Rich, Rugged Rancher

Can this lone wolf be tamed?

“Why aren’t you pushing me away?”

“Because you kiss like a dream.”

Ever since the accident that took his leg, oil tycoon Clint Rockwell doesn’t do relationships—he likes being alone. And he doesn’t need anyone’s pity. Then fast-talking reality star Fee Martinez sweeps into Royal, Texas, on to his ranch…and into his bed. It’s only for a night, and then two. Wanting more is impossible, but this goodbye might be the hardest thing he’s ever done…

JOSS WOOD loves books and travelling—especially to the wild places of southern Africa and, well, anywhere. She’s a wife, a mum to two teenagers and slave to two cats. After a career in local economic development, she now writes full-time. Joss is a member of Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of South Africa.

Also by Joss Wood

Love in Boston miniseries

Friendship on Fire

Hot Christmas Kisses

The Rival’s Heir

Second Chance Temptation

Dynasties: Secrets of the A-List miniseries

Redeemed by Passion

Texas Cattleman’s Club: Inheritance miniseries

Rich, Rugged Rancher

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Rich, Rugged Rancher

Joss Wood

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90407-4

RICH, RUGGED RANCHER

© 2020 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Epilogue

About the Publisher

One

“So, have you bagged your cowboy yet?”

Seraphina Martinez whipped the rented convertible onto the open road leading to Blackwood Hollow Ranch and punched the accelerator, ignoring Lulu’s squeal of surprise at the sudden burst of speed.

“Slow down, Fee. I don’t want to die on a lonely road in East Texas,” Lulu grumbled.

“Relax, it’s an empty road, Lu,” Fee replied, glad she’d wrangled her thick hair into two fat braids—as opposed to Lulu who was fighting, and losing, the war with the wind.

Lulu held her hair back from her face and glared at Fee. “I’m going to look like I’ve been dragged through a bush when we get there.”

Fee shrugged.

Perfect makeup, perfect clothes, perfect hair…being a reality TV star took work, dammit.

“Well, have you?” Fee demanded.

“Found a cowboy? No, not yet,” Lulu replied.

“What about the lawyer guy who seems to be everywhere we are lately?” Fee asked. While scouting filming locations for Secret Lives of NYC Ex-Wives, the attorney for the Blackwood estate had been everywhere they looked, keeping his lawyerly eye on Miranda Blackwood and the rest of the cast and crew.

“Kace LeBlanc?” Lu asked, aiming for super casual and missing by a mile.

Fee darted a look at her best friend, amused. Of course she had noticed the looks Lulu sent Kace when she didn’t think anyone was looking. Lu thought the attorney was hot. And, with his unruly brown hair and those gorgeous brown eyes, he was…until he opened his mouth. Then he acted like she and her costars and the crew were going to break his precious town of Royal or something.

“The guy is a pill,” Lulu said before sighing. “God, he’s hot but he’s so annoying.”

Fee agreed but she also admired Kace’s determination to look after the late Buck Blackwood’s interests and to ensure the terms of his will were followed to the letter. And the terms of the will were, from the little she’d gleaned, astonishing. She couldn’t blame his kids for being pissed off at Buck for leaving everything he owned to Fee’s co-star Miranda, who was his ex and as New York as she and Lulu were. It had to be a hard slap to their born-and-bred Texas faces.

If they’d scripted this story for Secret Lives, their viewers would think they were making it up—aging billionaire leaves much, much younger second wife everything at the expense of his children. Buck also, so she’d heard, had an illegitimate son and this news didn’t seem to surprise anyone. Buck, apparently, had liked the ladies.

This plot twist was ratings gold, pure made-for-TV drama.

Lulu looked to her right, her attention captured by a herd of Longhorn cows.

“Did you ever live in Texas?” Lulu asked her, still holding her hair back with two hands.

Fee took some time to answer, trawling through her memories. Being an army brat and having a father who jumped at any chance to move, she’d lived all over the country and attended fourteen schools in twelve years. But she couldn’t recall living in Texas.

“I think we did a stint in New Mexico,” Fee replied. “But I was young. I don’t remember much of it.”

Lulu turned in her seat and Fee felt her eyes on her. “I’m still amazed at your excitement over visiting a new place. We’ve been doing this for years, Fee. Aren’t you sick of all the traveling? Don’t you miss your own bed?”

Fee sent her a quick smile. “I rent my apartment furnished, Lu. You know that I don’t get attached to things or places.” She might live in Manhattan but she wasn’t as attached to the city as her co-stars were.

