Christine Wenger - Not Your Average Cowboy

He raised an eyebrow, obviously amused. “Oh, yeah?”

“Your blue eyes are killer. And a couple shots of you with your shirt off shoveling hay, well…” She suddenly realized that she’d said too much.

He smiled, knowingly. His blue eyes pinned her with a gaze so intense, she couldn’t breathe. “So, you’ve been watching me, Miss Turner?”

His voice was throaty. Sexy. A shiver went through her.

“Well, not exactly.” She tried to look anywhere but at him. “I was looking at you from a purely business standpoint.”

“But you liked what you saw? From a purely business standpoint, that is.”

“Yes. I mean no.”

How did she get into this?

“Chris Wenger writes stories that tug at your

heart and make you laugh out loud.”

—New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author Carla Neggers

Dear Reader,

I am a native central New Yorker who has never left the area, but my sister moved to Tucson after she graduated from college. After one visit, I fell in love with all things cowboy, cactus and coyotes. Then I discovered rodeo, specifically bull riding. Yee-haw! Now my husband and I follow the Professional Bull Riders (PBR) and the Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association (PRCA). We’ve met many of the cowboys, bull fighters and stock contractors and have traveled to many events. These guys (and gals) are salt-of-the-earth types who come from hardworking ranch families. I’ve found that they are polite, honorable and truly good role models for their young fans.

That’s why I love to write about cowboys. There’s just something special about them.

So no matter where you live, get your favorite beverage, sit back, put your feet up and let me tell you about a cowboy who lives in Lizard Rock, Arizona, who meets his match in a TV star from Boston….

Cowboy up!

CHRIS WENGER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

has worked in the criminal justice field for more years than she cares to remember. She has a master’s degree in probation and parole studies and sociology from Fordham University, but the knowledge gained from such studies certainly has not prepared her for what she loves to do most—write romance! A native central New Yorker, she enjoys watching professional bull riding and rodeo with her favorite cowboy, her husband, Jim.

Chris would love to hear from readers. She can be reached by mail at P.O. Box 1212, Cicero, NY 13039 or through her Web site at christinewenger.com.

To the memory of my sister, Sue. How I miss you.

To my cowboy brother-in-law, Rick. Hang in there.

To Alex and Katie. Your mother will always

be in your heart and mine.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Where on earth am I?

Meredith Bingham Turner pulled her generic gray rental car over to the side of the road—what little side there was. Rolling down the window, she peered down the drop-off to her right and frowned at the scruffy vegetation and huge prickly cacti that stood with their arms raised toward the blazing Arizona sun.

It was hot. Very hot. And she was very, very lost.

Once again, she read the directions to the Rattlesnake Ranch that her friend Karen had e-mailed her, but something was still wrong, and there was no one around to ask for assistance. No cops. No pedestrians or joggers. No shoppers. No tourists.

Just lizards, scorpions and tarantulas.

She shuddered and quickly rolled up the window. She hadn’t seen any of those creatures yet, but why tempt fate?

Two weeks ago, Karen had called Merry and asked for a favor. “I know you’re busy, but it’s important. My brother is at his wit’s end. With Caitlin’s psychiatrist bills, Louise’s and Ty’s tuition and all… Well, we might just lose the ranch if we don’t do something drastic. Besides, I read about you and that George fellow in Celebrity Gossiper, and it sounds like you need a break, too.”

Karen was right. She needed to get away from Boston and her corporation. She needed to get away from George Lynch, her latest “kiss and tell” ex-boyfriend. Whenever she thought of the headline in the Celebrity Gossiper: “Sensational Cook Not So Sensational in Bed,” she wanted to scream.

Merry did the only thing that she could do. She turned it over to her lawyers.

“Of course I’ll help,” Merry had replied to Karen’s request. “What do you need me to do?”

“Help us turn the Rattlesnake Ranch into a dude ranch. I can take care of the business end, but I’ll need decorating help, menu-planning, maybe you could help with publicity. An endorsement by you would guarantee a full house.”

“I’m coming up with ideas already,” Merry replied.

She was more than happy to help Karen. Karen had gone out of her way to help Meredith, a lonely introvert from Beacon Hill in Boston, loosen up at Johnson and Wales University. Those four years at J&W with Karen as her roommate had been the best time of her life.

Karen was her only friend in the world. She could trust Karen with her innermost thoughts, feelings and problems and know they wouldn’t end up in the Gossiper.

Maybe it wouldn’t be too awful here in the desert. All she had to do was to come up with some decorating ideas, lend her name to garner some publicity for the launch of the dude ranch, and then she’d fly back home to Boston and her beautiful condo overlooking Boston Harbor.

Karen believed there was a market for “wannabe cowboys,” especially from the Northeast. Merry supposed that there were some city slickers who wanted to play cowboy for a week and go on trail rides and chuck wagon cookouts, even though it didn’t sound like fun to her. Why would they travel all the way to Arizona? Then again, corporations liked that kind of thing for team building. Maybe that was the answer—attract the corporate crowd.

Whatever Karen wanted, Merry would roll up her sleeves and do anything she could to help.

Merry studied the map that the auto club had marked out for her and thought that she had to be somewhere on the little gray line between Dead Man Mountain and Galloping Horse Mountain.

Wild West names were just so colorful, but she wasn’t in the mood for colorful names. She needed better directions.

She looked out of her rearview mirror. Not a car or a person in sight. Not a soul to ask how to get to Hanging Tree Junction—another colorful name. It would have been nice if someone had thrown up a sign at frequent intervals, so she would at least know if she was still in the United States and not in Mexico.

Maybe she should just keep going forward. The sun would be setting soon, and she didn’t relish driving on twisting and turning mountain roads in the dark.

And then she saw him.

Her first real-life cowboy.

He was moseying, as they say, toward her, riding a big black horse. The cowboy wore a long white duster. Only a bit of faded denim was visible under his brown leather chaps with black fringe. As he rode closer, she saw that he had silver spurs on his boots.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked so rugged, at one with the landscape. So did the rifle butt sticking out of a long leather rectangle hanging from his saddle.