Dirty Cowboy (Dirty Deeds #1)

Chapter 1 Emma

T he worst part about working in a family business isn’t the long hours or impossible expectations. It’s having two overprotective brothers who think they know exactly what’s best for me. They don’t.

Maybe I should’ve known it would come to this. My whole life, I’ve been asking for things I couldn’t have, and that includes Eric Waters.

The day is a perfect blend of sunshine and wind. The car windows are rolled down and my hair flips with the draft. A white pony grazes in a pasture nearby, its mane shimmering in the sunlight like it knows it’s majestic. I reach out from the backseat and clasp my father’s shoulder, my tiny hand gripping him like he’s my lifeline to the universe. “Daddy, can I have a pony?” I ask, my voice dripping with the kind of innocence that makes parents weak.

He chuckles. “A pony? Not a full-sized horse?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m too little for a horse.”

He reaches back and ruffles my hair. “Nonsense, sweetheart. You could handle a horse just fine.”

The memory wraps around me, warm and sticky like melted caramel. I’m bouncing in my seat while Mom sits up front with a picnic basket balanced on her lap. The winding roads of Lords Valley stretch out forever, but when we finally arrive, excitement courses through me like a sugar rush. Horses graze lazily in the paddock, their tails flicking away flies like they own the place.

And that’s when I see them.

Tall and wild, lining the fence like they’ve been waiting for me. The flower golden faces turn to the sky, bright and bold and full of life. I press my face to the car window, mesmerized.

“What are those called Mom?”

“They’re sunflowers,” she smiles. “It’s where we get sunflower seeds.”

“I think that’s my favourite flower.” I declare.

Dad parks the car. I unbuckle my seatbelt and jump out of my seat. The scent of hay and leather lingers in the air, mingling with the steady thrum of hooves on dirt. As I lurch forward, my little feet can’t keep up with my body, but Eric Waters catches me before I hit the ground.

I’ve idolized the man since that day.

Cowboy extraordinaire. Dream crusher. Heart obliterator.

At eight years old, I don’t know any of that yet. He’s just a towering figure with an easy smile and hands that lift me onto a horse like I weigh nothing.

“Hold tight,” he murmurs, adjusting the reins in my tiny hands. The horse beneath me shifts, warm and solid, while my heart does a somersault.

I’m weightless. Powerful. Free.

When I hop down from the pony, my ankle twists and I tumble, scraping my knee. Tears prick my eyes, but Eric crouches beside me like some kind of magic cowboy and pulls a sunflower-patterned scrunchie from his pocket.

“Can’t have a cowgirl without proper gear,” he says, tying it gently into my ponytail.

The pain fades instantly, replaced by a swell of pride.

I close my eyes now, trying to hold onto that moment, but the past melts away too fast, replaced by the steady beep of a monitor and the suffocating scent of antiseptic.

My father coughs softly from his bed, the sound cutting through me like a jagged blade. I squeeze his frail hand, hoping—no, praying—that my grip will somehow tether him to this world a little longer.

“Hello, darling,” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Hi, Daddy.” My throat tightens. “How are you feeling?”

Mom breezes into the room, setting a teapot on the nightstand before pulling back the curtains. Sunlight floods in, too bright and too cheerful for the gravity pressing down on my chest.

“Good morning, Fred,” she says, her voice like a soft embrace. “How was your night?”

He tries to smile, but it’s weak. “Slept like a rock. Feel like a newborn.”

Liar.

His groans echoed through the house last night, the sound rattling through my ribcage. I moved back home a week ago, unable to be anywhere else but by his side. He has two more chemo treatments left, and we cling to the hope that they’ll be a miracle.

Mom stirs his tea, leans in, and presses a kiss to his forehead. He reaches up, fingers brushing her chin, and pulls her into a slow, tender kiss that feels like a goodbye wrapped in a memory.

“I love you, Wilma,” he whispers.

She blinks rapidly, swiping at her eyes. “I love you too, Fred.”

The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away the seconds, cruel and unyielding.

Losing him isn’t a possibility anymore. It’s a countdown.

He shifts, turning his attention my way. “Tell me about work, Ems.”

I swallow hard, forcing a smile. “Julian and Tristan are still treating me like their personal intern instead of a partner.”

His brow furrows. “Didn’t you jump the gun on that Markham case?”