“Because you moved so often when you were a child.”

“I learned that if you get attached, it hurts like hell when you have to leave.” Fee shrugged. “So, it makes sense not to get attached.”

“Do you think you’ll ever settle down?”

That was a hell of a question. Maybe, possibly, she might one day find a town or city she didn’t want to leave. But, because she was a realist, she knew that, while she might stay in a place a couple of months or a few years, she would probably end up moving on. It was what she did.

The grass was always greener around the next corner…

And if you didn’t get attached, you couldn’t get hurt, especially by people. Her nomadic parents and her own brief marriage to the philandering son of one of NYC’s most famous families had taught her that.

She loved people, she did, but underneath her exuberant personality still resided a little girl who knew that relationships (and places) were temporary and believing that any commitment would last was crazy.

She was currently living in Manhattan, in a gorgeous but expensive fully furnished rental in Chelsea. Her practical streak hated the idea of renting when she could easily afford to buy an apartment but Manhattan wasn’t a place where she could put down roots. When Secret Lives ended, she’d move on, but for now she was comfortable. Not settled but, yeah, temporarily okay with where she laid her head.

She was the captain of her own ship, the author of her own book. And if she was using Secret Lives to feather her own nest, to make bank, that was her business. She might be loud, frequently over-the-top, but she was also pragmatic and fully understood how quickly things could change. And if her situation did change—Secret Lives was popular now but that could change tomorrow—she wanted her nest to be well feathered.

Because, as she knew, moving from place to place, town to town, wasn’t cheap.

And that was why she took every opportunity to maximize her little taste of fame: first with the line of accessories she’d created using her husband’s famous last name. Her Not Your Mama’s Cookbook, written last year, was still on the bestseller lists. Maybe she should think about doing another cookbook…or something else entirely.

It was something to think about.

“Have you decided on your Royal project yet?” Lulu asked her, breaking her train of thought.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Fee answered, injecting a healthy amount of prim into her tone.

Lulu rolled her eyes. “You can’t BS me, Fee. I know it was you who organized giving last season’s intern a makeover. Who set Pete, our lighting director, up with Dave, the sound guy. Who read the scriptwriter’s—what was his name?—screenplay? Miranda might be our Mama Bear but you are our Little Miss Fix-It.”

Fee wrinkled her nose. Little Miss Fix-It? She opened her mouth to speak then realized she couldn’t argue the point. She did tend to identify a need and try to meet it.

“I don’t know if I’ll find anyone to fix in Royal. I think I’ll take a break from meddling while I’m there.”

Lulu’s laughter danced on the wind. “Yeah, right. That’s not going to happen.”

Fee frowned at her. “What? I can back off!”

“You cannot!” Lulu retorted. “Honey, we’re always getting into trouble because you can’t leave a situation alone! We nearly got arrested when you jumped between those two guys fighting in Nero’s, and we did get arrested when you—” Lulu bent her fingers to make air quotes “—confiscated that abused horse in Kentucky. You are constantly getting trolled on social media because you stand up for LGBT rights, women’s rights, immigrants’ rights. That’s not a criticism, I admire your outspokenness, but you don’t have to fight every fight, babe.”

Fee knew that. But she also knew what it was like to have no one fighting in her corner, no one to rely on. She knew how it felt to feel invisible and when she stepped out of the shadows, how it felt to be mocked and bullied.

God, she’d come a long way.

“I guarantee you will find a project and you won’t be able to resist meddling,” Lulu told her, blue eyes laughing.

“Want to bet?” Fee asked her as they approached the enormous gates to what was Buck Blackwood’s—now Miranda’s—ranch. The gates to Blackwood Hollow appeared and she flung the car to the right and sped down the long driveway. Lu hissed and Fee grinned.

“What’s the bet?” Lulu asked, gripping the armrest with white fingers. “And you drive like a maniac.”

“You give me your recipe for Miss Annie’s fried chicken for my next cookbook, if I decide to do another one.” She’d been trying to pry Lulu’s grandma’s recipe from her since the first time Lulu fed her the delicious extra-crispy chicken at a small dinner five years earlier.

“She’ll come back and haunt me.” Lulu gasped, placing her hand on her chest. “I can’t. Just like you can’t stop yourself from meddling…”

“I can. And you know I can or else you wouldn’t be hesitating…”

Lu narrowed her eyes at Fee as they approached a cluster of buildings that looked like a Hollywood vision of a working ranch. A sprawling mansion, guest cottages, massive barns. Despite visiting the spread days before, it was still breathtaking.

