Lone Star Nights

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.

Praise for Delores Fossen

“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

Praise

TITLE PAGE

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

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

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 hands down, the orneriest.

Lucky loved every bit of her ornery heart.

There’d been so many times when Lucky had walked away from her. Cursed her. Wished that he could tie her onto the back of a mean bucking bull and let the bull try to sling some sense into her. But he’d always gone back because the bottom line with Dixie Mae was that she was the only person who’d ever believed he could be something.

Powerful stuff like that would make a man put up with any level of orneriness.

The petite blonde nurse finally finished whatever she was doing to Dixie Mae and stepped away, but not before giving Lucky that sad, sympathetic look. And a stern warning. “Don’t give her any cigarettes. She’ll ask but don’t give her one.”

Lucky had already figured that out, both the asking part and don’t-give-her-one part. He didn’t smoke, but even if he did, he wouldn’t have brought her cigarettes. A shot of tequila maybe, but that would have been to steady his own nerves, not for Dixie Mae.

“She bribed the janitor,” the nurse added. “And she called a grocery clerk to offer him a thousand dollars to bring her a pack, but we stopped him before he could give them to her.”

“Assholes,” Dixie Mae declared. “A woman oughta be able to smoke when she wants to smoke.”

Lucky just sighed. It was that way of thinking that had put Dixie Mae in the hospital bed. That, and the other hard living she’d been doing for decades. And her advancing years, of course. Besides, since there was an oxygen tank nearby, it was possible the staff hadn’t simply wanted to deny her a smoke for her health’s sake but rather because they hadn’t wanted her to blow up the place.

“Are you close to her?” the nurse asked him. According to her name tag, she was Nan Watts.

“Nobody’s close to me,” Dixie Mae snarled. “But Lucky’s my boy. Not one of my blood, mind you, but my own blood son’s an asshole.” She added a profanity-riddled suggestion for what her son could do to himself.

The nurse blushed, but maybe Dixie Mae’s cussing gave her some ideas because on the way to the door, Nan Watts winked at Lucky. He nearly winked back. A conditioned reflex, but he wasn’t in a winking, womanizing kind of mood right now.

“Boy, you look lower than a fat penguin’s balls,” Dixie Mae said after the nurse left. She waggled her nicotine-yellowed fingers at him, motioning for him to come closer. “Did you bring me a cig?”

“No.” He ignored the additional profanity she mumbled. “Why are you here in Spring Hill?” Lucky asked. “Why didn’t you go to the hospital near your house in San Antonio?”

“I was here in town seeing somebody.”

Since Dixie Mae had been born in Spring Hill, it was possible she had acquaintances nearby, but Lucky doubted it.

“I’m worried about you,” Lucky admitted. He went to her, eased down on the corner of the metal table next to her bed.

“No need. I’m just dying, that’s all. Along with having a nicotine fit. By the way, that’s a lot worse than the dying.” She had to stop, take a deep breath. “My heart’s giving out. Did the doc tell you that when he called?”

“Yeah.” Lucky wanted to say more, but that lump in his throat sort of backed things up.

He touched his fingers to the tat.

“I know. It bothers you,” Dixie Mae said. Each word she spoke seemed to be a challenge, and her eyelids looked heavy, not just from the kilo of electric-blue eye shadow she had on them, either. “Have you thought maybe you’re all over the tat because you don’t want to think about the rest of this?”

There was no maybe about it. That’s exactly what it was. It was easier to focus on something else—anything else—rather than what was happening to Dixie Mae.

Lucky nodded. Shrugged. “But the tat really does bother me, too.”

She waved him off. Or rather tried. Not a lot of strength in her hand. “I was shit-faced when I got it. So was the tattoo guy.”

“P-e-i-c-e-s of my heart,” he read aloud. Complete with little heart bits that had probably once been red. They were now more the color of an old Hershey bar. And Dixie Mae’s wrinkles and saggy skin had given them some confusing shapes.

When he had first met Dixie Mae, Lucky had spent some time guessing what the shapes actually were. Not a disassembled United States map as he’d first thought.

But rather a broken heart.

With the way Dixie Mae carried on, sometimes it was hard to believe she even had a heart, and she’d never gotten around to explaining exactly who’d done such a thing to her. Or if the person had survived.

