Risking it for the Cowboy (The McClintocks of Legacy Creek #1)

Chapter One

That peek of a flower tattoo snaking over her shoulder beneath her tank strap…

T.R. sang into the mic, watching the blond, nodding to the rhythm his bassist was interluding with, standing alone. And she was gorgeous. Golden hair for days, flowing down her back.

“Alright now, McClintock, how we gonna close out the show?” his bassist, Jack, cajoled into a mic as their song ended, calling him his stage name, and segueing into the final act as Bo rat-a-tatted softly on his snare and bass.

“Well let’s see, Jack.” T.R. eyed him sidelong with a grin, lips pressed to his mic as sweat ran down his temples.

Eyed Hunter, his guitarist-slash-banjoist, still slumped against the wall, wasted, and dammit, of course, just in time for the upcoming Homegrown Music Award concert T.R.

had entered them into. If he didn’t have Hunter …

he wouldn’t have a band. And this was a shot he thought he’d lost years ago.

Winner took a record deal from Country Roads Records in Nashville and would open for the famous Dylan Jones at the Grand Ole Opry.

Ricky Ortega, the label exec himself, would be one of the judges, the one who’d once slushed T.R’s submission, along with “Nettie” Blackrose and Braydon Bones, country legends.

He didn’t quite have the registration fee saved and only had a few weeks to pay it.

He couldn’t keep asking his cousin Tyler to fill in for him when it was the last thing Ty wanted to do.

“Gonna need help for this last song I think!” He flashed his signature grin and waggled his brows.

The women cheered. He scooped up the guitar and slung the strap over his head, now that Tyler was getting lucky, if his disappearance to the bathroom with Blond Bombshell’s friend was any indication. He’d make the best of a shit situation, like always.

“Who’s it gonna be?”

More cheers, girls’ hands shooting up to be hauled on stage, an annoyed boyfriend shaking his head and storming out.

T.R. chuckled, perused the crowd, shielding his eyes from the lights.

God, the women. They’d sing, a little tipsy and a lot off-key, belting out the lyrics into the mic as their lips almost touched and their hands roved over his chest while he tried to strum.

On occasion, he’d had to ward off the more touchy-feely type from turning a PG-13 show into a triple-X one.

His gaze shot to Flower Girl.

He’d let her do it. But something told him she wouldn’t. Her hand wasn’t raised.

“That all you got, ladies?” he taunted, flashing the grin they adored.

Put your hand up, Flower Girl. He challenged her with a chin jut. And was that a faint shake of her head?

He was intrigued.

The screams thundered to the roof. Girls were reaching, begging. He laughed with Jack who thumped a cadence on the bass, as Bo continued that heartbeat.

But Flower Girl … their gazes locked again.

Come on, baby, show me your hand.

She wasn’t reaching. She was watching him. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised if she was perfectly sober. He notched his chin at her again.

This time, her lips moved. I’m done chasing boys in bands.

Whoa … intrigued? Now he was fascinated.

The stage lights blinked pink and blue upon her hair. Her eyes, so wide. Lips, naturally bee stung. Heart-shaped face, perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Incredible figure from the little he could see from the waist up.

God, she was a shoo-in for whose bed he wanted his boots under tonight, as Shania would say.

But she still hadn’t raised her hand as she gently pulsed to the rhythm.

The screaming continued. His smile faltered. If she was done chasing boys in bands, it meant, she’d done so before and had been burned.

“Got a boyfriend?” he rumbled into the mic.

A smile ghosted her lips as the crowd now started looking around at who he was talking to. She flashed her eyes heavenward like he was pathetic. Him?

Naw, baby, ain’t no reason we can’t rock each other’s world tonight. It was all he needed, and if she wasn’t chasing boys in bands, then probably all she’d want, too.

Perfect situation. Fine. He’d make the move since she wouldn’t.

“You.” He pointed right at her.

Those sparkly eyes went wide, her brows shooting up. Called out. She looked left and right, as if to make sure.

Yup, sweetheart, I chose you.

He crooked his fingers at her and kicked up his grin. “Help me sing this next song.”

She pointed to herself.

His laugh resonated through the speakers. “Yeah, you, Flower Girl.”

Damnation he’d never had to ask a girl before, and definitely not more than once.

Except she hesitated, unease creeping onto her brow.

His smile faltered again. She was different.

Maybe he wouldn’t end up with his boots under her bed tonight …

but it might still be worth the sacrifice for a closer look at her, to know what she smelled like, know what her fingers felt like for a brief, few minutes.

He might like to play but his women were always willing, he made sure, and he suddenly … wanted to put her at ease.

