Page 16 of Ride Me Cowboy

Goodnight is the nearest town—about a ten minute drive from the ranch. I drove through it on my way here. It’s adorable. Almost like a movie set with its historic wild-west feel Main Street. I’m tempted by the offer, yet I just know I can’t agree.

“Oh, no, I’m fine.”

“You’re fine?”

“I mean, I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just—,” I bite into my lower lip. God, he is a really beautiful specimen of man and if I was the same person I’d been before Christopher, I wouldsobe jumping his bones right now. Or at least agreeing to dinner. But there’s too much water under the bridge of my life for me to just pretend it hasn’t happened. “I can’t,” I repeat.

“It’s just dinner with the crew.”

I shake my head. I’m terrified by how strongly appealing I find that offer.

“Austin, Beau, Mack, Caleb—I don’t know if you’ve met him?—a few of the others, like Hank Callahan from over the road.”

I sigh. “You’re being really nice, Cole, but I’m not interested,” I lie. “I came here to do a job. I don’t want to make friends.”

His thick, dark brows lift with surprise, first, then confusion. “You got too many already?”

I can’t help the humorless half laugh that escapes. “Oh, yeah. Miss Popularity over here.”

“It’s just a feed. A few friends, sitting down in a bar, chewin’ the fat, after a long-ass week.” He shrugs. “But suit yourself.”

“Thanks,” I shake my head a little. “You have fun though.” And finally, I take a little sidestep and move around him, toward the door of our shared office.

When my hand touches the knob, he says, “If you change your mind, we’ll be at The Silver Spur.”

I leave the office with total confidence that wild horses wouldn’t drag me to a bar to spend the night with my sexier than sin boss and his loud, friendly family.

Chapter Six

Beth

THE GENERAL STORE IN the tiny town of Goodnight is a place called Rhett’s. It’s not huge, by any stretch, but it has a weirdly comprehensive selection of goods. From a small but impressive grocery stand, to camping and hunting gear, hardware goods, fishing equipment and yes, even an exercise and fitness corner, so I’m able to grab a pair of yoga pants and a shirt, as well as a pair of branded sneakers.

The man behind the counter is super friendly and offers to order in anything else I need. “We get a delivery out of Phoenix every other Thursday, so it ain’t no trouble, ma’am.” I assure him that the outfit is fine, even though the shoes are a half size too big, but in the end I have to promise I’ll let him know if I change my mind.

People out here are just like that, I realize, after taking my package across the street and popping into the café—The Moon Bean—and ordering a latte.

It’s just as I’m heading back to the car and putting my shopping bag in the trunk that my cell phone rings. I grab it out of my pocket and stare at the screen, a live wire setting my nerves on edge when I see my sister in law’s face staring back at me.

Elsie.

I scrunch my eyes shut in an attempt to stop my automatic physical reaction to seeing her—or anyone—from my old life. I try to remember my friendship with ElsiebeforeChristopher, when it was just her and me sharing coffee and margaritas and talking about whatever book we were obsessed with that week.

I know it must seem kind of strange that two such different people should meet, let alone become tight friends, but that’s the power of reading, right? I worked in a bookstore near her college, and she’d come in most weeks to buy a stack. I often recognized the ones she was into, and we got talking one day. After that, she’d seek me out, to ask me my opinion. Our friendship just grew organically so that, after a few weeks of talking nonstop about books, she asked me for coffee after my shift finished. We swapped numbers and started meeting up outside of work. When her birthday rolled around and she invited me to the party, we were already really close. It didn’t even occur to me that she came from an entirely different world to mine. That besides the fictional spaces we shared so much passion for, we had very little in common.

The night of her party, though, it hit me over the head. It was at a restaurant just off Fifth Avenue, filled with Manhattan’s richest, most privileged twenty-somethings. A famous DJ was spinning the music, and there was an open bar with top shelf champagne on tap. Every part of it was luxe, and I felt completely overwhelmed.

And that’s where I met Christopher. Handsome, suave, charming, able to make me laugh Christopher. At the time, I thought he saw how uncomfortable I was and wanted to help, but now I realize he picked me out as easy prey.

I swipe my phone to answer and Elsie’s voice pipes through the car speakers.

“Hey, girlfriend. How the hell are you?”

She has that tone of voice. The one everyone’s been using since he died. The gentle, treating-me-with-kid-gloves so I don’t fall apart, grieving-widow-sympathy voice. It makes my skin crawl.

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