Lucky doubted it.

“I wish there was time to get it fixed for you.” He traced the outline of the heart piece that resembled the map of Florida but then drew back his fingers when he realized it could also be a penis tat. “I wish there was time for a lot of things.”

Like more time. This was too soon.

“No need. Besides, it’s not even the worst of the bunch. When I was younger, I got drunk a lot. And I went to the same tattoo guy,” Dixie Mae admitted. “You should see the one on my left ass cheek. I didn’t realize he needed a dictionary for the word ass.”

It wasn’t very manly to shudder, but Lucky just had this thing about misspelled words and didn’t want to see other examples of them, especially on her ass. Besides, there wouldn’t be many more moments with Dixie Mae, and he didn’t want to waste those moments on a discussion about the origins, shapes and locations of bad tats.

Dixie Mae dragged in a ragged breath, one that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was a two-packs-a-day smoker. Unfiltered, at that. “We’ve had a good run together, me and you. Haven’t we, boy? Made each other some money. Had some good times when I wasn’t kicking your butt or boxing your ears.”

“We’ve made some money all right,” he agreed.

As for the good times, Lucky would have to grade those on a curve.

She’d started sponsoring him in bull-riding events when he was nineteen, just a couple of weeks after his folks had died. When he’d turned twenty-five, Dixie Mae had allowed him to buy into her company. Lucky was nearly thirty-three now, and they were still partners. He did indeed help her run Weatherall-McCord Stock Show and Rodeo Promotions, but he hadn’t given up bull riding, mainly because he was better at it than the business side of things.

“I’ll miss you,” Lucky added. He cursed that lump in his throat again. Because it was true. He would miss her.

“Awww.” She dragged in another ragged breath. “That’s monkey shit, and we both know it.”

“No. It’s not. I will miss you.” And he meant it. He’d never thought he could love someone this much, not since his mother had passed, but he loved Dixie Mae.

Lucky couldn’t be sure, but he thought maybe her eyes watered a bit. Then she was back to her usual self. There was something comforting about that.

“I do have a favor to ask you,” she said. “That’s why I had the doc call you.”

Lucky nodded. “I’m here, and I’m listening.”

She patted his cheek. “The girls do like that pretty face of yours, but rust up your zippers a little. Or wear a bigger rodeo buckle. Might slow you down a bit so you can take time to enjoy something other than a woman’s secret place. Besides, some of those women you see don’t keep their places so secret.”

“Neither do I,” Lucky reminded her. Then he winked. It was a good use of what might be the last wink he’d ever give her.

“Don’t get fresh with me, boy. I don’t fall for monkey shit like that.”

He figured she was saying that just to take away the tension in the room. But then again, it was her normal, surly mood and one of her normal, surly sayings.

“Now, to that favor,” Dixie Mae went on. She took an envelope, one that had a couple of cigarette burns on it, from beside her on the bed and handed it to him. Her hands were shaking now. “I got nobody else to ask, but I need some help. And before you think about saying no, just remember this is my dying wish. A man wouldn’t be much of a man to deny an old dying woman her last wish.”

Yeah, a man like that would indeed have to be missing a pair. “I’ll do whatever you want. Anything.”

Lucky started to open the letter, but Dixie Mae stopped him by taking hold of his hand. “No. Don’t read it now. Save it for later. Let’s just sit here, take in the moment together.”

And she smiled.

Not that evil smile Lucky had seen her give before she’d thrown something at somebody, threatened them with bodily harm or cursed them out. This smile seemed to be the genuine article. She’d saved it just for him.

“Tell me about your ride today.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, and her eyelids drifted all the way down.

Lucky’s own voice didn’t fare much better. “Not much to tell, really. The bull won.”

“The bull usually does,” Dixie Mae whispered. She smiled again, then both her grip and the smile began to melt away.

And just like that, Dixie Mae Weatherall was gone.

Lucky tried to hold it together. Tried not to give in to the grief that felt heavy and cold in his chest. He brushed a kiss on her cheek, gathered her in his arms, and Dixie Mae’s “boy” cried like a baby.

CHAPTER TWO

CASSIE WEATHERALL FOUGHT back the tears. Fought for air, too.

Breathe.

