Save a Horse, Keep the Cowboy (Summer Lovin’ collection #2)

Chapter 1 Cowboy Country Josie

Josie

He’s here.

My body knows it with a certainty that makes me short of breath.

I’ve always had this sixth sense, a kind of Weston Jessup internal radar system. It’s been that way since we met eight years ago, on a hot summer day just like this one.

Despite the fact that it’s a hundred degrees and I’m wearing the tiniest bikini I own, I’m still shaking like a leaf, my heart throbbing in the back of my throat.

I should’ve brought a road soda.

That’s all I can think as my best friend Quinn and I pick our way down a dirt path that winds through the Texas Hill Country brush. A hazy sun bears down on us through the dense canopy of leaves overhead. The humidity is so thick we’re practically swimming in it.

Sweat gathers on my temples and breaks out on my forearms when I hear voices rise and fall nearby. There’s a splash. Male laughter.

Yeah, I definitely should’ve pounded a beer or a shot or something on the drive over from Hartsville’s tiny airport. I landed ready to go, having changed into my swimsuit before our descent in the cushy bathroom on board the private jet my record company chartered for me.

Quinn, bless her, was waiting for me on the shimmering tarmac in my brother’s beat-up truck that’s about as old as I am. We found a bottle of tequila in his glove box, but it was empty.

Grady is nothing if not a good time.

One of the (many) perks of flying private is the ability to land directly in my teeny-tiny hometown, population one thousand.

I wouldn’t say I was necessarily calm on the flight down from my last tour stop in Charlotte.

But I had managed to convince myself I’d be just fine officiating Quinn and Grady’s wedding this weekend.

I may have performed in front of tens of thousands of people on a nightly basis over the past six months. But that never terrified me nearly as much as joining two of my favorite people in holy matrimony.

That probably has something to do with the fact that Grady chose Weston to be his best man.

Wes, the first guy I ever fell head over heels in love with.

The guy who dumped me out of the blue and broke my heart.

“Three things you should remember.” Quinn grabs onto a nearby tree to steady herself. “One, you look hot in that bikini. Does a Brazilian wax hurt? I can only imagine what it feels like to get your whole—”

“I went the laser route.” I slap my arm, squishing a mosquito. “And yes, it did hurt. But totally worth it.”

“Those costumes you wear do show a lot of leg. And butt.”

“Makes them easier to dance in,” I say with a grin.

“Of course it does. Two, you’re a literal rock star who’s crushing life. Whatever happens tonight, you win.”

Running a hand through my hair, I laugh. The humidity has turned it into a frizzy rat’s nest, despite the heinously expensive extensions I wear. “I’m so glamorous, I know. Even fame can’t win against the Texas heat.”

“And three”—she cuts me a look over her shoulder—“I love you. I can’t thank you enough for coming this weekend. We’re going to have a great time, yeah?”

I manage a grin, feeling ever so slightly better. Leave it to Quinn to soothe my nerves. “Absolutely. Best weekend ever starts now.”

Out of all my accomplishments, the fact that I’m surrounded and loved by excellent people is the one that makes me the most proud.

My pride, however, is apparently no match for Hartsville. When Quinn mentioned the rest of the wedding party was gathering at the river this afternoon, I wanted to vomit.

Back in the day, we used to spend our summers hanging at a glorious spot on the Colorado River just off Highway 71.

The river winds its way through these hills.

At this particular spot, the water is deliciously cold from its journey through the Rockies.

Canyons rise steeply from its northern bank, and you can swing out over the water on a rope that’s been there for as long as anyone can remember.

As teenagers, we’d while away scorching afternoons at this spot. We were living large with our coolers of pilfered beer and playlists that were half George Strait, half Snoop Dogg.

At night, Wes would park his truck on top of a nearby canyon. The things that happened in that back seat? Scorching doesn’t begin to describe the way that man lit my body on fire.

When Wes was around his brothers or with his friends, he was all cowboy—gruff, businesslike.

