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Just a Cowboy, by Rachel Lee
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"You won't live long enough to divorce me." On the run from her powerful and lethal almost ex-husband, Kelly Scanlon finds a temporary haven in a small Wyoming town and dares to trust the questioning -- gorgeous -- cowboy next door. Opening up to Hank Jackson about her past is as frightening as what sent her running in the first place. Except, he's the only one who believes she's in danger -- and makes her feel safe. But the gray-eyed man with the guarded heart and tragic past of his own keeps insisting he's nobody's hero. Until Kelly's worst nightmare tracks her down...and her cowboy proves just what he's made of.
- Sales Rank: #2202723 in Books
- Published on: 2011-06-21
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.62" h x .59" w x 4.21" l,
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 224 pages
About the Author
Rachel Lee was hooked on writing by the age of twelve, and practiced her craft as she moved from place to place all over the United States. This New York Times bestselling author now resides in Florida and has the joy of writing full-time.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Coming home from roundup at a local ranch in Conard County, Hank Jackson expected to unload his gear, step into the cool quiet of his house, and maybe have a shot of bourbon to ease the pain he lived with constantly.
It seemed that no matter how well the docs put smashed bones back together, the bones always remembered the insult. Then they couldn't make up their minds if they hated activity or inactivity more.
Regardless, more than a week on the range of riding, camping, roping and herding had left his body feeling a little older than its thirty-four years, and he was looking for a hot bath and a shot, not necessarily in that order.
Except as he was tugging his saddle out of the back of his pickup, he noticed the house next door. He owned that place, too, a decision made on the spur of the moment because he preferred being busy to having too much time on his hands to think, and that house would keep an entire crew of repairmen busy for quite a while.
But since he had left nine days ago, things had changed, signaled by curtains in the windows.
Crap. He froze, saddle still resting on the truck bed, and looked again. He should never have let Ben Patterson persuade him to list the place for rent a few weeks ago. There was still a ton of work that needed to be done, as he'd told Ben. Then he'd allowed himself to be talked into listing it because it would propel him to get the work done faster.
Hell.
He'd never expected that anyone would take it in that condition, not even at the ridiculously low rent.
Sighing, he shifted his weight onto the hip that hurt marginally less and tried to decide if he could ignore his new tenant until tomorrow. Or was he honor-bound to get the heck over there right now and tell him all about the things that weren't working right and a few things that might not be safe?
Ben might not have remembered all the details. And what if there was a family in there?
Cussing under his breath, he left his saddle and headed next door, leaving his own grassy yard behind for the weedy patch of dirt that belonged to the other house. Yet another thing he'd been planning to take care of this week or next.
Climbing the two steps to the small, covered porch elicited another cuss word that only he could hear. The doorbell didn't work, so he rapped sharply on the front door, a solid oak door in dire need of painting. Oh, hell, why kid himself? It needed a blow-torch first, and looking at it he was quite certain some of the underlying layers of paint were lead-based. He'd better not find any kids living here, because, if he did, Ben would get more than a few choice words.
His first knock went unanswered. He rapped again, more loudly, saw one of the new curtains twitch, and finally the front door opened a crack.
He found himself looking into one blue eye through that crack.
"Yes?" said a quiet, tense voice.
"Hank Jackson," he said. "I'm your landlord."
"Oh." Then, "Oh! The agent mentioned you."
And the door didn't open even a hair wider. "Lady, I don't know if Ben bothered to tell you, but there are some things about this house that aren't safe."
"I know that."
"But do you know them all? Just tell me you don't have any kids."
"No. No kids."
This wasn't getting them very far. Part of him just wanted to turn around, walk away, find that hot bath and that shot of bourbon. But in good conscience he couldn't do that without at least making an attempt.
"I need to show you the things that are wrong. I need to tell you the work I'm going to be doing in the next week or so. Ben did tell you I'd be working on the place?"
"It can wait. I'll only be here a short while."
"Some of it can't wait." Damn, she was bringing out his stubborn streak. "Look, I don't bite, but I may have to break your rental agreement if we don't come to some kind of terms about the things I need to do here."
The door opened a little wider and he was astonished to see the kind of blond, blue-eyed beauty that should be in the movies. And she looked nervous. Why the heck should she look nervous? Nobody in Conard County looked nervous about someone knocking on the door.
He almost sighed. Instead, he fought for some courtesy. "It's important," he said. "I didn't expect the place to get rented in its current condition, and I'm not sure Ben gave you all the warnings."
At last she nodded, opened the door all the way, and let him step in. He smothered a wince as his hip reminded him that not all was well south of the border, especially after a week in the saddle.
"The place is good enough for me," she said tentatively. "I'll only be here a short time."
"Yeah, but I'd like you to leave on your feet, not on a stretcher."
