The Texas Outlaws

“Damn straight. Why, I was up all night with indigestion. As the leader of this fine community—” he wagged a finger at her “—it’s your job to clean it up.”

O-kay.

“I’ll, um, stop by the diner and see what I can do.”

He threw up his hands. “That’s all I’m askin’, little lady.”

Her gaze shifted back to Jesse, who now stood on the other side of the arena talking to two men she didn’t recognize. They weren’t real working cowboys but rather the slick, wealthy types who flew in every now and then to buy or sell livestock. With their designer boots and high-dollar hats, they probably intimidated most men, but not Jesse. He held his own, a serious look on his face as he motioned to the black bull thrashing around a nearby stall.

“That boy’s too damned big for his britches sometimes,” Eli muttered.

Her gaze dropped and her breath caught. Actually, he filled out said britches just right.

She watched as he untied his chaps and tossed them over a nearby railing, leaving nothing but a tight pair of faded denims that clung to him like a second skin, outlining his sinewy thighs and trim waist and tight, round butt—

“It’s mighty nice of you to come out and warn him.” Her gaze snapped up and she glanced at the old man next to her. “Even if he don’t realize it.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I stop by every day.”

Not anymore.

But for those blissful three weeks before they’d graduated, she’d been a permanent fixture on the corral fence, watching him every afternoon after school. Snapping pictures of him. Dreaming of the day when she could leave Lost Gun behind and turn her hobby into a passion.

She’d wanted out of this map dot just as bad as he had. Then.

And now.

She stiffened against the sudden thought. She was happy with her life here. Content.

And even if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. She was here. She was staying. End of story.

“Still, you didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” Eli went on.

“Just looking out for my soon-to-be constituents.” No way did Gracie want to admit that she’d come because she still cared about Jesse. Because she still dreamed of him. Because she still wanted him.

No, this was about doing the right thing to make up for the wrong she’d done so long ago. She’d had her chance to warn him the first time, and she’d chickened out for fear that seeing him would crumble her resolve and resurrect the wild child she’d been so desperate to bury.

She’d lived with the guilt every day since.

“Tell him to be careful.” She took one last look at Jesse, fought against the emotion that churned down deep and walked away.

* * *

“THAT MAGAZINE ARTICLE was right about you. You sure put on one helluva show.” The words were followed by a steady clap-clap-clap as Billy Chisholm, Jesse’s youngest brother, walked toward him. Billy was four years younger and eagerly chasing the buckle Jesse had won just last year. “I particularly liked that little twist you did when you flew into the air.” He grinned. “Right before you busted your tail.”

Jesse glared. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I wouldn’t be either if I’d just ate it in front of everyone and the horse they rode in on.”

But Jesse wasn’t concerned about everyone. Just a certain buttoned-up city official with incredible blue eyes.

He barely resisted the urge to steal one last look at her. Not that he hadn’t seen her over the years when he’d happened into town—across a crowded main street, through the dingy windows of the local feed store. It was just that those times had been few and far between because Jesse hated Lost Gun as much as the town hated him, and so he’d kept his distance.

But this was different.

She’d been right in front of him. Close enough to touch. To feel. He could still smell her—the warm, luscious scent of vanilla cupcakes topped with a mountain of frosting.

Sweet.

Decadent.

Enough to make him want to cross the dusty arena separating them, pull her into his arms and see if she tasted half as good as he remembered.

Want.

Yep, he still wanted her, all right. The thing was, he didn’t want to want her, because she sure as hell didn’t want him.

He’d thought so at one time. She’d smiled and flirted and rubbed up against him, and he’d foolishly thought she was into him. He’d been a hormone-driven eighteen-year-old back then and he’d fallen hard and fast.

He was a grown-ass man now and a damn sight more experienced. Enough to know that Gracie Stone was nothing special in the big scheme of things. There were dozens of women out there, and Jesse indulged in more than his fair share. And while they all tasted as sweet as could be at first, the sweetness always faded. The sex soon lost its edge. And then Jesse cut ties and moved on to the next.

“...can’t remember the last time you bit the bullet like that,” Billy went on. “What the hell happened? Did someone slap you with a ten-pound bag of stupid?”

