The Cowboy of My Dreams (The Murphys of Meadow Valley #3)

Chapter 1

Willow Morgan was used to sleeping in strange beds. Hell, sometimes that bed was a mattress tossed in the back of a tour van, especially when the cost of a motel far outweighed the cost benefit of sleeping in the van. Now that her paying gigs were paying actual money, she still slept in her vehicle. But these days it was a slightly more upscale tour bus with a slightly more upscale bed. She at least had an accordion door she could close and pretend like she was in an actual room…that wasn’t moving.

So watching her older brother, Colt, sprawl out like a starfish across the king-sized mattress in the very much not - moving master bedroom made her feel like this was way too…extra.

“See?” Colt said, patting the spot next to him. “You could fit three of you in here.”

Willow shook her head and laughed, then plopped down next to the giant man of a brother who still acted like a goofy teenager around her.

“I would have been fine on the bus,” she insisted as they both stared at the ceiling fan slowly spinning above them.

“For two months?” Colt scoffed. “You’re going to finish recording an album and prep for a concert on a bus?”

Willow elbowed him in the ribs. “Come inside next time we’re on the fairgrounds. It’s pretty damned luxurious for a moving motel.” Though in truth, hiding the nondescript bus in the freight lot thirty miles away gave her a safe enough distance from the public Willow Morgan for at least the next couple of months.

Actual motels and hotels weren’t her style. As her career had grown, Willow tried to maintain as much privacy as she could muster. One tabloid scandal when barely anyone had known who she was had taught her early enough to do whatever was needed to keep her life to herself. And yes…she could have finished the album on the bus. But it would have been lonely. Here, at least, she could host her brother and sister-in-law and their family for dinner. She could hop on one of the Murphy horses and ride until her life felt like hers again. Maybe then she could finally finish the last song she’d promised her label, the one that still refused to come.

Colt sighed and crossed one dusty cowboy boot over the other. “Oops,” he remarked with an apologetic laugh, then decided to dangle his feet off the side of the bed instead.

Willow elbowed him again.

“Ow!” he replied with a laugh. “That one hurt.”

“Serves ya right for treating my new place like your mudroom.” She tilted her head toward his.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?” he asked.

She sighed. “Eli and Beth really don’t mind giving up their guesthouse for two whole months?”

Her brother rolled his eyes. “It’s a guest house. And he and Beth are in Vegas letting Beth’s parents fawn all over their new grandbaby, so you’ve got the whole property to yourself for the next week— horses, chickens, and all.”

Willow nodded. “Horses, chickens, the whole place is mine for an entire week. Got it.”

Colt propped himself up on one elbow, so Willow did the same.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Wills,” he told her with a smile that still broke her heart sometimes, reminding her of the years they’d spent apart after their mom died and Willow had been adopted while Colt bounced around foster care until he was eighteen.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long since we had some time together,” she replied, her voice thick.

He responded by rumpling her hair. “Still waiting on you to write a song about reuniting with your long-lost big brother. But all I hear are these angry breakup songs. Catchy…but angry.”

She sat up and whacked him in the head with a throw pillow.

“ Ow … again .” They both stood, and her brother furrowed his brows while scratching the back of his neck. “Speaking of…um…angry breakup songs… Is there a list of asses that need whooping to avenge whoever hurt my baby sister?”

She picked up another pillow and raised her brows. “I can still get you,” she warned. “Even across the bed. I have excellent aim.”

He held up his hands in defeat. “All right. All right. I’m just trying to make it clear that if you need someone to look out for you, you should take advantage of having me close by for the next few weeks before your big concert.”

She dropped the pillow and put her hands on her hips. “And what if I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself?” she asked, chin up and shoulders back.

Colt strode around the bed and over to where she stood, gripping her gently by the shoulders and giving her a soft squeeze. “I know you are, Wills. I guess I like to fool myself into thinking that even at twenty-nine years old, you still need your big brother.”

