Close Enough to Touch

Can a city girl make it in the wild, wild West?

For makeup artist Grace Barrett, Hollywood isn’t the land of golden opportunity. It’s the land of difficult divas, cheating boyfriends and unemployment. So when her great-aunt offers her a free place to stay in Jackson Hole, Grace thinks she’ll spend a little time in the sticks to figure out her life, and then move somewhere exciting to live out her dreams. But it turns out that there are a few more thrills in this small town than Grace was expecting....

Cole Rawlins is a rugged Wyoming cowboy born and bred. Yet he can’t help but be drawn to the fascinating big-city girl who moves in across from him. He wants to get close enough to Grace to see past her tough facade, but if he does, she might see the real Cole. The one with a Hollywood history gone bad. As they discover a sizzling attraction, it becomes harder for him to keep his demons at bay—and those fires from long ago may burn them both.

They’ll need more than scorching-hot passion to make this opposites-attract affair work. But if they can learn to trust one another enough to reveal their secrets, they just might have a chance at forever.

Praise for the novels of

USA TODAY bestselling author

Victoria Dahl

“This is one hot romance.”

—RT Book Reviews on Good Girls Don’t

“A hot and funny story about a woman many of us can relate to.”

—Salon.com on Crazy for Love

“Lead Me On will have you begging for a reread even as the story ends.”

—Romance Junkies

“[A] hands-down winner, a sensual story filled with memorable characters.”

—Booklist on Start Me Up

“Dahl has spun a scorching tale about what can happen in the blink of an eye and what we can do to change our lives.”

—RT Book Reviews on Start Me Up

“Dahl smartly wraps up a winning tale full of endearing oddballs, light mystery and plenty of innuendo and passion.”

—Publishers Weekly on Talk Me Down

“Sassy and smokingly sexy, Talk Me Down is one delicious joyride of a book.”

—New York Times bestselling author Connie Brockway

“Sparkling, special and oh so sexy—Victoria Dahl is a special treat!”

—New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips on Talk Me Down

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This one is for Jodi.

Thanks for keeping me company and making me laugh.

Contents

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

THIS MADE IT OFFICIAL: Grace Barrett’s life was over. Or, at the very least, it was so irrevocably screwed up that a quick death would be a blessing at this point.

She was twenty-eight, in debt to an angry ex-boyfriend, she had exactly $37.40, and she was here.

In Wyoming.

Well, she’d been in Wyoming for hours, actually. Hours of endless beige hills and barren mountains. Hours of cows. And sheep. And some strange creature she’d thought was a deer until she’d gotten a better look. Deer didn’t look as if they had exotic black masks painted on their little faces. What the heck were those things?

Grace shuddered a little as she stepped out of the bus. Her feet touched the ground and there was no taking it back now. She really was in Wyoming. She was standing on it.

“Damn,” she muttered.

The elderly man in front of her turned with a concerned smile. “Sorry, ma’am?”

Grace crossed her arms in defense. “Sorry about that. I was just…”

He smiled and put a hand to his balding head as if he meant to tip a hat. “Beg pardon.”

No one had ever begged her pardon before. Grace crossed her arms more tightly, unsure how to handle this situation. Thankfully, the man moved away before she was forced to respond.

Grace glanced warily around. After her years in L.A., she knew to keep her guard up against anyone who approached her on the street, no matter how kind and polite the people here might seem. Nobody did, so she edged toward the driver as he unlocked the luggage compartments of the bus. She was used to being alone, but she’d been surrounded by people on this bus for nearly two days. She felt almost panicked with the need to be free.

The driver began unloading the bags, laying them out in neat rows. Grace kept a sharp eye on his hands, waiting for her ancient camouflage duffel bag to appear.

No one else seemed to be watching as closely. The other passengers were hugging friends and family or idly chatting with each other as their eyes traveled along the horizon. She spared only the barest of glances toward the view of the mountains. Someone could walk up and grab a bag and be gone before anybody even noticed.

These folks were obviously not from L.A. Or…maybe their bags didn’t contain every ridiculous, precious thing in the world that belonged to them. Maybe their bags were just filled with dirty clothes and cheap souvenirs from a beach vacation. But when Grace’s bag appeared and was set on the ground, she jumped forward and dragged it away like a feral animal with a piece of precious meat. It was nearly too heavy for her to lift, but she’d have to find a way. She had no car, no spare money for a taxi—if they had such things here—and she hadn’t told her great-aunt when she’d be arriving. So she was hoofing it.

“Hoofing it,” she breathed, managing a laugh as she glanced around to see if there were any cows standing next to her. Unlike the rest of Wyoming, the town of Jackson seemed to be blessedly cow-free. It was also slightly larger than she’d expected, dashing her hope that she could simply wander down the main street until she spotted the address she was looking for. She’d have to ask for help. The idea made her grimace as she took a deep breath and looked around. Maybe she could just find a free map.