“Just a song,” he said gently. “Ain’t no other expectations.”

Her brow furrowed all the same.

Why? she mouthed.

The girls around her, annoyed, leaned in front of her. “Pick me! I’ll do it!”

“Y’all are beautiful, you are. But I wanna hear what this one’s got to say. You shy? Can’t sing good?”

The gauntlet. Thrown down.

The bombshell laughed at his attempts, and Jesus, that smile. He was whittling her down. I bet she kisses like a rose. Gentle and full of sweet perfume.

God, he was itching for just one touch, one inhale. He palmed his heart like he was desperate. “Put me outta my misery and sing with me, Flower Girl.”

Wait … a nickname? Where the hell was this coming from? He saw her breath hitch at his nickname. He kept audience participation generic, which made it easy to send them off stage afterward in good fun without leading them on in case he changed his mind—

“Say it with me, y’all! Flow-er Girl! Flow-er Girl!”

So much for generic. And although disappointed, the crowd rebounded and began chanting Flower Girl, encouraging her to step forward.

Reluctantly, and with a … bashful smile now? Aw, sweet as hell. She capitulated. She wedged through the bodies to the stage and holy hell, reached a slender hand up to him so he could see all of her.

Damn … those legs. For days. Slender legs that could work a catwalk. He bet they could wrap all nice and pretty around his hips, too, and that short, denim skirt, those heeled shitkickers, dull and worn over the years, he’d love to see kicked off and decorating the carpet.

Up close, she hesitated. Her hand began to lower and embarrassment splotched her cheeks—

He was being an idiot, staring starstruck. He snagged her hand. Fought every juvenile urge in his foolish body to retain a shred of decorum and resisted peeking at the flash of panties when she propped a boot up so he could haul her on stage.

She stumbled forward. He caught her. Held her for a beat too long, her palms were bracing his chest, and it felt so good, and it wasn’t roses, but lilacs, fragrant and fresh like she’d been sprung from his grandma’s garden.

He froze. Remembered the old woman’s gnarled hands encasing his little ones, helping him transplant seedlings into the ground, scooping earth to fill the holes, singing or guiding his fingering on ukelele strings…

It was one of his favorite smells.

“Sorry,” she breathed, stepping back and easing herself out of his hold.

His arm fell.

So, she wasn’t going to fawn on him, either? And why the hell was his pulse racing like a middle school brat who’d just gotten his first kiss?

What the hell time warp had he just walked into?

But she was still blushing. Because he was still staring. Up close, he could see the contours of her face, the creamy nuances of her skin, and those eyes, bright jade gems and, fuck, those lips, and God, this body, all slim and graceful—

A boot jabbed his calf. He whipped around. Jack arched a brow at him as he kept thumping that bass. We playin’ or what? he mouthed.

T.R. stepped back. Perused her body. She pushed a tendril over her ear with manicured nails, biting her delectable lip. Shoot, he was making her nervous. The last thing he wanted was for her to be uncomfortable.

The bass repeated the cadence and Bo on the drums rat-a-tatted to fill the void. And then the whistling started. Guys in the crowd. She ducked her head at the catcalls and turned around to hop off stage.

She was chickening out.

He snagged her arm—

She flinched. Whirled back around. Eyes haunted, dark. Whoa…

He suddenly wanted to shield her from everything and his heartbeat thudded harder.

“Hey now, where’re your manners, fellas?” he called into the mic, friendly enough, but the message was clear.

The whistling stopped. And his pulse decreased, too, as she relaxed again, uncertain and yet as if he’d bought an ounce of credibility just now.

“Okay, Flower Girl. You’re gonna help me close down the house. You know my song ‘Last Goodbye’?”

She nodded. She did? The girls screaming to be picked usually did, but not everyone else.

They were local-famous, not famous-famous.

Bo hawked CDs and MP3 downloads, and the local Homegrown hour sometimes played their songs but that was as far as his stardom reached thanks to him screwing his band years ago when they’d first had their shot.

“You’re gonna sing the final chorus with me, ’kay?” She eyed his banjo. Yeah, with Hunt too drunk to play, there’d be no banjo tonight, when normally the instrument was the highlight of the song. “Can’t play two instruments, darlin’.” He held up his guitar.

“M-may I?” She hesitated into Hunt’s standing mic, a sweet, whiskey voice. “The song’s not the same without that pickin’.”

His brow shot up. She knew how to play? She knew the riff? His riff? This was no mainstream instrument, and he was nowhere near mainstream enough to sell his copyrighted sheet music, either, which meant, she knew it from ear.

He glanced to his guys.

Bo shrugged. Why not?