Going Cowboy Crazy
KATIE LANE
NEW YORK BOSTON
A Preview of
Make Mine a Bad Boy
To James, the boy from Texas who gave me the dream
It takes a village to get a first novel published. At least it took a village for this one. From Mrs. Hart, my fifth-grade teacher who had me write my very first fictional story, to the charming and hospitable people of West Texas. Unfortunately, I have only one page to show my appreciation.
That said…
Thank you, Alex Logan, my wonderful editor, for this page and for all the pages after it. My book couldn’t have found a more nurturing and loving home than Grand Central. And a very special thanks to my amazing agent, Laura Bradford, who believed in me and refused to stop searching until she found that home.
Speaking of home, I need to thank my husband for his patience and understanding. Jamie, I love the “rubber” chicken you make for me on the nights I work late and your unwavering belief that my book is going to be the next Pulitzer Prize winner.
And how do I thank the most beautiful and intelligent daughters in the world? Tiffany for the hours spent working on my website, and Aubrey for her support and
advice. And then there are my sisters, Christy and Sandi, who went over story lines and read rough drafts without complaint. What a sisterhood of love I have!
Finally, I’d like to thank my mother and father, Helen Marie and Joseph Abner, for giving me the kind of safe and loving childhood where a skinny kid could wander around “in her own little dream world.”
I
F
Y
OU
T
HINK
M
Y
T
RUCK IS
B
IG…
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.”