I groan, throwing my head back. “Oh my God, are we still talking about that? Those photos were staged!”

“But your brothers took the credit, didn’t they?” he counters, his gaze sharp despite the weakness in his body.

Bingo.

I cross my arms. “It doesn’t count against my success rate.”

He chuckles. “Thorough investigators don’t act on impulse. Trust your gut and your smarts.”

My head drops forward. Trust my gut? Sure. But how can I prove myself when my brothers shove me into the background like an afterthought?

He taps my chin, forcing me to look at him. “You’re a Silver, Emma. You find a way.”

I wipe my eyes. “Thanks, but if that were true, Eric Waters would know I exist.”

He smirks. “Ah. That day in Lords Valley?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “Shadow was the foal’s name.”

“And you swore you’d ride her until Eric noticed you.”

I groan. “Can we not?”

He chuckles again, but then his expression shifts. “Eric’s struggling with Shadow.”

My spine stiffens. “He is?”

He nods, shifting in the bed. “I’d give anything to help him, but my body won’t let me. Maybe you can?”

The carefree moments of horse riding flash through my mind, but I can’t leave my dying father in his last days of life. My stomach twists. “I live in New York.”

“But your heart doesn’t,” he says simply.

Damn it. He’s right.

The clock ticks, the sound loud in the silence between us.

“Why would I go to Lords Valley?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“To prove you deserve that partnership.”

I blink. “What?”

He smirks. “You know the partnership clause, Emma.”

Is he actually suggesting I propose to Eric Waters?

“We both know how you feel about Eric. Go see him.”

“This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Dad. Besides, he’s forty-one.”

“Who wrote the rule book on age gaps?” Dad asks, his tone light.

“BookTok,” I reply with a chuckle.

“BookTok is all about age-gaps,” he rolls his eyes.

“You know about BookTok?” My brows lift.

“Too much spare time in this bed,” he replies with a wry smile. “Go to Lords Valley and see how it goes.”

“That’s a million miles away.” I tell him.

He laughs. “Greater distances have been conquered for love.”

I shake my head. “I can’t leave you.”

He cups my cheek, his palm warm but weak. “Well, you can’t stay here just to listen to me fart in bed.”

A bubble of emotion lodges itself in my throat until I can’t hold it in and burst out laughing, the absurdity of the situation momentarily lightening the mood.

“What do I always say?” he asks.

I exhale. “Seize the opportunity.”

He grins. “Exactly.”

My heart pounds as I stare at him. Could I really leave when he’s sick? But when he smiles at me like that, like he already knows I will, something shifts inside me.

“I’ll think about it,” I whisper.

Maybe it’s time to seize the opportunity. I lower to the bed and hug him tightly, etching the moment into memory. I should have etched more of those.

I stop at the threshold, blow my dad a kiss, and step into the hallway. Fresh determination to make the most of whatever time we have left ignites in my chest. I snag my briefcase and car keys off the counter. “Love you!” I call to Mom as I rush out the door, the morning sun stretching long shadows across the pavement.

By the time I pull into the parking garage, my stomach is in knots. The gnawing worry about Dad chews through me, like a relentless, insistent thing that won’t back down. I inhale deeply, straighten my spine, and march toward the office building. I am a force to be reckoned with. I am a professional. I am?—

“Running late?” Greg, the company secretary, waits in the lobby with a steaming cup of coffee in his perfectly manicured hand, one eyebrow arched in challenge.

I roll my eyes and kiss him on both cheeks. “How can I be late when there’s nobody waiting for me?”

He shifts a stack of folders to his other arm, falling in step beside me. “Fair point.”

“I need some good juju today.” I sigh dramatically. “Is your cousin still doing card readings? I could use some top-tier witchcraft. Maybe a spell to cure my dad. Or a love potion to finally land me a man.”

Greg chuckles. “Sweetie, you’re going about love all wrong.”

The coffee nearly sloshes out of my cup as I side-eye him. “I’m serious, Greg.”

We reach my office door, and I swipe my access card against the keypad. The satisfying ping gives me the barest sense of control over my life. Greg steps in first, sets the folders down, and flicks on the Tiffany lamp. Its warm glow lands on my very cluttered desk.

I kick off my heels and collapse into my chair.