Okay, maybe Gracie was a little special. She’d been the only woman in his past to break things off with him first, before he’d had a chance to lose interest.

He would have, he reminded himself.

Guaran-damn-teed.

From the corner of his eye, he watched her disappear around the holding pens. The air rushed back into his lungs, but his muscles didn’t ease.

He was still uptight. Hot. Bothered.

Stupid.

He stiffened and focused on untying the gloves from his hands.

“Alls I can say is thanks, bro,” Billy went on. “I bet a wad of cash on your ride just now. My truck payment, as a matter of fact.”

Jesse arched an eyebrow. “And you’re thanking me for losing your shirt?”

Billy clapped him on the shoulder and sent an ache through his bruised body. “I didn’t bet on you, bro. I bet against you.” He winked. “Saw that little gal come round the corner and I knew things were going to get mighty interesting.”

Forget stupid. He was pissed.

“She came to warn me,” Jesse bit out, his mouth tight. “They’re shooting a ‘Where Are They Now?’ special next week,” he told his brother. “A follow-up to Famous Texas Outlaws.”

Billy’s grin faltered for a split second. “You okay with that?”

Jesse shrugged. “I can handle my fair share of reporters. You know that.”

“True enough.” Billy nodded before sliding him a sideways glance. “But if you want a little peace and quiet, you can always send them my way.” He winked and his grin was back. “I like getting my picture taken.”

Billy had been fourteen at the time and excited about being in the limelight. He hadn’t been the least bit unnerved by the endless questions about their father’s death six years prior, because he’d been too young to really comprehend the gravity of what Silas Chisholm had done. Too young to remember the police and the accusations and the desperate search to recover the money that their father had stolen. Rather, he’d seen the media circus as a welcome distraction from an otherwise shitty life.

“Gracie wants me to lie low,” Jesse added. “She thinks it’ll help the town.”

“And here I thought she came all the way out here because she wanted a piece of PBR’s reigning champion.”

If only.

Jesse stuffed his gloves into his pocket and fought the longing that coiled inside of him.

Gracie Stone was off-limits.

She’d broken his heart and while it was all water under the bridge now, he had no intention of paddling upstream ever again.

Then again, it wasn’t his heart that had stirred the moment he’d come face-to-face with her again. Despite the years that had passed, the chemistry was still as strong as ever.

Stronger, in fact.

And damned if that realization didn’t bother him even more than the fact that he’d just landed on his ass in front of an arena full of cowboys. Since Tater Tot had been the ornery bull responsible, he’d just become that much more valuable to the two buyers now waiting inside Jesse’s office in a nearby building.

So maybe Gracie’s visit wasn’t a complete bust after all.

“I’ve got papers to sign.” He motioned to the glass-walled office that overlooked the corral. “Get your gear and get in the chute if you want a turn on Tater Tot before they pack him up and ship him out. And you’d better make it quick because we’ve got a tuxedo fitting in a half hour and the clock’s ticking.”

“Sure thing, bro.” A grin cut loose from ear to ear. “After that piss-poor display, somebody’s gotta show you how it’s done.”

3

IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower Gracie had to bypass the one and only bakery in Lost Gun and head for the town square.

Sure, she eased up on the gas pedal and powered down her window to take in the delicious scent of fresh-baked goodies as she rolled past Sarah’s Sweets, but still. She didn’t slam on the brakes and make a beeline for the overflowing counter inside. No red velvet cupcakes or buttercream-frosted sugar cookies for this girl. And no—repeat no—Double-Fudge Fantasy Brownies rich in trans fat and high in cholesterol.

Which explained why her hands still trembled and her stomach fluttered when she walked into City Hall.

“How’s my favorite mayor-elect?” asked the thirtysomething bleached blonde sitting behind the desk in the outer office with a chocolate Danish in front of her.

Longing clawed down deep inside of Gracie, but she tamped it back down. “Fine.”

“Methinks you are one terrible liar.” Trina Lovett popped a bite of pastry into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of black coffee.

Trina had been working for Gracie’s uncle—the current mayor—since she’d graduated high school sixteen years ago—four years before Gracie. Trina had been part of a rise-above-your-environment program that helped young people from impoverished homes—a trailer on the south end of town in Trina’s case—find jobs.

