for him, the night had only just begun.
Chapter 2
“Care to dance?”
Madeline flicked her gaze from the bullpen to the denim-shirt-clad guy who’d materialized at her side. This one was actually pretty cute, in a puppy dog sort of way. She still wasn’t going to dance with the man—or anyone else, for that matter—but she did smile back at him. “Thanks, but no dancing for me tonight.”
It was the same thing she’d said to every other guy who had asked that night. She half expected him to say something cutting—that had happened way too many times in her . . .
Staring at the rough-and-tumble, straight-out-of-an-eighties-movie roadhouse bar before her, Madeline Harper couldn’t help but reconsider her decision to come here at all. Clearly the echoing silence of the past few days was messing with her sanity.
Neon pink and blue signs buzzed and flickered from the darkened windows at the front, proclaiming the names of several brands of beer she didn’t recognize, while a larger white neon sign proudly spelled out the bar’s name: THE REBEL YELL.
God help her.
At any sane point in her life, she would have turned around, gotten back into her tidy little white two-door BMW, and driven back to her motel room. She would have opened a nice bottle of wine, slipped into her favorite boutique pajamas, and gotten lost in a good book.
However, after doing exactly that every night this week inside the world’s sleepiest motel in the world’s quietest town, well, she needed noise. And people. And energy. She had no illusions about finding the same sort of beautiful, chaotic bustle she was used to back home in New York City. In a town where exactly one place of business was open past eight o’clock on a Thursday night, The Rebel Yell would have to do.
And really, it wasn’t all bad. The parking lot was surprisingly full. While definitely honky-tonk-esque, the building was at least in decent repair, with fresh wooden railings lining the three steps to the door. Best of all, the lively din of music and laughter emanating from within were the first signs of real life she’d seen in a week.
People, music, drinks—not that different from a club in NYC, after all. And she had wanted to do Texas right, hadn’t she? At least that’s what she and her friends had joked about when she’d learned of her promotion and transfer to tiny Sunnybell, Texas, only weeks ago.
They had all crowed with laughter over their caramel appletinis after Aisha had declared Madeline must send pictures of the first cowboy she encountered. “Bonus points if he’s wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a smile.”
She grinned now thinking about it. She wasn’t the type to pick up some random cowboy—or random banker, stockbroker, or bartender, for that matter—but the memory did lighten her mood enough for her to push past her misgivings. Drawing a fortifying breath, she squared her shoulders, climbed the stairs, and pushed through the saloon-style louvered doors.
The place was dark and smoky but full of life. She scanned the room as she made her way to the bar, trying not to look like too much of a tourist. The walls were made of rough-hewn planks and covered in lassos, bridles, old pictures, and beer signs. Something told her this wasn’t the replica stuff you saw on the walls of some of those chain restaurants. Just like the cowboys at the bar weren’t the kind from a Hollywood set.
Everything about the place seemed genuine.
The building itself was actually pretty big, with tall tables lining one wall, pool tables along another, and a stage all the way at the back. A country-western band, complete with bolo ties, cowboy hats, and boots, belted out a rowdy dance rendition of a song she vaguely recognized.
But it was the boxing-ring-sized corral in the center of the building that really caught her eye. There, an honest-to-God mechanical bull swung back and forth, dipping and bucking as a laughing woman with big hair and tiny shorts held on for dear life. The ring was surrounded on all sides by beer-drinking spectators, all of whom were laughing and cheering her on.
“Ride ’em, Amber,” a woman shouted as she bumped past Madeline with two bottles of beer. “Show that steer who’s boss!”
Madeline wasn’t sure if Amber was winning or losing, but her boobs sure looked great in the process, which was probably the point. More power to her, Madeline thought as she stopped in front of the bar. It didn’t matter that the music was completely foreign or that the crowd looked like extras in a country music video—when it came to attracting the opposite sex, it seemed the mechanics were the same.
“What’ll ya have, darlin’?” the bartender asked, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Though the bar was crowded, he leaned forward and grinned at her as though he had all the time in the world.
A half dozen cocktails came to mind, but the likelihood of getting one here was probably slim to none, judging by the lack of bottles behind the bar. “I think it’s probably safer to ask what you’re serving,” she said with a wry smile.
He ticked off five different types of beer and two rotgut whiskeys. She chose a bottle of the only beer she recognized. It was sufficiently cold and tasted exactly like college. Turning, she surveyed the room again, glad to have something to do with her hands. The place really wasn’t so bad. It would be fun, actually, if her friends were here to share the experience.
As it was, she leaned against the wall and hung out the Do Not Disturb sign across her forehead. She soaked in the noise, bustle, and activity, happy to have something remotely familiar in this strange place. She’d finish her drink, perhaps have another, and then maybe, maybe she’d strike up a conversation.
When in Rome…
Madeline Harper, Calvin Aviation Supply’s newest and youngest-ever acquisitions division manager, was about to get her honky-tonk on.
Tanner Callen saw her the moment she stepped foot in the joint.
Well, well, well. The hot-as-hell Yankee had ventured out from the motel at last. He’d seen her zipping in and out of the parking lot in her fancy Bimmer with the New York plates a few times this week, her face half covered by those dark, oversized sunglasses of hers. But even if he hadn’t seen her plates, he would have known she was an out-of-towner at first glance. Her designer jeans and red-bottomed heels stood out in the sea of worn Levi’s and scuffed boots like a silk rose in a field of bluebonnets.
Her top was low-cut but loose, giving teasing hints of her trim figure as she shimmied her way to the bar and ordered a drink. Tanner shook his head; Evan looked like he was about to trip over his fool tongue as he served her a bottle of beer.
“Better take your shot or I’m callin’ forfeit, Callen.”
Tanner dragged his attention away from the bar and laughed at his friend Mack. “You know that’s the only way you’ll ever win.” He and Mack had been friends since the eighth grade, and ribbing each other was part of the game.
Diego, who was a few years younger and still pretty wet behind the ears, chuckled and gave Mack a solid punch on the shoulder. “Burn. You gonna let him get away with that smack talk?”
Shaking his head, Mack shrugged. “He can talk all he wants, but by the end of the night, dollars to donuts he’ll be the one taking the ride of shame on old Bucky.”
Tanner snorted as he set his beer down on the peanut-shell-covered table and picked up his pool cue. “Big talk, considering it was your backside getting tossed off that old bull last time. And the time before that.”
It was a longstanding bet: whoever lost two out of three games on The Yell’s ancient coin-operated pool tables had a date with Bucky. What better way to give a rodeo star his comeuppance than to have him thrown like a sack of potatoes from a mechanical bull?
Tanner glanced behind him one more time before turning his attention to the game. Miss New York still leaned against the bar, her honey-blond hair grazing those sexy bare shoulders of hers.
Forget Bucky—if Tanner had a date with anyone tonight, he hoped like hell it would be with that little high-heel-wearing Yankee. Lucky for him, the night had only just begun.
Chapter 2
“Care to dance?”
Madeline flicked her gaze from the bullpen to the denim-shirt-clad guy who’d materialized at her side. This one was actually pretty cute, in a puppy dog sort of way. She still wasn’t going to dance with the man—or anyone else, for that matter—but she did smile back at him. “Thanks, but no dancing for me tonight.”
It was the same thing she’d said to every other guy who had asked that night. She half expected him to say something cutting—that had happened way too many times in her . . .
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