The Cowboy Contract (Roped in Time #1)

Chapter One

Beau

“Winning that contest was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

Beau Jones knew he sounded ungrateful. He knew he was whining. He also knew this whole mess was his own doing. He’d signed up for the contest. But if he had to play one more country music concert, he was going to go out of his mind.

He’d been a struggling rock musician until Leon Schmidt heard him sing and decided his rough, gravelly voice was better suited to country.

Unfortunately for Beau, a panel of judges, the entire United States of America, and an enthusiastic international audience had agreed with his pragmatic, mercenary, and largely unsympathetic agent.

Leon was the kind of guy who could pass as an enforcer for the mob.

A red-veined, bulbous nose had been broken at least once, more likely two or three times.

It keeled to the left. He had a nick out of one ear that anyone with a spark of intelligence could tell had been sliced by a knife.

A barrel chest, and extraordinarily long arms with thick, meaty hands attached to ankle-sized wrists, enhanced the whole boxer-gone-bad image he liked to exploit.

A cold-eyed, soulless stare also worked in his favor.

Sometimes it worked in Beau’s favor, too.

More often, it didn’t. He’d signed with Leon in the heat of the moment.

He didn’t regret it, exactly, because Leon was fair, if not honest, and a whole lot more decent than his massive-arched brow ridge implied.

But Leon had his own ideas about where Beau’s career was headed, and Beau didn’t like them. Not one little bit.

The two men were sitting in Leon’s New York City office, closer to the Bronx than Manhattan, in a neighborhood not yet run down but on the cusp of neglect.

The building might be considered discreet in polite circles.

Its brick exterior was unassuming, but inside, it was secure.

Beau’d had to ring a bell in the phone-booth-sized foyer, forcing Leon to run down three flights of stairs to let him inside.

The stairs quavered under Leon’s weight but remained steadfast, if somewhat resigned.

The skinny stairwell carried a dried-out, funky smell Beau equated with his ancient, equally dried-out Southern great-grandmother who drank watered-down gin from a jug and whose long-dead husband Beau had been named for.

Leon’s surprisingly spacious third-floor corner office consisted of a single room with a decent view of the abutting building and the one across the street, a mahogany desk, and two easy chairs.

How he’d gotten that monster-sized desk up those stairs, Beau couldn’t say.

There had to be a rear entrance. Or maybe he’d had to assemble it, like something from one of those fancy Swedish furniture stores.

Either way, since the office had no filing cabinets, no receptionist, and no comforts other than the desk and chairs to make it even remotely a fun place to work, Beau assumed Leon only used the space to meet clients.

“Are you performing for money or art?” Leon asked, going straight for the throat. “Because I’ll tell you right now, art don’t pay shit.”

Beau knew Leon was right. It didn’t mean he had to like it. Or agree with him out loud.

“I wanted to play my own music for that audition.” He’d hired Leon two days before the audition—he was that sure of himself—then allowed himself to be persuaded to change his style, even though he knew he’d sold himself out.

“Country music is huge,” Leon had said. “And do you have any idea how much country lies between New York and California?”

Beau did now. He’d breezed through the audition, got picked by a country judge, been coached in all things country, then gone on to win the season by a landslide.

Unfortunately, the terms of his contract with the network stated he had to perform at every hillbilly hoedown known to mankind to keep his image on brand. God, how he hated country.

He did, however, like money. A few years of singing in subways made a man learn to appreciate money real fast.

Leon leaned forward to plant elbows and clasped hands on his brand-new, fancy desk. “I understand you’ve had a rigorous schedule, so here’s the deal. I’ve discussed it with the network, and they’ve agreed to give you some time off. But you’ve got to use it to polish your country roots.”

“I don’t have country roots.”

They could dress him up in these tacky shirts and boots, give him a leather string tie, and slap a Stetson on his head to make him look the part.

He could fake a very faint, lame-ass drawl—aw, shucks—to sort of sound it.

His Southern great-grannie gave him slight credence.

But he’d been born and raised in upstate New York to blue-collar parents, and thanks to Google, there’d be no hiding that.

“Exactly.” Leon looked too satisfied for Beau’s comfort. “Cowboys aren’t born; they’re made. Wilf Carter came from some dinky little village on the east coast of Canada where they grow apples.”

