Cowgirl, Unexpectedly. Vicki Tharp

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      LYRICAL PRESS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      www.kensingtonbooks.com

      Lyrical Press books are published by

      Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

      Copyright © 2017 by Vicki Tharp

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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      Kensington Publishing Corp.

      119 West 40th Street

      New York, NY 10018

      Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

      Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      LYRICAL PRESS Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

      Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

      First Electronic Edition:

      eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0448-2

      eISBN-10: 1-5161-0448-X

      First Print Edition:

      ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0449-9

      ISBN-10: 1-5161-0449-8

      Printed in the United States of America

      Dedication

      This book is dedicated to my husband, who always supports me in all my endeavors, no matter how crazy they may seem. I love you!

      Chapter 1

      The road is my addiction, an incessant quest, a burning itch I can’t quite scratch.

      After a year of living on the road, I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for. I just hope I’ll recognize it when I see it.

      Last night, I’d slalomed my Harley through Wyoming’s windy, mountain roads, challenging my still-healing body. Now my muscles burned in my back and shoulders as I scrounged around in my saddlebags for enough money to cover my bitter coffee and butter-bathed toast from the diner.

      Where had the rest of my money gone?

      A breeze kicked up and I zipped my grandfather’s WWII flight jacket to fend off the post-dawn chill. Off to my right, two pickups pulled up. A late model Ford diesel with all the trimmings and a two-door jalopy with its red paint sunburned away to bare metal, a frayed bungee cord strapping down the hood.

      A cowboy in a pressed western shirt and jeans climbed out of the Ford, walked around, and then leaned against the driver’s side fender of the older truck. A deep tan told tales of his time out in the sun and his boots had enough scuffing to make me believe they were more than a fashion statement.

      He settled his wide-brimmed hat low on his head to cut the glare of the sun. Dirty fingerprints stained the brim, and dried sweat ringed the crown. A teenager climbed down from her truck.

      “This isn’t gonna work,” the man said, before the girl’s boots even touched the ground. He didn’t raise his voice, but tension arced between them, standing the hair on my arms and stirring Dread in my belly.

      Yes, Dread. With a capital D. A salty old bastard of a marine that had claimed squatting rights in the pit of my stomach like it was his own personal foxhole. He’d moved in when I’d deployed overseas. He was mean. He was nasty.

      And he’d saved this woman’s life a time or two.

      He also never got the message he could stand down now that I was back stateside and sometimes spotted trouble where none existed.

      “We had an agreement,” the girl said. “Figures, you’d want to back out of it now.”

      I tucked my head and tried to ignore them. Since I’ve been back, I’ve tried to stay out of other people’s business and keep an eye on my own six.

      “This is going to be hard enough without adding conditions,” the man said. “Have you considered anyone else’s feelings? What about your grandfather? Your grandmother? Don’t you think they’ve been through enough already?”

      “So this is all my fault now?” The girl’s laughter rang as hollow as a cracked bell. “Perfect. Thank you for that. I knew this meet-up was a bad idea.”

      At the bottom of my second saddlebag, I found enough dirt-encrusted coins to cover my tab, but somewhere on the road, I must have lost my last two hundred dollars.

      Damn.

      My skin prickled with heat and itched with the need to sweat like it used to when mortar fire crept closer and closer to the base’s blast walls. I sucked in a breath of frigid air and held it until the sting abated.

      So, this is it then. The end of the road.

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