Her expression softened as she grabbed his hands and lowered them, reciprocating his reassuring squeeze. “’Course I need you,” she promised him. “Just not to fight my battles for me.” He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. “And no , I don’t have any battles that need fighting at the moment. It’s a figure of speech. I’m just saying I’ve got this thing—this life or whatever—under control. Okay?”

He nodded. “Okay.”

***

Willow hadn’t written anything that day, though she chalked it up to travel, getting settled, and plain old exhaustion. Except now that it was past midnight and she was finally snuggled into the bed that truly could fit three of her, sleep refused to come.

She grabbed her phone off the nightstand, ready to dive into a four-hour TikTok rabbit hole that would at the very least keep her occupied until daylight. But before she’d even unlocked her screen, a crash sounded outside her room—something shattering against the hard kitchen floor—followed by a muffled voice.

What had she told her brother? That she had this whole life thing under control? Yeah, that was before she’d considered someone breaking and entering into a secluded, locked guesthouse on very private property.

She so did not have this under control.

“Shit,” she hissed under her breath before crawling out of bed wearing nothing but a ribbed tank top and her most comfortable underwear…men’s boxer briefs.

“Weapon, weapon, weapon…” she mouthed silently to herself as her eyes scanned the dark for any sort of protection. She found it in the way of a ceramic vase on the dresser that Colt’s wife, Jenna, had filled with beautiful wildflowers that Willow now scattered—along with the water that was keeping them alive—on the rug at the foot of her bed so the intruder wouldn’t hear her pouring anything onto a hard surface.

She inched toward her closed bedroom door and heard the unmistakable sound of the knob turning, the latch unlatching.

The mix of fear and adrenaline coursing through her blood was so potent that Willow thought she might levitate off the floor or lose consciousness completely. She really, really hoped the universe would grant her the former rather than making her a sitting duck for whatever lay on the other side of the door.

She held her breath as the door creaked open and her would-be assailant stumbled inside.

It all happened so fast, like something out of a vaudevillian silent comedy. Willow raised the vase above her head as a man lumbered toward the bed. She sucked in a breath just before striking, allowing barely enough time for him to turn. Their eyes met, and as she swung the vase, she heard him groggily say, “Willow?” Then the vase shattered against his temple, and he fell backward against the mattress. In the moonlight she could see blood trickle down his cheek and onto the duvet.

She flipped on the light and gasped.

“Ashton Murphy, what the hell are you doing in my room?” she asked.

His eyes fluttered open and locked on hers. “I missed you too, darlin’,” he replied, pushing himself up to sitting. But then his eyes rolled backward. “No hospitals,” he mumbled, then collapsed again.

Willow swore and rushed toward him, dipping her head to make sure the man was still breathing, only to be greeted with an exhale so clearly full of bourbon she was stunned it didn’t get her drunk on contact.

“I swear to god, Ashton Murphy,” she began through gritted teeth as she battled the deadweight of his legs to swing them onto the bed. “If you die on my watch and they give me a lie-detector test, it won’t matter that this was very clearly self-defense. They’re gonna lock me up for life.” Just because she’d never planned on killing the man, she’d maybe—at one of her lower points— fantasized about it.

She propped a couple of pillows under his head and then retrieved a first aid kit and a damp towel from the bathroom and got to cleaning him up the best she could.

“Ash…” she said softly at first. “You’re gonna have to wake up and hold a conversation with me if you don’t want me to call 911. Whether you’re just drunk or drunk and concussed, I need some proof of life, or you’re shit out of luck.”

No response, but luckily the cut on his temple seemed happy enough with a butterfly bandage and had all but stopped bleeding.

“ Ash ,” she tried again, this time a little louder, and received something akin to a snore in reply.

“Ashton Murphy, you lying, cheating asshole of a human parading as a man, wake the hell up, or I’m calling an ambulance and every TMZ reporter I know!”

Ash’s eyes flew open, and he bolted upright, knocking Willow right in the forehead with his own.

Willow swore.

“I’m awake!” Ash exclaimed.

Great. So, no manslaughter charges for tonight, but now Willow was pretty sure she was concussed too.

“Next time,” she grumbled, “I’m staying on the damned bus.”