He’d talk about sports and the weather, just like his daddy.

But when it was just the two of us, he’d open up and show me a side of himself no one else got to see.

The vulnerable, tender side. The one that loved music, and the stars, and long, deep kisses.

Can. Not. Go there.

“Your jet,” Quinn says, following the path as it swerves around a giant cactus. “It was so fancy. Was Tom Cruise your pilot? And was he the one who finally convinced you to grace us with your presence in Hartsville?”

Despite the jab, I laugh. “Tom was booked, unfortunately.”

“Bummer.”

“Something about a machine that makes masks and saving the world. He’s a busy dude.”

She stops and gives me a meaningful look. “You know I’m just kidding, right? Because I totally get why you haven’t been back—”

“I know.” I reach over, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I know you know, Quinn.”

Quinn and Grady have visited me a bunch after I left Hartsville six years ago to pursue my dream of becoming a country singer and songwriter.

They bravely couch surfed at my dank apartment in Nashville when I was just getting started.

More recently, I’ll fly them out to meet me at some of the more glamorous stops on my tour, like Jackson Hole and Miami.

Same goes for my parents. But everyone else in Hartsville? I haven’t seen them since I left. Feels like a lifetime ago.

“And you sure you’re okay with this?” Quinn tilts her head, an indent appearing between her eyebrows. We’ve had this conversation countless times already on the phone, and she’s heard my answer.

I assure her it hasn’t changed. “Okay with getting your ass hitched? Yes, honey. It’s about damn time.”

“No shit.”

We both laugh at that. Grady and Quinn have been dating off and on since high school.

A few months back, Grady popped the question with our grandmother’s diamond-and-emerald ring.

Now here we are, gearing up for their wedding on Saturday.

Quinn asked me to fly in today, Thursday, to help with all the preparations.

I said yes without hesitation. I’d walk through fire if it meant showing up for these people.

Thing is, seeing Weston Jessup again kinda feels like being burned alive. I’m burning up with anxiety.

“God, I’ve missed you.” I loop my arm around her neck and pull her in for a hug, inhaling the cedary scent of Quinn’s hair and skin. She’s been in the stables today, I can tell.

I’m tired as all get-out from months of shitty sleep, but I still can’t wait to ride.

I’ve been treated to time on horseback in some pretty fabulous places lately—a cliffside beach in California, the Tetons, Tim McGraw’s Tennessee farm—but nothing compares to being in the saddle in the place I grew up.

“I’ve missed you more.” Quinn presses a kiss to my cheek. “I’m so, so happy you’re here.”

“Next time I’ll bring Tom.”

“You’d better. Ask him to bring that little funny guy with him—the one from Mission Impossible. Bet he’s a hoot in real life too.”

We keep walking until the path opens up onto a large clearing shaded by soaring oaks with huge, gnarled branches that nearly touch the ground in some places. There’s a sharp drop-off twenty or so feet ahead, where a canyon plunges into the river.

The clearing is crowded with people and coolers of every shape and size.

Everyone is barefoot, sweating cans of beer in their hands.

A woman I recognize as Tallulah, the owner of Hartsville’s one and only dive bar, the Rattler, clutches the rope and takes a running leap over the canyon, hollering with delight as she drops into the water.

I smile as I glimpse several familiar faces. Cousins. Classmates. Grady spots me and throws up his arms.

“Josie! Hey, cowgirl!” He makes a beeline for us.

My brother looks handsome as always in his T-shirt and swim trunks, a big old smile on his face as he wraps me in a hug. “How’s the Top Female Vocalist of the Year doing?”

I’m so happy to see him, hug him, that for a second I think I’m going to cry. “Great. So great. How’s Hartsville’s top heavy equipment salesman?”

Grady sells farm machinery to ranchers across central Texas. He inherited the business from our grandfather, who passed right before I moved to Tennessee.

