Take Me Cowboy
Take Me, Cowboy
© Copyright 2013 Jane Porter
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-940296-01-2
Dedication
For my Girls—Megan, Lilian and CJ. You are the best.
For Rebecca—Thank you for joining the madness.
And for my Guy—'Cause you are still so smokin' hot.
Contents
Title page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EPILOGUE
About the Author
Excerpt: Tempt Me, Cowboy
Excerpt: Promise Me, Cowboy
Excerpt: Marry Me, Cowboy
Available Now
Coming Soon
CHAPTER ONE
“I can’t do it, Jenny. I can’t go through with this.”
The warm dry autumn wind whipped Jenny Wright’s wedding veil up above her shoulders, fine lace grazing her cheek. Having lived the past ten years in Chicago, Jenny had forgotten the wind that whistled from Yellowstone, down through Paradise Valley, turning the ranching valley into a wind tunnel.
The wind snapped and crackled now, the gusts as much a part of Marietta as the iconic peak of Copper Mountain jutting behind the small, sleepy Montana town. Marietta had surged to life in the late eighteen-hundreds before nearly dying, when the copper boom proved to be nothing more than a hiccup and all the investors and prospectors packed up and moved away.
It’d been a hundred and twenty-some years since then, but it was still hard to make a living in Marietta.
It’s why she’d left town as soon as she’d graduated from high school. It’s why she’d been determined to never move back.
She’d only come home for her wedding. Only come home to make her family proud.
Jenny gently plucked the delicate veil from her small diamond and pearl earring before it tore. “I didn’t catch that, honey,” she said, smashing the sudden rush of adrenaline flooding her veins.
No need to panic, she told herself. It was so windy today, and others might not like the gusts, but the wind had blown all the clouds north, leaving the sky above Marietta a perfect brilliant blue, and the wind had made it hard to hear.
Because for a moment there, it sounded as if Charles said he wouldn’t marry her. But that didn’t make sense. He and his family were here. The guests were here. The minister was here, all in the church waiting.
Waiting.
Her stomach rose and fell. She swallowed hard, fighting a sudden rush of nausea. She hadn’t slept well last night, nervous. Excited.
Excited, she silently insisted. Not terrified. Or sad. She would never be sad. This was the right decision. This was the best decision. It was.
It had to be.
“Can you say that again?” she asked him, fighting both her veil and the horrible rush of adrenaline.
He hesitated.
She stared at his mouth, focusing on his lips, not wanting to miss a thing this time.
And looking at his mouth, she tried to feel reassured. Because she knew him. She’d worked for his company for years, first as an administrative assistant in Human Resources, then as a manager, before he’d hand picked her to be his assistant, and then his girlfriend. His woman. It hadn’t happened overnight. At least the love part.
The love part had been tricky, but she loved him now. He’d been in her life a long time, and he’d been good to her. Better than any man had been to her.
And just like that her chest squeezed and her eyes burned and her throat threatened to close.
Maybe it wasn’t the wild fierce passionate love you read about in books, but it was steady and kind, and based on respect. Mutual respect.
They were good for each other.
“Charles?” she whispered, fighting the awful aching lump in her throat.
He just stared at her, gray eyes shadowed. “Things got out of hand, Jenny. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.”
He said nothing.
She bit down so hard into her bottom lip she tasted lipstick and blood.
Keep it together, she told herself. Keep it together. You can fix this. You can. You’ve fixed everything else in his life... you can fix this, too.
She masked her panic with one of her professional smiles. Thank God for a stressful career. The workload and deadlines had taught her to cope with pressure. She’d learned how to be strong. “I hear almost every bride and groom experience some cold feet. It’s natural.” She managed a lopsided smile. “We wouldn’t be normal if we didn’t have a few pre-wedding jitters.”
“Jenny, I’m not going to marry you.”
She suddenly pictured her family—Mama, Daddy, Grandma, her sisters and the rest of her bridesmaids—dressed in their new, expensive, and uncomfortable fancy clothes. This was a big day for the Wrights and they hadn’t wanted to disappoint. Scrubbed clean, perfumed, shoes shining, waiting in the church, fighting nerves of their own.
“I’m shocked,” she said calmly, her voice firm, composed. My God, she was good at hiding pain. Hiding her own feelings. Her needs.
But then, she didn’t assert her needs anymore.
Being Charles Monmouth’s assistant had taught her oh so very well.
“I should have said something last night,” he said, looking over her head to avoid meeting her gaze.
She squeezed her bouquet to keep from making a sound. He knew last night? He’d been thinking about this ever since then?
“When did you know?” she whispered.
“During the rehearsal. In the church.” He reached up to rub his forehead, then sighed. “Earlier, actually.” He sighed again, before grimacing. “Okay. For quite some time.... Actually.”
