The Heart Won't Lie. Vicki Lewis Thompson

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      To Louis L’Amour, an author who claimed that,

      if necessary, he could write a story sitting in the

      median of a busy intersection. He’s my kind of guy!

       Prologue

       August 13, 1988, from the diary of Eleanor Chance

      MY GRANDSON JACK, who turns ten this fall, can be a trial at times. I cut him some slack because he still carries the scars from being abandoned by his mother when he was a toddler. I’m not sure if that wound is ever going to heal, no matter how much love we all give him.

      Truth be told, Jack and I have a special bond because I took over raising him for a couple of years until my son Jonathon married his second wife, Sarah. I’ve stepped back now, because Sarah is terrific with Jack and the two sons who came along after that, Nick and Gabe. The Last Chance Ranch is a happier place with Sarah living here.

      But Jack is still a handful. Even so, he’ll always have a special place in my heart, and that’s partly because we both love to read, especially Westerns. Whenever the real world gets too complicated for Jack, he escapes into a book. I just introduced him to one of my favorites, Louis L’Amour, and he’s gobbling up those stories.

      I remember doing the same when I first discovered Louis L’Amour back in the fifties. That man could spin a yarn like nobody’s business. I was so sad to hear that he’d died this past June, but he left us a whole lot of good reading, and I’m grateful for that.

      Winters are dark and cold in Jackson Hole, and I don’t know what I’d do without my Westerns. You can bet this winter both Jack and I will be curled up in front of the fire with a book. I envy Jack having all those Louis L’Amour stories ahead of him.

      I may read them all again, myself. I should probably try one of the new authors, like that Larry McMurtry everyone’s so keen on. But it just seems as if nobody quite comes up to Louis L’Amour.

       1

       Present day

      “WHAT NAME DO you want to go by while you’re at the ranch?”

      Michael James Hartford, aka Western writer Jim Ford, thought about how to answer Jack Chance, who was currently driving him to the Last Chance Ranch. Michael had flown to Wyoming from New York City so he could learn some cowboy basics before a publicity team put him in front of a video camera in three weeks. Nobody besides Jack was supposed to know Michael was also Jim Ford, who wrote as if he could ride and rope but…couldn’t.

      He wondered if he should be known as Mike while he was here. A shortened name seemed better for a cowboy, but he already had his Jim Ford persona. If he adopted too many alternate names he wouldn’t remember which one he should answer to. “Michael’s fine,” he said. “Michael Hartford. That shouldn’t tip anybody off.”

      “Michael Hartford it is, then. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though. Some of the hands have read your books, but they’d never believe a greenhorn like you could possibly be the guy who writes those stories.”

      “Yeah, I know.” Michael took the blow to his ego with good humor. His lack of cowboying skills really was an embarrassing joke.

      “Besides, the picture in the back of your books shows you with a mustache. That really changes how a guy looks.”

      “I grow that mustache before I have to make any appearances or get my picture taken. Then I shave it off. I’ll have to start growing it again next week. Between that and the Stetson, I’ve fooled just about everybody except my family, and they’re not about to broadcast the fact that I’m Jim Ford.”

      “I don’t get that. You’d think they’d be proud of you.”

      Michael laughed. “They would be if I wrote deep, philosophical literature. The Hartfords are old money, loaded to the gills with culture. They don’t want to claim a pulp fiction author. That’s actually worked to my advantage. If nobody knows who Jim Ford really СКАЧАТЬ