“Sexiest gig on earth. So of course he’s happy.” He pulls back, and I see the joy glimmering in his brown eyes. “And very, very grateful that you came all this way.”

“Wouldn’t miss this weekend for the world.”

Grady reaches for Quinn and drapes an arm across her shoulders, pulling her against him. “And how’re you, bride-to-be?” He leans down to peck her lips.

“She’s happy too,” Quinn replies.

He nods at a nearby cooler. “Can I get y’all a Shiner?”

“Yes,” I breathe. I’m afraid to look up from our little trio. My blood buzzes with an awareness that can only mean one thing.

Oh God oh God he’s close.

When Wes and I first broke up, Grady offered to kick his ass to the curb even though they’d become close too.

But I wasn’t about to cause him the same hurt I was feeling at the time.

I lied to Grady, telling him the breakup was mutual.

I didn’t plan on returning home anyway, so why did I care if they remained friends?

My brother presses a can into my hand. I tip back my head and take a long, hard gulp. I don’t drink a ton on tour, and when I do, it’s usually a tequila soda. Fine, but flavorless.

Shiner? Ice-cold Shiner, knocked back on a hot day?

It. Is. Heaven. Earthy and just the tiniest bit bitter, it satisfies like nothing else.

“Somebody’s thirsty,” Grady says with a laugh.

Dropping the can, I let out a satisfied sigh. That’s when I see him.

Him.

His head appears over the edge of the cliff—we’d climb it after jumping into the river when we were feeling especially adventurous or stupid instead of taking the gently sloping path up the side of a hill—and then his naked torso.

Because of course he’s shirtless, water slicking over his tanned skin.

Wes’s dark hair is plastered to his head. Like his heavy scruff, it’s overgrown, curling out at the edges. His massive shoulders and arms ripple with muscle as he pulls himself up over the ledge. He gracefully rises to his feet, revealing all six feet, three inches of his enormous body.

My mouth goes dry.

Goddamn you, Weston Jessup.

The man got absolutely ripped. Being a cowboy, he was always in great shape. But age has filled him out in all the right ways—made him thicker, broader.

His wide chest, covered in whorls of thick black hair, barrels out on a sharp inhale. My eyes follow a small rivulet of water that drips down his flat stomach and disappears into the waistband of his—

Wait, Weston wears a bathing suit now?

Wes never did when we were younger, preferring to swim in athletic shorts or even jeans, on occasion. I used to tease him, saying he didn’t need to spend that money on more Stetsons. He had quite a collection of his favorite cowboy hats. And barn boots. And Wranglers.

Wes and I shared a love of country music and poetry and cold beer and morning sex.

We fell hard while writing songs together, him on the guitar, me singing.

We loved harder. He always encouraged my songwriting.

Hell, the reason he learned to play guitar in the first place was so that he could accompany me as I sang.

He never had any interest in playing for anyone else—in fact, he outright refused.

Said he wanted me to be the star, but I know he was embarrassed to play in front of his family and friends.

He didn’t want them to see that side of him. But me? I loved it—loved him—with all my heart.

We dreamed of running away to Nashville together. But when the time came, he bailed on me. He said his dad needed him to stay on his family’s ranch and help out, even though Weston’s two older brothers also worked their family’s cattle.

So he gave me one last hug, and I never heard from him again.

He never apologized for hurting me.

Never apologized for leading me on.

Then again, I was an idiot to hope that the side of him he showed me—the tender, artsy, ardent one—would be the side that won out.

But just like he was embarrassed to play music in public, he was embarrassed to show his friends and family anything other than the man they knew him to be.

Cowboys didn’t talk about their feelings or relationships.

They definitely didn’t follow their girlfriends halfway across the country to chase down dreams of a career in music.

I can’t help but feel like Wes is still leading me on as he raises an arm to spear a hand through his hair. His bicep tenses into a bulge that’s approximately the size of a baby’s head. Laughing at something a friend nearby says, he flashes a white, wide smile.

And then his gaze lands on me.