Chapter 1
COWBOY ELITE: MIKE - EXCERPT
Chapter One
The Texas sun hit Olivia Langford like a skillet to the face the moment she stepped off the Greyhound. Heat shimmered up from the cracked asphalt, and the air tasted like dust, diesel, and something green she couldn't name. Probably hay. Or hope. She wasn't sure which scared her more.
She squinted behind her designer sunglasses, the rim of her ballcap pulled low in her best attempt at invisibility.
With one hand gripping the battered handle of a carry-on case that looked suspiciously like it had tumbled down an airport escalator, and the other shielding her eyes, she scanned her surroundings.
"Sweet mercy, is this the drop-off or the end of the world?" she muttered under her breath. Dust clung to her ankles like cling wrap, stirred up by the wind and painted everything a shade of sunbaked beige.
This wasn't her world. Not even close.
A large wooden sign swayed between two posts a few feet from the road: Welcome to Watkins Dude Ranch – Hospitality with a Cowboy Heart.
Below it, a wrought iron gate stood open, creaking slightly in the breeze.
The gravel road beyond curled through fields dotted with bluebonnets, grazing horses and fat, contented cattle.
Heat shimmered off the spread like a dream.
Or a curse, depending on your perspective.
She sniffed. Even the air was different here. Cleaner. Raw. With just a hint of manure.
Great. I've traded Chanel No. 5 for Eau de Livestock.
But it was honest, at least. No one here was pretending to be something they weren't.
Unlike her.
She hitched her bag upright and started forward, dodging a pile of something brown and steaming on the side of the gravel.
The little dot on her Google map said the Watkins Ranch's front office was another half mile down the dusty, gravel driveway, but the bus hadn't been interested in taking her that far.
Each step reminded her how unfit her city legs were for trudging anything longer than a SoHo block. Her sandals, which the catalogue had listed as comfort shoes, were starting to cut into her heels. And that was before the goat.
The bleat came from nowhere.
One second, the field beside her was calm. The next, a dirty-white blur of speed launched out from a busted gatepost, scattering gravel and making a sound halfway between a scream and a yodel.
"Oh—my—what—"
The goat tore straight toward her like it'd spotted a threat to democracy and her suitcase was ground zero. Liv let out a shriek and dropped her bag just in time for the goat to leap over it, nearly knocking her over as it careened down the road.
"Hey now!" came a voice behind her, loud and laced with laughter. "Tiny's out again!"
Before Liv could eke out a gasp, a man on horseback rode up from the trail behind, reins tight in one hand and a worn Stetson pulled low over a face so rugged and handsome she couldn’t help but stare.
Her heart thudded against her chest and she was honest enough to admit this adrenaline surge wasn’t solely due to a scary goat.
He slid down from the saddle in one fluid move that made her New Yorker brain hiccup. The man had no right to be that athletic, that tan, or that confident.
Brow furrowed, mouth curved into a half-smile, the cowboy studied her for all of five seconds, just long enough to make Liv feel like she'd been X-rayed.
"You must be the new pastry chef," he drawled, his voice like warm molasses over gravel.
Her mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. "Uh. Liv Ramsey. Just arrived."
"I gathered," he said, lips twitching in amusement. "I'm Mike Watkins. Head cook, goat herder, retired Marine, jack-of-all-backbreaking-trades. Sorry Tiny tried to test your reflexes. He's got a thing for suitcases. Thinks they're competition."
Mike. So this was The Mike. The man who'd interviewed her over speakerphone while she hid in a storage closet of a Holiday Inn two states east.
He whistled sharply, and the goat, who was still darting around in tangents, turned and barreled toward him like a heat-seeking missile.
Mike stepped to the side just as Tiny skidded near, then grabbed the creature by its makeshift collar and slung a rope halter over its head in one practiced motion.
His voice dropped, went soft as butter. "Easy now, buddy. You're all right." He scratched behind the goat's ear with the kind of patience that made Liv's throat tighten unexpectedly.
She'd forgotten men could be gentle like that. Gentle without wanting something.
"Well, Tiny likes you already," he said, glancing back at her with a grin. "That's either a good omen or an early warning."
Liv bent to retrieve her suitcase, trying very hard not to look impressed. "So, is that part of the interview? Survive a goat charge, get a job?"
"Nah," Mike grinned. "Just the west Texas welcome package." He eyed her sandals and gently lifted one side of her suitcase handle as he gathered the reins to his horse and began to walk. The goat, showing an incredibly obedient side, trotted after the horse as though the beast was its Mama.