He’d hit the jackpot with Trina, who was not only a hard worker but knew everything about everybody. She’d been instrumental in the past few elections—particularly in a too-close-for-comfort runoff with the local sheriff a few years back. E.J. had won, of course, due to his compassionate nature and Trina’s connections down at the local honky-tonk. The young woman had bought five rounds of beers the day of the election and earned the forty-two votes needed to win.

Trina had also been instrumental in the most recent campaign, which had seen Gracie take the mayoral race by a landslide.

In exactly two weeks to the day, Gracie Elizabeth Stone would take the sacred oath and step up as the town’s first female mayor.

Two weeks, three hours and forty-eight minutes.

Not that she was counting.

“You saw Jesse, didn’t you?” When Gracie nodded, Trina’s bright red lips parted in a smile. “Tell me everything. I caught him on the ESPN channel a few weeks back, but all I could see was a distant view of him straddling a bull for dear life.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “What I wouldn’t have given to be that bull.”

“You work for a public official. You know that, right?”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a wad. It’s not like I’m tweeting it or posting to my Facebook status. This is a private conversation.” She beamed. “So? What’s he really like up close? Does he still have those broad shoulders? That great ass?”

Yes and yes.

She stiffened and focused on leafing through the stack of mail on Trina’s desk. “I’d, um, say he’s aged well.”

“Seriously? I suppose you look ready to scarf an entire box of cupcakes because of some cowboy who’s aged well?”

“I suppose he’s still hot, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I am.” Trina beamed. “I most definitely am.”

Gracie frowned. “Not that it makes a difference. I went there strictly in an official capacity. I went. I spoke. He heard. End of story.”

Trina regarded her for a long, assessing moment. “He told you to get lost, didn’t he?”

“No.” The brave face she’d put on faltered. “Yes. I mean, he didn’t say it outright—there were no distinct verbs or colorful nouns—but he might as well have.”

“Ouch.” Her gaze swept Gracie from head to toe and she pursed her bright red lips. “But I can’t say as I blame him. You look like you’re going to Old Man Winthrow’s wake.”

“I do black for funerals. This is navy.”

“Same thing.” She gave Gracie another visual sweep with her assessing blue eyes. “Listen here, girlfriend, men don’t take time out of their day to notice navy. It takes a hot color to keep a man from tossing you out on your keister. Red. Neon pink. Even a print—like cheetah or zebra. Something that says you’ve got a sex drive and you know how to use it. And the skimpier, the better, too. Show a little leg. Some cleavage. Men like cleavage. It gets their full attention every time.”

“For the last time—this wasn’t a social visit.” Gracie eyed Trina’s black leather miniskirt. “I’m a public figure. I can’t prance around looking like an extra from Jersey Shore. Besides, he hates me, and a dress—skimpy or not—isn’t going to change that.”

“I’m telling you, a good dress is like magic. Slip it on and it’ll transform you from a stuffy politician into a major slut. You do remember how much fun being a little slutty can be, don’t you?”

As if she could ever forget.

She’d been the baddest girl in high school with the worst reputation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked doing the unexpected and following her gut and having some fun. And she’d really liked Jesse James Chisholm.

So much so that she’d been ready to put off attending the University of Texas—her uncle’s alma mater—to follow Jesse onto the rodeo circuit. To continue their wild ride together, cheer him on and take enough live-action shots to launch her dream career as a photographer.

But then Jackson had been killed, and Charlie had stopped talking for six months. She’d realized then that she couldn’t just turn her back on her little sister and go her own way as her brother had done after their parents had died. Charlie needed her.

And she needed Charlie.

So she’d packed up her camera and her dreams and started playing it safe. She’d followed in her uncle’s footsteps, securing a business degree before taking a position as city planner.

Meanwhile, Jesse had ridden every bull from here to Mexico.

They were worlds apart now, and when they did happen to land within a mile radius of each other, the animosity was enough to keep the wall between them thick. Impenetrable.

