The Cowboy's Twin Surprise. Stephanie Dees
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aren’t going it alone.
You have my prayers, always, my friends, and I love hearing from you. You can contact me via my website, www.stephaniedees.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/authorstephaniedees and in the reader group at www.facebook.com/groups/LIauthorsandreaders.
With love,
Stephanie
And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.
—2 Corinthians 12:9
For Riley. Thanks for always encouraging me to be my best self and for loving me even when I’m not. Being your mom is a privilege.
Acknowledgments
A book is never a solitary endeavor, and so many people helped me along the way with this book. Thanks to Melissa Jeglinski and Melissa Endlich for believing in this story and helping me define it.
Thanks to my critique partner, Sierra Donovan, and best beta reader evah, Janet Sallis. And a special thanks to those people who propped me up when I needed a friend, an ear or an idea bouncer: Sarah Kate Newton, Brenda Minton, Tina Radcliffe. You’re irreplaceable.
Contents
Note to Readers
Devin Cole let his truck roll to a stop at the end of the lane, just short of the driveway to the family ranch. He slid his Narcotics Anonymous newcomers coin between his fingers and back again. He was measuring his life in days and hours now...moments, maybe. One hour since his last meeting. Six days out of rehab. Thirty-six days clean. Thirty-nine days and seven hours since he’d stopped running from God.
Forty days since he’d messed things up with Lacey—the only friend he’d managed to keep on his not-so-slow slide into recklessness and addiction. It had been a long time since his Sunday school days, but in the Bible, wasn’t it always forty days that people spent in the wilderness?
A warm breeze wafted through the open window, bringing with it the scent of freshly turned dirt and ribs in the smoker. The sound of calves in the field. Springtime in Alabama.
His eyes went from the farmhouse peeking through the trees to linger on the white welcome chip sliding through his fingers. Chances were pretty good he’d gotten a better welcome from NA than he’d get from his brothers.
Unfortunately, his options were limited. As in, he didn’t have any. After he’d shattered his ankle, his days in the rodeo were over. He’d tried to continue, relying more and more on prescriptions and alcohol to fight through the pain. But he’d failed. Failed his corporate sponsors. Failed his friends and family. And most of all failed himself.
He’d spent the past six days and his last thousand bucks driving cross-country, trying to make amends for the wrongs he’d done. And he’d learned apologies went only so far to repair burned bridges.
He put his old truck in gear and drove the