She couldn’t actually say the word aloud. She couldn’t speak yet, but she repeated it in her head and hoped that it worked.

It didn’t.

Her heart continued to race, slamming so hard against her chest that she thought her ribs might break. Her throat closed up, strangling her.

This was just a panic attack, she reminded herself. All she needed to do was calm down and breathe.

That reminder still didn’t work so Cassie tried to force herself to think this through logically. She had enough adrenaline pumping through her to fight a bear. Maybe six of them. But there were no bears to fight here at Sweet Meadows Meditation and Relaxation Facility. Other than the grizzlies in her head anyway, though sometimes, like now, they felt worse than the real thing.

And speaking of her head, Cassie was no longer sure it was on her shoulders. Too much spinning. Wave after wave of panic. She couldn’t let anyone see her like this. Couldn’t let them know that she was broken and might never be fixed.

She went old-school and put her head between her knees. Of course, that meant sitting down, and while the path was good for walking and running, the small rocks dug into her butt and legs. Good.

Pain was good. Pain gave the adrenaline something else to battle other than the bears.

Breathe.

It was all about the breathing. All about taking in the right amount of air. Releasing the right amount, too. Cassie managed that part, but then the darkness came. The shaking. And her feet and hands started to go numb. That dumb-ass bear was going to win if she didn’t get hold of this right now.

She heard the sound of someone approaching, and Cassie struggled to get to her feet. Please, you can’t see me like this. But thankfully the footsteps stopped just on the other side of the path. There were thick shrubs between her and the person who’d made those footsteps.

“Miss Weatherall?” someone called out. Not a shout, but a soft, tentative voice.

Orin Dayton. The office manager at Sweet Meadows.

Cassie considered not answering him, but that would no doubt just prompt him to walk the twenty or so feet around the row of shrubs that divided her suite from the running trail. And then he would see her with her head between her knees, sweating, crying.

“Yes?” she forced herself to say.

“Uh, is something wrong, Miss Weatherall?” he asked.

“No. I overdid my run, and I’m a little queasy.” The lie was huge. So huge that Cassie looked up at the afternoon sky to make sure a lightning bolt wasn’t coming at her.

“All right,” he finally said. He used the tone of a person who wanted to believe the malarkey she’d just doled out. “A Dr. Knight from Los Angeles called a couple of minutes ago.”

Andrew. He was the only person other than Cassie who knew why she was really here at Sweet Meadows.

“I rang your room,” Orin went on, “but when you didn’t answer, Dr. Knight said to get you a message. That Dr. Stan Menger from a hospital in Spring Hill, Texas, is trying to reach you.”

Spring Hill. Her hometown. But Cassie didn’t know this Stan Menger. “What does Dr. Menger want?” Please not something that required her immediate attention. Not while she was battling a panic attack.

Orin paused again. “I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

Great. First, bears. Now, bad news. Since she’d already used what little supply of air she’d had left in her lungs, Cassie didn’t say anything else. She just waited for him to continue.

“There’s been a death, Miss Weatherall,” Orin said. “It’s your grandmother. Dr. Knight said you shouldn’t go home, though, that it wouldn’t be good for you right now. Dr. Knight said just to stay put and that he’ll take care of everything.”

But Orin was talking to himself because Cassie punched the last of the bears aside, got to her feet and ran to her room to pack.

* * *

DIXIE MAE DESERVED a lot better send-off than this. But considering she didn’t have a friend other than him in the tristate area, Lucky figured he shouldn’t be surprised there were only four people at her memorial service. Five, if he counted his brother Riley who’d dropped by earlier. Six, if he counted the sweaty-faced funeral director who kept popping in and out.

Lucky decided to count them both.

Dixie Mae’s driver, Manuel Rodriquez, was at the back of the room that the funeral home had set up. He was glaring at the flower-draped coffin, and the glare only got worse whenever his eyes landed on the four-foot-by-four-foot glossy picture that Dixie Mae had arranged to be placed beside her. No smile in this one, just a steely expression, as if she were picking a fight from beyond the grave.

Judging from Manuel’s glare, he’d likely been on the receiving end of too many of Dixie Mae’s fight-pickings.

Other than Manuel, the funeral director and Lucky, the only other guests were two women.