Animosity because not only had Gracie stood him up on the night they were supposed to leave, but she’d refused to talk to him about it, terrified that if she heard his voice or saw him up close, her determination would crumble. Fearful that the bad girl inside of her would rear her ugly head and lust would get the better of her.

Lust, not love.

She hadn’t been able to leave with Jesse, and she’d refused to ask him to give up his life’s dream to stay with her in a town that had caused him nothing but pain, and so she’d done the best thing for both of them—she’d broken off all contact.

And her silence had nearly cost him his career.

Not this time.

She’d given him fair warning about the inevitable influx of reporters and now she could get back to work and, more important, forget how good he smelled and how his eyes darkened to a deep, fathomless shade of purple whenever he looked at her.

She fought down the sudden yearning that coiled inside of her. “I don’t do slut anymore,” she told her assistant.

“Duh.” Trina shrugged. “You’ve been wearing those Spanx so long, you’ve forgotten how to peel them off and cut loose.”

If only.

But that was the trouble in a nutshell. She’d never really forgotten. Deep in her heart, in the dead of night, she remembered what it felt like to live for the moment, to feel the rush of excitement, to walk on the wild side. It felt good—so freakin’ good—and she couldn’t help but want to feel that way again.

Just once.

Not that she was acting on that want. No way. No how. No sirree. Charlie needed a home and the people of Lost Gun needed a mayor, and Gracie needed to keep her head on straight and her thoughts out of the gutter.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” she blurted, eager to get them back onto a safer subject. “City council meeting? Urgent political strategy session? Constituent meet and greet?” She needed something—anything—to get her mind off Jesse James Chisholm and the fact that he’d looked every bit as good as she remembered. And then some. “Surely Uncle E.J. left a big pile of work before he headed for Port Aransas to close on the new house?”

“Let’s see.” Trina punched a few buttons on her computer. “You’re in luck. You’ve got a meeting with Mildred Jackson from the women’s sewing circle—she wants the city to commission a quilt for your new office.”

“That’s it?”

“That and a trip to the animal shelter.” When Gracie arched an eyebrow, Trina added, “I’ve been reading this article online about politicians and their canine friends. Do you know that a dog ups your favorability rating by five percent?”

“I already have a dog.”

“A ball of fluff who humps everything in sight doesn’t count.” When Gracie gave her a sharp look, she shrugged. “Not that I have anything against humping, but you’ve got a reputation to think of. A horny mutt actually takes away poll points.”

“Sugar Lips isn’t a mutt. She’s a maltipom. Half Maltese. Half Pomeranian.” Trina gave her a girlfriend, pu-leeze look and she added, “I’ve got papers to prove it.”

“Labs and collies polled at the top with voters, and the local shelter just happens to have one of each,” Trina pressed. “Just think how awesome it will look when the new mayor-elect waltzes in on Adopt-a-Pet Day and picks out her new Champ or Spot.”

“Don’t tell me—Champ and Spot were top-polling animal names?”

“Now you’re catching on.”

Gracie shook her head. “I can’t just bring home another dog. Sugar will freak. She has control issues.”

“Think of the message it will send to voters. Image is everything.”

As if she didn’t know that. She’d spent years trying to shake her own bad image, to bury it down deep, to make people forget, and she’d finally succeeded. Twelve long years later, she’d managed to earn the town’s loyalty. Their trust.

Now it was just a matter of keeping it.

She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get another dog.”

“And a date,” Trina added. “That way people can also envision you as the better half of a couple, i.e., family oriented.”

“Where do you get this stuff?”

“PerfectPolitician.com. They say if you want to project a stable, reliable image, you need to be in a stable, reliable relationship. I was thinking we should call Chase Carter. He’s president of the bank, not to mention a huge campaign contributor. He’s also president of the chamber of commerce and vice president of the zoning commission.”

And about as exciting as the 215-page car-wash proposition just submitted by the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary for next year’s fundraiser.

Gracie eyed her assistant. “Isn’t Chase gay?”

“A small technicality.” Trina waved a hand. “This is about image, not getting naked on the kitchen table. I know he isn’t exactly a panty dropper like Jesse James Chisholm, but—”

“Call him.” Chase wasn’t Jesse, which made him perfect dating material. He wouldn’t be interested in getting her naked and she wouldn’t be interested in getting him naked. And she certainly wouldn’t sit around fantasizing about the way his thigh muscles bunched when he crossed a rodeo arena.

