Lone Star Nights. Delores Fossen
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No strings attached is pretty much Lucky McCord’s calling card in Spring Hill, Texas, but when family is on the line, this cowboy’s honor and heart are about to get lassoed, tied and branded
Every family needs its black sheep, and Austin “Lucky” McCord is happy to oblige. The bad-boy bull rider lives fast and loose, until his business partner leaves him an unexpected bequest. Suddenly Lucky is sharing custody of two children with Cassie Weatherall, one of the few homegrown women he hasn’t bedded. And not from lack of trying…
Cassie fled her messy past to become a celebrity therapist in LA. So why does it feel so right to come back and share parenting duties—and chrome-melting kisses—with a man she’s striven to avoid? Loving Lucky always seemed like a sure bet for heartache. But for this perfectly imperfect family, Cassie might just gamble with everything she’s got.
“The perfect blend of sexy cowboys, humor and romance will rein you in from the first line.”
—New York Times bestselling author B.J. Daniels
“From the shocking opening paragraph on, Fossen’s tale just keeps getting better.”
—RT Book Reviews on Sawyer, 4½ stars, Top Pick
“Rustling Up Trouble is action packed, but it’s the relationship and emotional drama (and the sexy hero) that will reel readers in.”
—RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars
“While not lacking in action or intrigue, it’s the romance of two unlikely people that soars.”
—RT Book Reviews on Maverick Sheriff, 4 stars
Lone Star Nights
Delores Fossen
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE DYING WOMAN’S misspelled tattoo bothered Lucky McCord. Not nearly as much as the dying woman, of course, but seriously, who didn’t know the rule about putting i before e except after c?
The tattoo “artist” who’d inked that turd of a misspelling onto Dixie Mae Weatherall’s forearm, that’s who.
It was a shame the inker wasn’t anywhere around to fix his mess so Dixie Mae could finish out her last minutes on God’s green earth with a tat that didn’t set people’s teeth on edge.
While the nurse adjusted the tubes and needles going in and out of Dixie Mae, Lucky stayed back against the wall. Man, he hated hospitals. That smell of disinfectant, lime Jell-O, floor wax and some bullshit—literal bullshit—from his own boots.
Lucky hadn’t had time to clean up before he’d gotten the call from the doctor telling him that Dixie Mae had been admitted to Spring Hill Memorial Hospital and that it wasn’t looking good. The doctor had said he should hurry. Lucky had been thirty miles away in San Antonio, just ten minutes out of an eight-second bull ride that’d lasted only four seconds.
A metaphor for his life.
The bull ride, or rather the fall, had left him with a bruised tailbone, back and ego. All minor stuff, though, compared to what was happening here in the hospital with Dixie Mae.
Hell.
He’d always thought Dixie Mae was too tough to die. Or that she’d at least live to be a hundred. And maybe she was pretty close to that number.
Most folks estimated Dixie Mae’s age anywhere between eighty and ninety. Most folks only saw her gruff face, the wrinkles on her wrinkles and her colorful wardrobe that she called a tribute to Dolly Parton, the rhinestone years.
Oh, and most folks saw the misspelled tattoo, of course. Couldn’t miss that.
When Lucky looked at her, he saw a lot more than just those things. He saw a very complex woman. By her own admission, Dixie Mae subscribed to the whack-a-mole approach to conflict resolution, but she was one of the most successful rodeo promoters in the state.
And