At that he was relieved to see the faintest of smiles lift the corners of her perfect mouth. Beauty came in all varieties, but this woman had the kind that usually implied heaps of plastic surgery. Exactly the kind that didn't appeal a whole lot to him. Usually.
"The place isn't exactly a death trap," he said, forcing himself to pay attention to business and not to another area south of the border that was choosing a bad time to sit up and take notice. "But there's some rotten flooring I need to warn you about, and a couple of iffy electrical circuits. And the stove doesn't work right, but I have a replacement coming soon."
"Okay."
He held out his hand. "Hank Jackson."
"Kelly Scanlon." Her handshake was firm. Okay, so she hadn't come by that perfect figure by unnatural means. She must work out.
"Nice to meet you," he managed to say as if he meant it, although he was thinking of at least a half-dozen ways he'd like to give Ben a hard time.
"If the house is so bad, why are you renting it?" she asked.
"It wasn't my intention. Ben's been after me to list it with him. I thought I made it clear he wasn't to rent it until I'd finished the most important work."
Her smile widened a shade. "I guess he doesn't listen well?"
"Apparently not. Either that, or he's even more desperate than I thought. Even with the semiconductor plant that moved in a couple of years ago, I think beggars around here make more than real estate agents. Did he even show you the fuse box?"
"No."
"Hell." He sighed, then limped past her through the small living room to the kitchen. Like many kitchens of its era, it had more room than convenience. Space enough for a big table, but few cabinets, an old freestanding sink, and just an itty-bitty patch of counter. The stove stood all by itself near one wall, the refrigerator a few feet away.
"Someday," he remarked, "this is going to be a nice kitchen. But right now…" He shook his head. "Most of it looks like an afterthought."
"I don't need much."
"Maybe not," he allowed. "One person can get by." He walked over to the mudroom door and stepped out into the unheated, glassed-in area. "Here's the fuse box."
He opened the metal casing. "There are three circuits here that I removed the fuses from. Resist any temptation to put a fuse in them until I get an electrician out here. If you get desperate to use these circuits, I have extension cords I can lend you so you can plug into safe sockets."
"Okay, I can do that."
He glanced over and found her standing right at his shoulder. And damn, she smelled good, too. Faintly like roses and honey. Or maybe after a week of smelling horses and cattle, anything else would smell like ambrosia.
He tore his gaze from her—for some reason his eyes kept wanting to stare—and pointed to the floor to the right side of the back door. "Over there the joists are rotting underneath. You can go out the door safely, but I'd advise against stepping over there. I can't guarantee it will hold you."
"Okay." She sounded agreeable enough.
He looked at her again. "Did Ben tell you this?"
She bit her lip, then gave a tiny shake of her head.
He sighed. "Oh, I am going to have some words with him. All right, the windows out here are slated to be replaced. I have the new ones in my garage, but I haven't gotten to it yet. You'll notice the windows in the rest of the house are all new, but I still need to do some caulking and leveling, okay? So you'll have me outside from time to time banging around."
"Okay."
That seemed to be her only word. He led the way back through the kitchen to the rear of the house, where there were two bedrooms. One was completely empty, the other held an old bedstead. He just hadn't gotten around to removing it, or some of the other furniture the last owners had left behind. Not much, but a minimum for someone who had none.
But when he looked at the bedstead and mattress, he winced, and this time it wasn't from physical pain. "Are you going to sleep on that?" he asked.
"It's there."
"Ah, crap, lady, that thing is…"
"A bed," she said firmly. "I can get a mattress pad to cover the worst of it. At least it's not the floor."
This time when he looked at her he saw past the initial impression of too beautiful to something that showed more depth and determination. Eyes that appeared older than her appearance would indicate. There was a story there, he thought. He wasn't sure he wanted to know it, either. She'd made it clear she was a transient, and he knew the kinds of stories that came with eyes like that.
"The stuff that's here," he said by way of explanation, "was left by the previous owners. I just haven't gotten around to getting rid of it. If you want it out of here."
She interrupted. "No, really. I can use the stuff that's here. I don't need or want to replace it."
"...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
...UGH!
By Spunki Spirits
KELLY SEEMED LIKE A HIGH SCHOOL STUDENT IN THE WAY SHE TALKED...I DID NOT LIKE HER AT ALL...I GOT TIRED OF READING HOW 'HANK' WOBBLED, LIMPED OR WHATEVER AWAY...HE'S A BROKEN AND DAMAGED FIREFIGHTER...OKAY, I GET IT! I DON'T NEED TO BE REMINDED OF THAT FACT ON EVER OTHER PAGE!
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Conard county
By Amazon Customer
Just love this series, old and new. I enjoy Rachel Lee's writing and her characters. Wish she would add the older characters once in awhile just to see how they're doing, besides Gage.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Good story!
By A
At first I was aggravated with the continued repetition of "going to speak to Ben" etc. However, I am glad I read past that. I would have missed a good story otherwise.
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