“Bingo,” she muttered as her eye fell on a big sign that spelled out Jackson Hole Information! in old-timey wooden letters. Grace had lived in Hollywood a long time. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to work a tourist trap.

She dragged her bag across the asphalt and onto the wooden…sidewalk? Grace blinked and looked down the street, then turned to look in the other direction. Yes, as far as the eye could see, the sidewalks were wooden, like an Old West town.

“Wow,” she muttered. These people were really trying hard, even if she had to admit that it was cute. Shaking her head, she pulled her bag down the sidewalk until she got to the brochure stand.

“Do you have a free map of the area?” she asked the matronly woman who’d turned away to straighten papers.

“Oh, hello!” the woman called as she spun around. “Good afternoon!”

“Hi. Um. I just need a map of the town. Something simple.”

The woman’s eyes flicked up to Grace’s hair for a moment, and Grace wondered what she must think of a purple-haired girl in combat boots asking about Jackson, but the woman’s smile didn’t waver. “Well, I won’t lie. There are a lot of choices. Here’s the official town map.” She laid out a folded brochure. “But—and don’t tell anyone I said this—I actually like the one the restaurant association puts out a little better.”

“Thanks.” Grace took both the brochures and opened the one the woman had recommended.

“What are you looking for, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart? Grace glanced down at her T-shirt. Yep. It still advertised an old L.A. burlesque club. “Just a street,” she said softly, hoping not to invite more questions.

“Which street?”

Grace cleared her throat and shifted, her gaze desperately boring into the map, hoping she could just find it herself. “Um, Sagebrush.”

“Sagebrush. That’s a long one. What’s the address?” The woman’s pink fingernail pointed toward the map, but it moved before Grace could register which street she was pointing to.

“Six-O-five West Sagebrush,” she said, sighing.

“Oh, that’s way over here!” The woman pointed again, and this time Grace saw it. A long line that meandered all the way through town and then followed the curve of a stream before it ended. It looked like quite a haul.

“Thank you,” Grace said. She folded the map and hefted her bag up, biting back a grunt as she worked the strap over her shoulder. “This way?” She tilted her head in the direction she thought she needed to go. She’d always been pretty good with that sort of thing.

“Yep!”

Grace took a deep breath and started walking. Her boots clomped on the wood.

“Oh, honey!”

Grace pretended she didn’t hear.

“Sweetie, stop! You can’t walk all that way.”

“I’m fine,” she called.

“But there’s a free bus!”

Her boots stopped clomping. “Free?”

“Totally free. In fact, it’ll stop right here in a few minutes. Comes every half hour.”

Grace turned back and eyed the woman suspiciously. “Will I have to go tour a new condo complex or something?”

“What? Oh, heavens no. It’s the town bus. It’ll stop just a few blocks from where you’re going. Six-O-five West Sagebrush. That’s the Stud Farm, isn’t it?”

“The what?” She dropped the bag. She’d heard tales that her great-aunt was a crazy old lady, but… “What?”

“Oh, never mind me.” The woman laughed. “That’s just a silly local nickname.”

“For what?”

“The building.”

Just as Grace was opening her mouth to demand a real answer, a hiss of brakes sounded from the curb. The bus had arrived, and she didn’t have time to get more information. She hauled up her bag, wrestled it onto her shoulder and jogged for the bus. As promised, there didn’t seem to be a fee. The driver glanced at her impatiently, and she felt a small jolt of comfort at that. The bus might be free, but the driver was just as jaded as every bus driver in L.A.

Slightly less suspicious, Grace took a seat close to the front so she wouldn’t have to haul the bag any farther, then dug the map back out to see which intersection she was looking for.

A few blocks later, the wooden walkways were replaced with cement, and the two-story buildings with front porches became less common. By the time they reached the right intersection, they’d passed a strip mall and a big grocery store. She felt slightly less disoriented as she grabbed the bellpull and hauled her bag down the steps.

She didn’t dare stop and look around as the bus pulled away. Her shoulders were already aching and the bag wasn’t getting any lighter, so she set off down the side street with her head down. Sagebrush was only four blocks down. No problem.

By the time she reached the next street, she was gasping for air. “Good Lord,” she muttered, stopping to take a few deep breaths. It didn’t help. Altitude, she reminded herself, finally giving in and setting the bag down. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on oxygen, and without the weight of the bag, she was breathing normally within a few moments.

Had she really thought she was going to walk all the way from the bus station to the apartment? Laughing at the image of herself crawling down the street with the bag balanced on her back, Grace opened her eyes and took a deeper breath.

“Mmm,” she hummed. The air smelled…nice. Really nice. Crisp and fresh and clean. Maybe she could live with less oxygen. Just for a little while. It wasn’t like she was going to stay in this ridiculous little town.