She ignored the faint scent of dust and leather that still lingered on her clothes and shifted her attention to something safe. “Do you know anything about Big Earl Jessup?” She voiced the one thing besides Jesse Chisholm and his scent that had been bothering her since she’d left the training arena.

“I know he’s too old to be your date. That and he’s got hemorrhoids the size of boulders.” Gracie’s eyes widened and Trina shrugged. “News travels fast in a small town. Bad news travels even faster.”

“I don’t want to go out with him. I heard through the grapevine that he might be cooking moonshine in his deer blind.”

Trina’s eyebrow shot up. “The really good kind he used to make for the annual peach festival?”

“Maybe.”

“Hot damn.” When Gracie cut her a stare, she added, “I mean, damn. What a shame.”

“Exactly. He barely got off by the skin of his teeth the last time he was brought up on charges. Judge Ellis is going to throw the book at him if he even thinks that Big Earl is violating his parole.”

“Isn’t Big Earl like a hundred?”

“He’s in his nineties.”

“What kind of dipshit would throw a ninetysomething in prison?”

“The dipshit whose car got blown up the last time Big Earl was cooking. Judge Ellis had a case of the stuff in his trunk at the annual Fourth of July picnic. A Roman candle got too close and bam, his Cadillac went up in flames.”

“Isn’t that his own fault for buying the stuff?”

“That’s what Uncle E.J. said, which was why Big Earl got off on probation. But Judge Ellis isn’t going to be swayed again. He’ll nail him to the wall.” And stir another whirlwind of publicity when Lost Gun became home to the oldest prison inmate. At least that was what Uncle E.J. had said when he’d done his best to keep the uproar to a minimum.

“I need to find out for sure,” Gracie told Trina.

“If you go nosying around Big Earl’s place, you’re liable to get shot. Tell you what—I’ll drop by his place after I get my nails done. My daddy used to buy from him all the time when I was a little girl. I’ll tell him I just stopped by for old times’ sake. So what do you think?” She held up two-inch talons. “Should I go with wicked red or passionate pink this time?”

“Don’t you usually get your nails done on Friday?”

“Hazel over at the motel called and said two reporters from Houston are checking in this afternoon and I want to look my best before the feeding frenzy starts.”

“Reporters?” Alarm bells sounded in Gracie’s head and a rush of adrenaline shot through her. “Already?”

Trina nodded. “She’s got three more checking in tomorrow. And twenty-two members of the Southwest chapter of the Treasure Hunters Alliance. Not to mention, Lyle over at the diner called and said the folks from the Whispering Winds Senior Home stopped by for lunch today. They usually go straight through to Austin for their weekly shopping trip, but one of them read a preview about the documentary in the TV listings and now everybody wants to check out Silas Chisholm’s old stomping grounds. A few of them even brought their gardening trowels for a little digging after lunch.”

“But there’s nothing to find.” According to police reports, the wad of cash from Silas Chisholm’s bank heist had gone up in flames with the man himself.

“That’s what Lyle told them, but you know folks don’t listen. They’d rather think there’s some big windfall just waiting to be discovered.” Which was exactly what the documentary’s host had been banking on when he’d brought up the missing money and stirred a whirlwind of doubt all those years ago.

Maybe the money hadn’t gone up in flames.

Maybe, just maybe, it was still out there waiting to be discovered. To make someone rich.

“I should head over to the diner and set them all straight.”

“Forget it. I saved you a trip and stopped by myself on my way in.” Trina waved a hand. “Bought them all a complimentary round of tapioca, and just like that, they forgot all about treasure hunting. Say, why don’t you come with me to the salon?”

“I can’t. The remodeling crew will be here first thing tomorrow and I promised I’d have everything picked out by then.”

It was a lame excuse, but the last thing she needed was to sit in the middle of a nail salon and endure twenty questions about her impromptu visit with Jesse Chisholm and the impending media circus.

“That and I still need to unpack all the boxes from my old office.”