Actually.
Actually.
She almost laughed out loud. It was that, or cry. And she wasn’t going to cry. This was her wedding day.
“I’ve had second thoughts for awhile,” he added. “I’m sorry.”
And yet they’d made love last night. She’d pleasured him before dinner and then they’d had sex after.
He didn’t seem to have a problem with the sex part.
Just the marrying part.
But no, she couldn’t go there. It was unkind. She wouldn’t be unkind. Charles wasn’t being unkind.
He was afraid. Nervous. Normal emotions.
“Why didn’t you talk to me last night?” She plucked the veil back again, hating the delicate lace now. And the wind.
And the fear clawing at her that he was going to walk, and she’d be left here, with nothing.
Just debt. And shame. And heartbreak.
The heartbreak would be for her mother who was so proud of Jenny. This day meant so much to Mama, who’d never had a church wedding with bridesmaids and flower girls and—
Stop. Stop right there, she told herself, blinking hard. Everything would work out. She just had to stay calm, just had to focus. Think. Figure out what’s wrong.
But she couldn’t think clearly, not when she knew that the bridal party would be fidgeting at the back of the church and one hundred and fifty people were whispering in the pews, wondering about the delay.
“Charles, what’s happening? Talk to me.”
“There’s not much to say.” He glanced at her, and then swiftly away, his expression as stiff, hard, nearly as hard as his voice. “I just realized this won’t work. Not long term. Better we face it now than suffer the consequences later.”
“Why wouldn’t it work?”
“We’re too different. We come from completely different backgrounds.”
“You’ve known for years... ever since you made me your personal assistant.”
“But it didn’t... bother... me... before.”
She had a sudden sick feeling that she knew where this was going and she didn’t like it. Not one bit. “Why does it bother you now?”
His shoulder rolled. A shrug.
She wouldn’t let him off that easy. “Charles, explain. Please.”
For a moment she didn’t think he was going to answer and then he exhaled hard. “Are you marrying me for my money?” His jaw tightened. He looked away. “Are you a gold digger?”
Her mouth opened, closed, just like a trout gasping for air out of water. A gold digger? “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. He shrugged instead.
She stared at his tuxedo-clad shoulder, anger and pain churning inside her, making her sick.
His words wounded, but it was his careless, indifferent shrug that cut most.
How dare he shrug now? Shrug. A shrug.
A thirty-seven year old man shrugging instead of speaking. Shrugging to hide. Shrugging because he wasn’t a man at all.
Tears burned her eyes and her throat ached and she
wanted to take her flowers and slap Charles Monmouth III. Slap sense into him. Slap him to make him feel again and speak to her kindly again and remind him that just last night he’d whispered he needed her and wanted her and...
She swallowed hard, brows tugging as she tried to remember what else he’d said last night as they’d been in bed.
Had he said anything about love? Had he said anything about wanting to marry her... or had it just been sex last night? Lust?
She lifted her chin, lips trembling before she pressed them together, into a thin line.
Had he ever loved her?
Or had it always been lust...?
“I’m not a gold digger,” she added fiercely, so close to throwing her flowers. If not at him, then across the sidewalk, into the street.
This was awful. Worse than awful. And soon everyone would know.
Everyone would know that Charles Monmouth of Lake Forest, Illinois wasn’t going to marry Jenny Wright of Marietta, for no other reason than she wasn’t good enough.
She didn’t come from a fancy town or an affluent enclave where all the big houses were. No, she was from the north side of town. The Northside of Marietta. On the north side of the train tracks.
“You’re killing me,” she whispered, picturing her mom and dad and sisters in the church. Her friends Chelsea and Sage. She could see them all and knew that soon—just minutes from now—the joy would be dashed, replaced by disappointment, and pain.
“I’m not sure how this will work... later. Back in Chicago,” Charles said stiffly, rubbing at the back of his neck now.
He was probably getting one of his tension headaches. He got them so frequently. She’d become an expert masseuse, working away at his neck and shoulders, easing those knots, helping him relax.
Her mother had warned her years ago to be careful.
Her mother had warned her that powerful men, rich men, had their own rules.
Jenny had laughed away her mother’s concerns. I’m not a little girl anymore, Mama. I know what I’m doing. And he’s not using me. He loves me. He’s going to marry me.
She choked back a nearly hysterical laugh.
No, he’s not.
Jenny reached up to quickly wipe the dampness from the corners of her eyes before the tears could smudge her makeup. “Did you ever love me?” she asked.
“Jenny.”
He sounded exasperated.
She arched a brow. “Yes?”
“It’s not an issue of love.”
“It’s not?”
“No.”
“Then what is it, Charles?”
“It’s... our differences. Our backgrounds. We come from very different cultures.”