Greg smirks. “You’ve got all the juju you need right here.” He nods toward the pile of files with the usual mix of lying, cheating, no-good spouses. I sigh. As much as I love my brothers, they always give me all the crappy cases. Anything different at this point, would be a step up.

“Ems, are you even listening?” Greg snaps his fingers in front of my face.

“Yeah?” I blink.

“How’s your dad?” He crouches beside me, his hand warm on my arm.

I exhale, my shoulders sagging. “He’s the strongest man I know. He’ll get through this. He has to.” I say it more for myself than for him. Greg nods, but his eyes hold the undeniable truth that my father’s days are numbered.

He smacks the files on my desk like he’s trying to ground me to reality. “Well, this should keep your mind occupied.” He stands, smoothing his shirt. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

He starts to leave but pauses at the door. “It’s gonna happen, Ems. You’ll get your breakthrough case and the promotion, because you deserve it.”

I watch him go, my heart pinching.

I glare at the stack of files like they’ve personally offended me. Because they have. I flip open the first one and it’s another wife convinced her husband is cheating. Rinse. Repeat. I slam it shut and spin in my chair.

Thirty-three floors below, Manhattan hums with a morning rhythm that doesn’t give a damn about my personal turmoil. The skyline stretches forever with Central Park sprawled out like a quilt. People walk, laugh, live.

And all I can think is that I want more. More than tracking down serial cheaters. More than playing second fiddle to my brothers. More than sitting behind this damn desk, watching the world happen without me.

I kick my feet up onto the windowsill, admiring my perfectly pink toenail polish in the morning sun. From thirty-three stories up, I feel like I could do anything, but family cancer sucks.

Then I see the reflection.

My feet hit the floor, and my heart slams against my ribs as Eric Waters swaggers past my office.

What. The. Hell.

He tips his cowboy hat my way, winks—oh my God, winks—and strolls down the hall like he owns the place. His worn jeans mold to his body like they were sewn on and his Metallica t-shirt pulls at the shoulders in ways that should be illegal. The sound of his boots echoes against the marble, blending with the erratic pounding of my heart.

And just like that, the rhythm of my heart plays a cheerful tune.

I lurch to my feet, ready to investigate, but my damn rug betrays me. My foot catches, my balance evaporates, and I slam into the wall like a human cartoon. My cheek presses against the glass as I watch him stop outside the conference room. He pulls off his hat, runs a hand through his shoulder-length hair, and disappears inside, closing the door behind him.

Why is he here and why am I not part of this meeting?

I roam the office like a restless ghost for two solid hours. By the third, I wander into the staff kitchen and make tea, hoping to calm my nerves. I stir in a spoonful of honey, bring the cup to my lips?—

And walk straight into a wall of muscle.

The tea spills, scalding my chest.

“Hot, hot, hot!” I yelp.

I set the mug on the counter, yanking at my shirt like it personally betrayed me, fanning the burning tea from my skin. Before I can blink, Eric grabs the hem and—whoosh—there goes my top, sailing over my head and landing somewhere behind me.

Oh. My. God.

I’m standing in the middle of the office breakroom in my bra.

And Eric Freaking Waters is right in front of me.

His breath ghosts over my skin, cooling the scalding heat on my chest, but igniting something far more dangerous. My gaze skims from his well-worn cowboy boots, up over the perfectly faded denim that hugs his thighs, past a belt buckle the size of Texas, and up to a chest so broad I could set up camp on it.

And then—his face. That impossibly rugged, unfairly gorgeous face.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is a low rumble, equal parts concern and something else. Something that makes my brain short-circuit.

I realize I’ve been staring at him like he’s the last piece of chocolate cake at a wedding, so I snap out of it.

“Nope, barely felt it.” I fold my arms across my chest, as if that’s going to undo the fact that he just undressed me like it was nothing.

“Hello, Emma.” His voice does something to me and a shiver slinks down my spine.

“Hi. What... What are you doing here?” I manage, though my brain-to-mouth coordination is clearly malfunctioning.

In one effortless motion, he peels off his Metallica T-shirt, and my neurons officially explode. Because wow. Just wow.

His torso is sculpted. Like, Michelangelo-would-cry sculpted. He’s tan, muscled, and there’s just the right amount of dark hair dusting his chest. I’m mesmerized, watching the way his abs flex under the fluorescent lighting like they have a personal vendetta against my common sense.

I am officially doomed.