It was cute, though. The Old West part of town had morphed into a slightly Victorian feel. Little gingerbread houses, separated by the occasional 1960s ranch house. Grace had never lived in a small town before. Maybe it would be okay, temporarily.

As if to show her just how wrong she was, the jingle of a bike bell interrupted her thoughts. A bicycle passed by. An honest-to-goodness bicycle built for two. Both riders waved as they rode away. Grace grimaced at what looked like an advertisement for happiness. This town was going to rub her own misery in her face.

Once the bike had passed, she lifted the bag and trudged on. Another bike appeared, this one with only one rider, but with an old-fashioned bike horn that the rider honked before he waved. Yeah, L.A. was bad enough with all the sunshine, but this town was just too much.

Vancouver would be better, hopefully. There was a big enough movie industry there. She had a job waiting for her if she could get there in six weeks. And if she did a good job, maybe she could get steady work as a makeup artist up there where nobody knew she was difficult to work with. Difficult, as in she wouldn’t put up with handsy actors or abusive bosses. That seemed totally reasonable to her, but in L.A., ass kissing was a way of life.

Grace turned onto Sagebrush and started watching the addresses.

When she finally spotted number 605, she was pleasantly surprised. The Victorian building didn’t look like it had anything to do with a farm. Or studs. It wasn’t the prettiest house on the block, but the paint was fresh and bright royal-blue. The trim around the windows and the porch was vivid white. The place looked perfectly respectable.

Then her eyes slid to the building next door.

The saloon next door.

She knew it was a saloon because of the wide plank of wood over the door that screamed SALOON in big black letters. Barstools lined the ancient porch and, unlike the building Grace was standing in front of, this place looked as though it hadn’t been painted since 1902. In fact, it looked like a barn that hadn’t been painted since 1902. She was pretty sure that was some sort of hayloft door near the roof.

Grace’s shoulders were protesting the delay, so she adjusted the bag’s strap and walked up the sidewalk to the house. As soon as she stepped in, she saw two doors marked A and B. The only other possible route was a wide staircase that led to the second floor. Grace dropped the bag and dug out the letter from her great-aunt, praying that her apartment was on the ground floor. She wasn’t sure she could make it up the stairs without passing out.

“Apartment A,” she breathed. “Thank God.”

She was reaching for the door when she realized the mistake and paused. She didn’t have a key. And—she looked at the letter again—her aunt hadn’t given a phone number.

Feeling stupid for even trying, she reached for the knob and tested it. It didn’t budge, of course. Who would leave a vacant apartment unlocked?

“Crap.”

Grace stood on her tiptoes and ran her fingers above the door frame. Nothing.

“Shit.”

When she looked down, she saw that her black boots were planted right in the middle of a doormat that said Howdy! inside a circled lasso. Her last hope was this rectangle of Western kitsch. Holding her breath, she stepped off and picked it up. Nothing.

“Damn it,” she groaned, letting her lungs empty on a growl of frustration as she glared down at the envelope in her hand. Her aunt’s return address was a P.O. box. She’d communicated only via letter to the friend’s address that Grace had used for return mail. And Grandma Rose never answered her cell phone.

On the off chance that it was the one time of day that her grandmother turned her cell on to check messages, Grace pulled out her crappy pay-as-you-go phone and dialed Grandma’s number. A few seconds later, Grace heard the beep of the voice-mail message starting, and her heart dropped. However Grandma eventually went, it wasn’t going to be from “radio wave brain cancer,” at least according to her.

Grace looked back to the letter in her hand, feeling hopeless. What was she going to do? Wander around town asking everyone if they knew her aunt? She’d been on a bus for two days. She’d thought she was about to get a break. Just a few hours to rest and let her guard down.

“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” She hauled back one boot and kicked her bag as hard as she could. It wasn’t hard enough. She pulled back her foot to do it again. The bag held everything she owned in the world, but right now, that seemed like the perfect reason to kick it. This was her life. Right here. Her whole crappy life in this beat-up, dirty camouflage bag.

“Damn it!” she screamed one more time as she kicked it hard enough to slide it six inches across the floor.

“That bag must’ve done something really shitty to get a little thing like you all riled up.”

Grace stomped her foot onto the floor and spun to face the low drawl, her heart slamming into a crazed beat. A man stood in the doorway of the other apartment. He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed and mouth turned up in an amused smile.

“Excuse me?” she snapped.

“Just wondering why you’re kicking the tar out of that bag, darlin’.”

“First of all, I’m not your darlin’. Second, it’s none of your business.”

His smile widened, revealing dimples in his tanned face. His tanned, granite-jawed, handsome face. “Really? None of my business? When a crazed banshee of a woman stands on my doorstep cursing her heart out on a beautiful Friday afternoon? Tends to pique my interest.”