“We’re both white, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant.”
He tugged on his tie. “You know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, she did.
He was rich and she was poor. That was different enough. He didn’t need to say another word. She knew this part. Knew how it would go.
Suddenly she hated her Vera Wang bridal gown. It was a gown her parents couldn’t afford, and so she’d bought it herself, using nearly all of her savings because she’d wanted to be special today. Wanted to feel like a princess. The princess in a fairy tale.
Stupid. She was so stupid.
“So it’s over,” she said quietly, grateful her voice didn’t crack, and her eyes were almost dry.
He took a breath, shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
She looked at him from beneath her lashes, sorry, too, but for completely different reasons. She was sorry she’d exposed her family to his scorn. Sorry she’d asked him here, to her world, and her home. Sorry she’d allowed herself to be swayed by his influence. His money. Because she’d be lying if she hadn’t been teased by the possibility of security. Of stability. Of having a home that wouldn’t be taken from her... a place where she could raise her own family, knowing her children would never have to struggle, or go hungry, or start the first day of school without new school supplies.
“Jenny, I just wish you’d told me,” Charles said now, his tone almost agonized, revealing more emotion than he had since last night, making love to her. “Told me about your father, and everything. It would have been better... before.”
Her chin lifted again. “But I did.”
“You said your father worked at a hospital.”
“And he does.”
“He’s the janitor.” Charles shoulders shifted inside the elegant tux jacket. “And that’s fine, but he’s... struggled... to keep his job. He struggled to keep any job.”
“He’s had struggles, yes, but he’s a good man.”
“He’s an alcoholic.”
“In recovery.” Her face burned. “He’s been sober for years.”
“Two years. If that.”
“He made a mistake, and he went back to AA, but he was sober for almost five years before he’d... had the drink.”
“Drinks.” Charles gave her a peculiar look. “Alcoholism runs in families. It’s a genetic thing.”
She said nothing.
He pushed on. “My father ran a credit check on your family. Wasn’t a glowing report. Wasn’t even remotely glowing. Or good.”
She felt sick all the way through her. Her head hurt. Her heart hurt. Her bones hurt. “We’ve had struggles, but that has nothing to do with me. Or with us—”
“But it does. If we have children, they have that DNA... the genetics. I didn’t fully realize, until here, that I should have listened to my gut. My instincts. You’re a lovely girl, Jenny. Beautiful and sweet and kind and good—”
“Please. Stop. I’ve heard enough. I’ve had enough. I’m not a dog.”
“I’ll give you excellent references—”
“Not necessary,” she choked, voice strangled, heart lurching, sick. Appalled.
She wasn’t just a discarded bride, but an… out of work employee?
It was all she could do to keep from throwing her bouquet at his head. She was a good shot, too. She could level him with one hard, furious throw.
“Well, if you change your mind,” he said, sounding troubled… concerned.
Jenny laughed. She couldn’t help it. “I would never ask you for a referral,” she said, laughing again. Laughter was good. It kept her from crying. “You’d be the last person I would go to for help.”
“What? Why?”
“You’re an ass!” She laughed, shook her head, disgusted. But not just with him. She was disgusted with herself. She knew with a flash of blinding insight that this was all her fault.
She’d allowed herself to be dazzled by his family fortune. Charles descended from the titans of industry, those turn-of-the-century Monmouths who’d once been the governor of Illinois and ruled Chicago as scions of society.
She knew now that she’d fallen in love with his beautiful, extravagant world as much as she had fallen in love with him.
She knew, too, that her parents would be shattered. They’d been so pleased their oldest daughter had found her perfect man.
And landing Charles Victor Monmouth III had been a fairy tale come true. That is, until now.
But the fairy tale was over. And she knew exactly what was about to happen.
Charles Victor Monmouth III was going to walk away, and leave her alone in the parking lot in her stunning Vera Wang.
Jenny couldn’t have it, wouldn’t have it.
He could dump her, reject her, but he would not walk away from her now. She would do the walking. She would turn her back on him. She was finished with stupid dreams and fairy tales.
She was not Cinderella, and he was no prince. She was just a girl from the wrong side of the tracks and she’d grown up taking some hard hits. This was certainly another brutal blow, but it would not break her. Charles would not break her.
Jenny Wright had come too far to be broken now.
With a regal sweep of her arm, she scooped up the train of her shimmering bridal gown, letting it fall in a pool of gleaming white silk across her wrist. Head high, shoulders back, she turned away from Charles and walked from the parking lot to the sidewalk, and just kept walking.
She didn’t know where she was going.
But it didn’t matter.
Obviously, she’d need to return to the church and deal with her family and the one hundred and fifty guests waiting inside, but for now, they could wait. Everyone and everything could wait. She needed a minute to herself.