But then, he’s pulling the shirt over my head, and reality crashes back in. That signature Eric scent of leather, hay, and soap envelopes me, and for a second, I forget what words are.

“Thanks,” I say, my voice slightly strangled.

“You’re welcome.” He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, and muscles bunching like a human Greek tragedy. “I was hoping you’d be in the meeting.”

I blink. “Meeting?”

“The one your brothers scheduled. You weren’t on the invite list?”

I scoff. “Why would I be? They barely let me handle cases bigger than lost pets and cheating spouses.”

His eyes twinkle with something—pity? Amusement? “That’s a shame, because I need your help with a case.”

My ears perk up. Finally. “Tell me more. I’m looking for a challenge.”

“Didn’t I see a mountain of case files on your desk?” He quirks a brow, teasing.

I wave a hand. “Nothing worth my time. Now, tell me about this case.”

“It’s serious.” His voice drops, thick with intensity. “And you’re the only one who can help me.”

My heart does something wild in my chest. “I feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming. Is there a but coming?”

“But…” He exhales. “It’s not up to me.”

And there it is.

“It’s up to your brothers.”

Of course, it is.

I groan. “Don’t you have any say in this?”

He chuckles, his abs flexing in a way that should be classified as a crime. “Do you even know your overprotective brothers?”

I roll my eyes. “Unfortunately.”

“Aren’t you too young to handle dangerous cases?”

I straighten, squaring my shoulders. “I’m twenty-five. And my case record is better than Tristan’s—one hundred percent success rate.”

His smirk deepens. “Tristan says ninety-eight percent.”

I lift my chin. “That’s his. Mine’s a hundred. That’s one-zero-zero-point-zero, and zero fails.”

His gaze flickers with amusement. He takes a step closer, heat radiating off him like a bonfire. “If you’re really interested, you should ask your brothers about it. Tristan might actually need the help.”

I swallow. “Okay. I will.”

A devilish wink. A slow, teasing grin. And then he does the thing—the thing that fries my brain completely. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over my cheek. Just a whisper of a touch, but it might as well be a lightning strike.

“I’m sorry, but I have an errand to run,” he says, voice low and husky. “And I need a shirt before I go.”

My gaze drops to his bare chest again, and my brain collapses in on itself like a dying star.

“I’m sorry about your shirt. I’ll have it washed and returned,” I manage.

“Nah. Keep it. Metallica looks good on you.” A pause. “Do you even know who Metallica is?”

The moment he says it, I decide I’m never washing this shirt again. Ever. And it’s getting a prime spot on the pillow next to mine.

“Ems?” His voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

Desperate to focus, I drag my gaze away from his chest. “Yeah, I know Metallica. I also know Luke Bryan, Johnny Cash, Blake Shelton?—”

His lips twitch. “I get it.”

He checks his watch. “I should get going.”

“So, do you want me?” I blurt.

His brows shoot up, and I turn into a human fireball. “For the case,” I clarify quickly.

He tilts his head, studying me. “Like I said, ask your brothers. Good seeing you again, kid.”

And just like that, he gives me a slow, warm, entirely unfair smile, fist bumps my arm, and saunters away.

Kid? He still sees me as a kid?

I watch his retreating back, wondering how many women have fallen under his cowboy spell. I saw him in that barn years ago, banging into a woman, so I know how he operates.

But none of that matters if he still thinks I’m just some girl with a childhood crush.

“What the hell happened here?”

I yelp as Tristan appears, eyeing the Metallica T-shirt and the puddle of tea.

“I, uh, bumped into Eric.”

Tristan narrows his eyes. “I see that.”

I clear my throat. “Eric mentioned a case.”

Tristan sighs. “Be in my office first thing in the morning.”

The early bird catches the worm. And finally, something good.

I mentally high-five myself. By tomorrow, I might be closer to Eric—and my promotion.

Maybe even both.

“Maybe wear something different?” Tristan tugs at the shirt. “Doesn’t Greg keep spare clothes in your office?”

I glance down at the oversized tee, my fingers curling into the fabric. “I’ll change later.”

With a shake of his head, Tristan leaves.

I ditch my case files, swap shirts, and grab my purse. Grace’s salon is two blocks away. If I’m going to prove I’m not a kid anymore, I need a little help.

And a makeover is the perfect place to start.