And Lucky used that term loosely.

It was hard to tell their ages, probably in their early twenties. Purple hair, purple nails, purple lips and boobs practically spilling out of their purple tube tops. Yet another loosely used term because the tops were more like Band-Aids.

Since Dixie Mae’s only child, her estranged son, Mason-Dixon, owned a strip joint on the outskirts of town, it was possible these two were his employees. Perhaps he’d sent them to see if his mom had left him some kind of inheritance.

Good luck with that.

Dixie Mae had probably figured out a way to take every penny to the grave. Or skip the grave completely. Plus, Dixie Mae wasn’t exactly fond of her son and would have given her money to his strippers rather than the man she’d called her shit-head spawn.

Lucky hadn’t been able to get in touch with Dixie Mae’s only other living relative, her granddaughter, Cassie, though Lucky and Dixie Mae’s doctor had left her a couple of messages at her office in Los Angeles. Whether she’d show up was anyone’s guess.

He heard someone come in and turned, hoping it was a mourner who’d make this memorial service actually look like one. But it was only his twin brother, Logan.

Logan and he were identical in looks, but that was where any and all similarities ended. Logan was the responsible, successful tycoon who ran the family business, McCord Cattle Brokers, and had been in charge of it since their parents had been killed in a car wreck fourteen years ago. Lucky was the screwup. Considering their other brother had been an Air Force special-ops super troop and his sister was the smartest woman in Texas, it meant all the good family labels had been taken anyway.

Screwup suited him just fine.

Fewer expectations that way.

After having a short chat with Manuel, Logan came to the front where Lucky was standing. Even though Logan ran a cattle-brokerage company—and ran it well, of course—there were no bullshit smells coming from his boots that thudded on the parquet floor. With his crisp white button-up shirt and spotless jeans, he looked as if he were modeling for the cover of Texas Monthly magazine.

Logan had done exactly that—a couple of times.

“Are those Mason-Dixon’s girls from the strip club?” Logan hitched his thumb to the pair in the back.

Lucky shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. I introduced myself when they arrived, but the only response I got was a grunt from one of them.” He’d been afraid to ask anything else since even the smallest movement might cause those tube tops to explode.

“Did Dixie Mae go peacefully?” Logan asked.

“As peacefully as Dixie Mae could ever go anywhere. Thanks for coming. She would have appreciated it.”

“No, she wouldn’t have, but I didn’t come here for her. Are you okay?”

The funny thing about having an identical twin was being able to look into eyes that were a genetic copy of Lucky’s own. The other funny thing about that was despite the screwup label, Logan’s eyes showed that his question and his concern were the real deal.

“I’m fine.” Lucky patted his back jeans pocket. “Dixie Mae gave me a letter right before she died.”

“What does it say?” Those genetically identical eyes got skeptical now. So did Logan’s tone. Lucky couldn’t blame him. Dixie Mae brought that out in people.

“Haven’t read it yet. Thought I’d wait until this was over.” Until after he’d had a little more time to deal with her death. A few shots of Jameson, too. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ll miss her.”

Lucky didn’t see Logan’s hand move before he felt it on his back. A brotherly pat. Just one. It was more than most folks got.

“What will you do with the rodeo business now that she’s gone?” Logan asked.

“Dixie Mae and I talked about it. She wants me to keep it going.” It was her legacy in a way. His, too, since the name of the company was Weatherall-McCord Stock Show and Rodeo Promotions. “But it’s a lot of work for one person.” He poked Logan with his elbow. “Want to help me?”

Logan shrugged. “We could incorporate it into McCord Cattle Brokers. That way you could use the administrative staff I have in place. Plus, there’s an office already set up for you here in Spring Hill.”

Considering that Logan hadn’t even paused before that suggestion, it meant he’d been giving it some thought. Well, Lucky had, too, and the rodeo business was his. He didn’t know how he was going to run it all by himself, but he wasn’t going to be lured back to Spring Hill and be under Logan’s thumb.

That thumb might also be a genetic copy of Lucky’s own, but it had a way of crushing people.

“I need to get back to the office,” Logan added, already looking at the exit. “We’ve got a cutting-horse trainer coming in today, and I could use some help. Maybe when you’re finished here, you can come on home?”