“There’s the crew’s van.” Lulu pointed toward the far barn and Fee tapped the accelerator as she drove past the main house that went on and on and on.

“What could be so interesting down by the barns?” Fee wondered.

“That.”

Fee looked where Lulu pointed and…holy crispy fried chicken. A man riding a horse at a gallop around a ring shouldn’t be a surprise, but what a man and what a horse. Fee didn’t know horses—she thought the speckled black-and-white horse might be a stallion—but she did know men.

And the cowboy was one hell of a man. Broad shoulders, muscled thighs, big biceps straining the sleeves of his faded T-shirt. She couldn’t see the color of his hair or the lines on his face, the Stetson prevented her from making out the details, but his body was, like the horse, all sleek muscles and contained strength.

Hot, hot, hot…

He also looked familiar. Where did she know him from?

Fee took her foot off the accelerator and allowed the car to roll toward to where the other vehicles—the crew’s van, a battered work truck and a spiffy SUV—were parked. All her attention was focused on the horse and rider, perfectly in sync. He seemed oblivious to his audience: a couple of cowboys sitting on the top railing of the fence and Miranda, Rafaela and Zooey standing with their arms on the white pole fence, their attention completely captured by the rider hurtling around the ring in a blur of hooves and dust.

God, he was heading straight for the fence. They’d either crash through it or he’d have to jump it because there was no way he’d be able to stop the horse in time.

Fee released the wheel and slapped her hands over her mouth, her attention completely caught by the drama in the paddock. She wanted to scream out a warning and was on the point of doing so when the rider yanked on the reins and the stallion braked instantly, stopping when his nose was just an inch from the fence.

That collision didn’t happen, but another did when Fee’s very expensive rented Audi convertible slammed into the bumper of the battered farm truck.

Lulu released a small shriek and Fee flung her arm out in a futile effort to keep Lulu from lurching forward. Their seat belts kept them in place but metal scraped against metal and steam erupted from her car as the hood got up close and personal with the back of the rust-covered truck.

“Are you okay?” Fee demanded, looking at Lulu.

“Fine,” Lulu replied, then winced at the carnage in front of her. “Your car is toast, though—the hood is crumpled.”

“I can see that.” Fee nodded, releasing her seat belt. “How come it’s always the crap cars that sustain the least damage?”

“That crap car is a seventy-two Chevy pickup I am in the process of restoring.”

Fee yanked her eyes off Lulu and turned her head to the right, looking straight into faded denim covering strong thighs and a very nice package.

Strong, broad hands rested on his hips, the veins rising on his tanned forearms lightly covered with blond hair. The red T-shirt had faded to orange in places but the chest underneath it was broad and those biceps were big and bitable. His horse—had they jumped the fence to get to her so quickly?—laid its chin on the cowboy’s shoulder but neither she, nor the cowboy, were distracted by the animal’s interference in their conversation.

Fee kept her focus on him, utterly entranced by his strong face, the blond stubble covering his chiseled jaw, the thin lips, the long, straight nose. The feeling of familiarity coalesced into certainty, she’d seen him before, this cowboy—here at Blackwood Hollow a few days before—but she couldn’t recall his name. Probably because he’d just fried most of her brain cells.

She wanted to see his eyes; no, she needed to see his eyes. On impulse, Fee clambered up to stand on her car seat.

God he was tall. Fee pushed the rim of his Stetson up with her finger, her eyes clashing with the deepest, saddest, green-gold-gray eyes.

Hard eyes, angry eyes, sad, sad eyes.

Fee couldn’t decide what she wanted to do more, hug him or jump him.

Save the horse and ride the cowboy, indeed.

Clint Rockwell was a guy of few words but if Buck Blackwood were magically resurrected, he’d have had more than a few to hurl at his friend and mentor’s head. What the hell had he been thinking to ask Clint to mind the property during his long illness and after his death?

Since Buck’s funeral, Clint had been coming over to Blackwood Hollow a few times a week, to check on the hands and to exercise Buck’s demon horse, Jack.

He and Jack were finally starting to bond and their skills were improving. Clint lifted his hand to hold Jack’s cheek, enjoying the puffs of horse breath against his neck.

Animals were cool; people were not.

People hurt people—and sometimes things, his pickup being a case in point. Ignoring Jack, Clint walked over to the hood of the Audi convertible and dropped to his haunches to inspect the damage to his pickup. He didn’t much care about the damage to the convertible, they were dime a dozen, but his truck was vintage and worth a pretty penny.