“Wilf who?” Beau asked, bewildered.

What did some apple-growing Canadian have to do with his roots?

“Jesus, Beau.” Leon rubbed his thick forehead in despair.

“Do your research. He’s Montana Slim. Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame?

It’s like you don’t want to help yourself.

You don’t even know one of the greatest country music legends of all time.

This is why you’re being given a two-month hiatus.

” His eyes hardened. “You’ve been looking a mite peaked, too. ”

Beau blinked. “Did you just say mite?”

“Helping you brush up on the parley, pardner.”

Kill me now.

Beau decided to focus on the silver lining in what he’d just heard. “Thanks for getting me the hiatus. I need the break. What with me being so peaked, and all.”

If Leon caught the sarcasm he didn’t let on. “Not so fast, New Jersey Slim. It’s a working hiatus.”

“Now I’m confused. How can having to work be called a hiatus?”

“Let me explain it to you. The network has agreed that you can spend two months on a working ranch in Montana, where you’re going to earn your spurs as a cowboy.”

“The hell I am,” Beau said.

Leon couldn’t be serious.

But Leon was. He rummaged in a drawer, then slapped a dog-eared book on the desk. He slid it across the pristine mahogany surface toward Beau. Beau peered at the title. The Cowboy Way, by David McCumber.

“Here’s your instruction manual,” Leon said.

“The plane ticket’s booked and I emailed it to you.

You’ll fly into Butte, Montana, where a cowpoke named Adam Caldwell will pick you up.

There are NDAs in place, but don’t be surprised if the ranch goes that extra mile to guarantee privacy.

No need to be alarmed. The press release is already prepared—the stress of sudden fame and recurrent mental health issues require you to take some me time so you can replenish your artistic well.

Thank Jesus for the mental health awareness movement.

” He lifted his eyes to the water-stained ceiling and crossed himself.

This conversation couldn’t be happening.

Beau shifted tactics. “I don’t have any mental health issues. Are you seriously trying to leverage off a legitimate illness to further your own interests?”

“I’m furthering yours. Maybe mine, too,” Leon conceded, unrepentant. “Didn’t you just say you were about to lose your mind?”

“I didn’t mean that literally.”

“Too bad. If you want the time off, two months are all they’ll give you, and a stint on a working ranch is the only way you’ll get them. You signed their contract, remember?”

“You’re my agent. You’re supposed to look out for these landmines.”

“I guess my definition of a landmine is different than yours. Mostly because I’m not a big sissy.

Look on the bright side, Beau. You’ve been putting on a few pounds from eating in all those expensive restaurants on the road.

You’re about to get a two-month workout for free.

It’ll save you hours in a gym with a personal trainer shouting at you.

Just think of all the lady-loving you’ll get once you’re toned. ”

He’d lost any desire for lady-loving right after discovering his wife—now ex—was loving another man on the side.

“What are you going to be doing for the two months I’m gone?” he asked, suspicious.

As far as he could tell, based on the amount of love and attention he’d been receiving, he was Leon’s only client. The only one bringing in any real money, at least.

“I’m headed to an island in the Caribbean for a month so I can regain my mojo. After that, I’m off to see Italy and France. Frankly, you’re exhausting, and I need a vacation.”

“I hate you,” Beau said.

Leon’s smile warmed his cold eyes but didn’t touch his black soul. “In two months, you’ll thank me. Your flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow. And to show there’s no hard feelings, I’ll even give you a lift to the airport. In fact”—his evil smile widened—“I insist.”

*

Beau

Beau stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Leon’s office and found that a small crowd had formed. A young girl, maybe thirteen, wearing a cropped white T-shirt with no bra to support breasts the size of small grapefruit, thrust a felt marker under his nose.

“Beau! Can I have your autograph?”

He loved his fans, and he couldn’t turn a little girl down, no matter how ill-advised she was dressed. “I’d be happy to. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Candi. With an i.”

He took the marker and looked in vain for something to sign. Damn it. He knew where this was going.

A Yellow cab, cut off by a black Lincoln sedan wedged out of its lane by a fan dodging through traffic, blared its horn in irritation. The Lincoln’s driver responded with a flip of his finger. If only Beau had the same freedom.

The girl pointed to her left breast—right above the perky, delicate tip of the grapefruit. “Right here.”