“It’s my doorstep,” she corrected, hoping she was right. Hoping her aunt hadn’t decided to lease the apartment to somebody else in the week since she’d written.

His eyebrows shot up, and the man pushed up to his full height. “Your doorstep? Are you sure?”

Grace went for bravado and snorted. “Of course I’m sure.”

He shrugged one wide shoulder, and Grace was suddenly very aware that his plaid button-down shirt wasn’t actually buttoned down. It looked as though he’d just shrugged it on to come investigate the commotion in the hall, and when he moved, a long strip of skin showed from his neck all the way down to his waist. And then there were his jeans and the affectionate way they clung to strong thighs.

The Stud Farm, she suddenly remembered. What kind of place was this?

She shook off her thoughts. The man was wearing cowboy boots, for godssake. He was wholesome and homey. His thighs were none of her concern. But the sight of his boots reminded her that she was in Wyoming, which reminded her why she was in Wyoming and what a mess she’d made of her life. “Anyway,” she said with a scowl, “still none of your business.”

She grabbed the handle of her duffel bag and pulled it up with shaky arms. She couldn’t leave her bag here, but she didn’t know what she was going to do with it. She didn’t know what she was going to do with herself.

A surge of anger gave her the strength to bounce the bag higher in her grip, but she wasn’t going to make it to the curb, much less walk to… Where, exactly?

“Let me get that.” A large hand closed over the handle and lifted the weight from her grasp.

“Hey—” she started, but he’d already transferred the bag to his possession. He held it with one hand as if it were a pocketbook. Even more skin showed past his shirt now. Skin and muscle and golden hair.

While she was staring, he reached past her and opened the door.

He just…opened the door.

“What the hell?” she bit out.

He shot her a puzzled look. “You did say it was your place, right?”

“Yes, but…” She felt like smoke was about to come out her ears, and wanted to snatch her bag away and tell him to get lost. But her arms were so tired. “The door was locked,” she said past clenched teeth.

“It sticks a little. You have to pull back on it before you turn the knob.”

“So it was just open? Unlocked?”

“Nothing to steal here,” he said, gesturing with his free hand. “Where do you want this?”

Where, indeed? Now that they were inside, the apartment looked like an old converted place she’d once rented in L.A. White walls, scuffed wooden floors, a nondescript kitchen. But with little touches from the past, like a fireplace and built-in bookshelves. And not one single piece of furniture.

Somehow that hadn’t occurred to her.

“Right there is fine,” she murmured. “Thanks.” It didn’t really matter, after all. Living room, bedroom. They were equally empty rooms to her.

“Here?” the guy asked doubtfully.

“Yes, there. Thank you. I appreciate the help.”

“Yeah?” He smiled wide enough to show his dimples again. “Then why did you look like those words hurt coming out?”

She tried frowning at him, but he just stuck out his hand.

“I’m Cole, by the way. Cole Rawlins.”

“Grace Barrett,” she said. His wide hand engulfed hers, and though he didn’t squeeze hard, there was no mistaking the strength in those rugged hands. His calluses rasped against her fingers.

“Grace,” he murmured, his gaze rising momentarily to her hair.

“Yes. Grace.” She enjoyed the contradiction of her traditional, gentle name and her physical appearance.

This man recovered more quickly than most. “A pleasure,” he said simply. Then added, “Grace.”

She pulled her hand away at the intimacy of hearing him say her name as if it truly were a pleasure.

Cowboy freak. Though her hand tingled and she tried not to smile.

“You’re not from around here.” The understatement of the year.

“Look, I really do appreciate the help, but I need to find my aunt, so…” Give me some space?

He didn’t seem to hear that last, unspoken part of the conversation. “Your aunt?”

“I’m renting the apartment from her.”

“Wait a minute. Old Rayleen is your aunt?”

“My great-aunt, actually.”

“Ah. I get it, then.”

“Get what?” she asked.

“Why she’d rent this place to you.”

Grace straightened her shoulders and scowled. “Why exactly wouldn’t she rent this place to me, huh? Real nice, cowboy.”

She assumed he would stammer and shift and try to find some excuse, when what he really meant was that she didn’t look like a girl who belonged here. But instead of clearing his throat or changing the subject, he just grinned again.

“Let’s just say you’re a little smaller than the other renters here.”

Grace glanced around as if those other renters had just joined them. “I thought you Wyoming folk were supposed to be plainspoken. How about you try saying what you mean?”

“Talk about plainspoken. They don’t make ’em timid where you come from, do they? All right, here’s the deal. Your aunt has a reputation for renting only to men. Says that they’re easier to deal with.” The wry tone of his voice implied something different.

“Uh, is there something going on here I should know about?” When she shot an obvious look down his body, his eyes widened in horror.