Hey, Rock, if I don’t make it, finish my truck for me. Only original parts, man, gold and cream.

You are going to make it because if you don’t, I’m going to paint it pink and white, Clint had told him, his hand in the hole in Tim’s chest, trying to stem the river of blood soaking his hand, Tim’s clothing and the dirt road beneath them.

They’d both known Clint’s optimism was a lie, that Tim needed blood and a surgeon and that he was out of time.

I’ll haunt you if you do anything stupid to my baby, Tim had muttered.

This accident probably qualified as a haunting.

Hell, Clint didn’t sleep anyway, so Tim was welcome to pop in for a chat. His army ranger buddies were the only people Clint liked being around for any length of time, the only people on the planet who understood. They’d seen what he had, had watched men they loved be blown apart, women and children die, buildings being ravaged and lives destroyed.

They got him.

Civilians didn’t.

Oh, the people in this town tried, sure. No man with his money and property ever had to be lonely if he didn’t want to be. He wanted to be. His army days were behind him and he was now a rancher and oilman—more rancher than oilman, truth be told. His land and animals were what mattered.

Shaking off his thoughts, Clint stood up, automatically using his good leg to take his weight. He had to stop doing that; he had to start treating his prosthetic as another leg but, shit, it was hard. Leaving the force had been hard, losing a limb had nearly killed him and being forced to deal with people, civilians, was the cherry on his crap sundae.

Clint turned and cursed when he saw he was the focus of much attention and quickly, and automatically, took in all the salient details. Since he was still ignoring the driver of the convertible—he wasn’t ready to deal with her yet—he turned his attention to the passenger. Sporting glossy black hair with dark eyes, she’d left the car and was standing with Miranda Blackwood, Buck’s ex-wife. With them was also a fresh-faced beauty and an Italian bombshell who reminded him of one of Grandpa’s favorite actresses, Sophia Loren.

The four women, Buck’s ex-wife and her reality TV co-stars, watched him with avid interest. They looked as out of place as he would on a catwalk, their spiked heels digging into the grass, designer sunglasses covering their eyes.

The Blackwood ranch hands couldn’t keep their eyes off them…

He uttered a low, sharp order for them to get back to work and they hopped off the fence with alacrity, tossing admiring looks at the New Yorkers as they ambled off.

The next problem was to get the cars untangled so he could accurately assess the damage to Tim’s truck. But first he had to take care of Jack: animals first, things later.

Clint called out to a hand and when he jogged back to where Clint was standing, Clint passed him Jack’s reins. “Can you cool him down, then brush him for me?”

“Sure, boss.”

Clint didn’t correct him since he was, by Buck’s decree, the temporary boss. And ordering people around wasn’t something new to him; he’d been the owner–operator of Rockwell Ranch since he was eighteen and a lieutenant in Delta Force. Despite their enormous wealth, thanks to ranching and business acumen and large deposits of oil, serving was family tradition: his great grandfather saw action in France in 1917, his grandfather fought the Japanese in the Philippines. His father did two years in the military but never saw any action. His dad didn’t see much of anything, having died shortly before Clint’s fifth birthday.

Anyway, it felt natural to join the army, and then it felt natural to become one of the best of the best.

Excellence was what he did.

Jack stepped on his foot as he walked away—bastard horse—and Clint didn’t react. If he’d been alone, he’d have told Jack he’d lost his leg above the knee and having his foot stood on barely registered on his pain-o-meter but there were people about. He never discussed his prosthetic leg, ever.

Mostly because he was allergic to pity and he was terrified of people thinking he was weak. He might be half the man he’d once been but he’d rather die than allow people to coddle him.

He didn’t need anybody or anything…not anymore.

But he did need this damn car moved.

“Look, I’m sorry, I lost focus.”

She sounded more defensive than sorry, Clint decided as he walked back to the driver’s door of the Audi. The driver was now sitting on the top of the front seat, brand-new cowboy boots on the white leather. Clint started there, at those feet, and slowly made his way upward. Now that the red haze had lifted from his vision—he was still mad as hell but he was in control—he could take in the details.

Holy crap…

Slim legs in skin-tight blue jeans, curvy hips and a teeny waist he was sure he could span with his hands. She wore a lacy, button-down shirt and a heap of funky necklaces. Two thick braids, deep brown at the top and lighter at the ends, rested on a fantastic pair of breasts.