Liv hesitated. She'd never been this close to a horse and the sheer size of the animal gave her pause. Yes, Mike Watkins was holding the reins, but she'd seen runaway horses on TV and knew about unpredictability.
"You want to ride?" Mike asked, obviously reacting to the way she stared at his horse.
"Um, no. I'm fine." But she did move two steps to the side.
"Well, then. C'mon, let's get inside before that pink skin of yours turns into baked Alaska."
She caught up, her suitcase bouncing awkwardly between them, keeping a sharp eye on both the goat and the horse lest the noise spook either of them. "For the record, I'm Italian and Irish. I tan. I also bake a very respectable baked Alaska."
He chuckled. "Yeah? We'll see about that, Miss Ramsey."
The main house loomed like a cheerful wooden fortress on a hill, built wide and low, with broad porches and rocking chairs.
Wildflowers framed the long drive and the faint smell of smoked meat teased Liv's senses.
Her stomach growled—loud enough that she pressed a hand to it, embarrassed.
When was the last time she'd eaten? A stale muffin at a rest stop somewhere in Louisiana?
Verdant green pastures enclosed several horses with white ranch rail fencing. This place was restful. Peaceful. Despite herself, she released a long exhale.
Mike looped the reins of his horse over a post by the back door, narrowly avoiding a clucking hen that strutted across the gravel with opinions of her own.
They'd spent most of the walk with slightly awkward small talk about the weather and the wide open spaces—well awkward on her part at least. If Liv had been at home—and by home that meant Manhattan—she'd have written Mike Watkins off as a charming but clearly allergic-to-traffic-lights kind of guy.
But here, in Bear Valley, he wasn't out of place.
She was.
A woman came out of the back door, her dark hair tied in a high ponytail, a gentle confidence in her bearing that made Liv feel instantly less guarded.
"You must be Liv," she said, smiling as she wiped her hands on her denim-clad thighs.
"I'm Heather Prescott. Or Heather Watkins now.
Lyle's my husband. One of Mike's brothers,” she clarified.
“There are four of these guys, Lord help us!
Lyle's out wrangling something with hooves, probably, and no telling what the other two are up to. "
"Nice to meet you."
"I imagine you're worn out," Heather said. "That bus looked ready to give up the ghost by the time it passed our fence line."
Liv blinked at the kindness of the welcome—unfussy and direct. She cleared her throat. "Thank you for having me. I know I'm not the usual hire."
"I've got nothing to do with the hiring," Heather said. "That's all Mike's department. And we're used to city slickers here on the guest ranch. Some of them even turn out to be decent cowhands."
"Some," Mike muttered under his breath, grinning. "Most run at the first sight of cow poop."
Heather shot Mike a look so practiced it made Liv want to laugh. Something she hadn't done in a while.
"Go check the roast," Heather ordered. "You left the oven on and I've got dogs to see to."
Mike raised both hands in surrender. "Yes ma'am." He turned to Liv. "Follow me, city girl. We'd best get you out of the heat and take care of your suitcase before Tiny tries to marry it."
Liv followed him into the lodge. The moment the door shut, cool air and the smell of coffee embraced her—and something else. Leather. Wood smoke. The faint sweetness of whatever was roasting in that oven.
The foyer was all honeyed wood and family pictures of sepia cowboys, little kids, a handsome older couple whose absence seemed to press at the edges. Liv felt it and decided not to look too closely. She probably wasn't the only one with ghosts.
The kitchen was the beating heart of the home, the kind that didn't hush itself up for company.
Impressions flicked across her mind quickly.
Stainless steel, cast iron, a long farm table where bowls and mixing spoons sat like an invitation.
A woman in a floral apron and boots stood at the stove, wielding a spoon like a weapon.
She had stormy gray hair, sharp eyes and an expression that assessed and forgave you in the same breath.
"Arletta," Mike said. "This is Liv. The pastry chef applicant I told you about."
"Mmph." Arletta wiped her hands and studied Liv a beat longer than strictly comfortable. "You look like trouble, but the good kind. You ever burned a roux?"
"No," Liv said.
"Then you're ahead of half the folks that blow through here. You from around here?"
Liv froze for an instant. Breathe. Don't blow it before you've even got a foot in the door.
"Now don't pry, Arletta," Mike said with a laugh. "I'm the one who conducts the interviews around here."