Whoa There Cowboy (The Boys of Sweetwater Springs #4)

1. Jake McKinney

ONE

JAKE MCKINNEY

BEGINNING OF THE MAVERICKS MINOR LEAGUE SEASON

I don’t like matcha. Mom says it’s tea, but I’m not sure what it is. The stuff looks more like a green milkshake to me. And it tastes like the hay I fed Lars an hour ago. Mom swears by this shit, though, and she’s the healthiest human I know, so down it goes.

“Third time’s a charm,” Mom says as she squeezes my shoulder on her way through the kitchen.

I chuckle as I choke down the last gulp of matcha.

“There’s a reason fourth time isn’t the saying. It’s because most people quit by now,” I say, rinsing out my glass and putting it back in the cupboard for my daily dose tomorrow.

“Don’t talk like that. You and I both know this game is mental as much as it’s physical. Maybe, I don’t know, try going into the season with a positive attitude.” She shoots me her trademark you know I’m right grin, and winks.

“Fine,” I grumble, forcing a stretched smile on my face that she knows is bullshit but laughs at anyhow.

I kiss the top of her head after she takes a seat at the kitchen table to sip on her matcha and review the bar’s financials from the night before.

“I’ll be over again tomorrow morning,” I say, the same phrase I’ve uttered every morning for the last three years. Ever since I moved out to live on my own in a shitty studio apartment by the truck route because that’s what I can afford.

“You know, I’m capable of taking care of this place on my own. You could let yourself get the extra sleep, at least during the season,” she says on my way out the door.

I sigh, pausing with my hand on the knob.

“I know. I’ll be here anyway,” I say, then step outside.

Of course she can handle the farmwork on her own. She can feed the pigs, clean the pen, feed Lars, clear the eggs, and run the only good restaurant in town all in a single day. And probably throw in earning her master’s degree online while she’s at it. In fact . . . did she already do that?

My mom’s been taking care of everything on her own since my dad left her here pregnant so he could become the beloved all-star catcher he is. Roddy McKinney, three-time World Series champ, Rookie of the Year, journeyman, and team leader.

My deadbeat father.

And now, he’s fucking here in Sweetwater. In fact, it feels like he’s fucking everywhere I am.

I make it a dozen steps down my mother’s driveway before Roddy’s life bleeds into mine in the form of a black and white pygmy goat named Willie.

Correction . . . Willie 2.0. The original Willie passed away eight years ago, but not before studding a replacement.

My Aunt Winnie has been taking care of Willie 2.

0, but the moment she found out my father was moving back home, she unloaded the eating machine on him.

Unfortunately, Winnie lives down the road.

And Willie 2.0 is pretty attached. He’s also lazy, so every time he escapes my father’s property, he ends up about right here, eating Mom’s roses.

“Come on, Willie. You’ve got expensive taste, you know?” I clap a few times to get his attention, and he rushes through his final bite of flower petals as he hops toward me.

I hoist him into the bed of my truck and lift the tailgate, so he doesn’t slide out on the short drive to my father’s house.

For most of my life, his massive ranch home made of stacked stone and redwood beams was a vacant black hole constantly sucking me in.

As a kid, I’d leave for school about ten minutes earlier than I had to just so I could drive by it and stare.

In high school, a bunch of us broke in to get shit-faced and smoke weed.

My friends and I did that more than once, actually, and the first few times, the security company got called out to bust us.

A part of me liked that I was inconveniencing my father with it all.

He had to deal with a call from the people he hired to take care of his shit while he was gone.

A call to deal with me. Until, eventually, he cancelled the security contract and simply mailed me a key with a note to clean up whenever we were done.

I haven’t been back since. Not until two weeks ago when he rolled into town and his damn goat started showing up at our place.

I leave the engine on after I pop the gears into park. I drop the tailgate and climb into the bed to grab Willie, who has made himself comfortable against the back of the cab.

“Come on, dude. You’re killin’ me,” I say as I haul him into my arms. I swear he purposely makes himself heavier when I carry him.

I turn around and prepare myself for a tricky squat maneuver so I can lower the little guy to the ground then guide him through my father’s open gate, but I stop in the middle of the truck bed when my gaze meets Roddy’s.

“He got out again, huh?” my father says, leaning a hip into the edge of the tailgate and lifting his arms to take over Willie 2.0’s trip to the ground.

“No shit,” I bite, rolling my eyes and handing off the goat.

I jump from the back of the truck, landing with a thud on the gravel driveway, and slam the tailgate shut without giving my father a second glance.

“I’ll get on that gate. It needs a new latch,” my father says over his shoulder as he leads Willie 2.0 toward the acreage behind his massive house.

“He’ll just chew his way out of anything you put up,” I say, mumbling the rest. “Even the damn animals don’t want to deal with your ass.”

I slip back in my truck, then close the driver’s door behind me and check my mirrors to make sure none of the other animals have wandered in my path. I’m about to peel out of this place when I catch my father jogging toward me, holding up a finger.

I let out a heavy sigh and roll the window down.

“What?” I’m short with him. He’s lucky I speak.

My father’s mouth pulls into a tight line, and I recognize the expression because it’s the same one my face dons when I’m frustrated. His brow furrows like mine does, too. I hate it.

“Jake, I hope you know I’ll do everything I can to not be a distraction for you. I know how much this season means to you. But if I can help?—”

I laugh out once. And hard.

“You wanna help.” The words tumble out of my mouth with an incredulous chuckle.

“I do.”

I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep my stare out the windshield for a few quiet seconds.

It’s not that I’m mentally sorting through what to say.

It’s that I’m weighing the worth of punching him in the nose right now.

I doubt he’d tell anyone what caused his face to be all busted.

I’d get a free shot. But I don’t want anything for free.

And that’s it, really—I don’t want a thing. Not from him, at least.

“See ya at practice, McKinney,” I spit out, rolling up my window as my tires spin out and I speed out of his driveway.

My pulse is racing as I mutter to myself during the short drive to the ballpark.

I have the same pretend arguments with him in my head that I always do.

I say all of the shit I’ve been holding on to for years, questions about why he walked out on Mom when he knew I was in the picture.

Thing about these talks, though, is they’re always one-sided.

I don’t make up words for him to say in return.

It’s because no matter what he has to say, it won’t be enough. I don’t even want to hear it.

I skid into the corner spot in the player’s lot and glance around to make sure nobody watched me come in hot.

I already have a reputation for being a bit of a hothead.

I don’t need to lend more proof to it. Not that being a hothead is the only reason I haven’t gotten the call up yet.

I know my weaknesses as a player. My bat is less than average.

I’m slow. And as my mom already reminded me this morning, a positive outlook isn’t exactly something I bring with me into the clubhouse.

But my arm is a cannon. Just like Roddy’s.

If I could just get a shot behind the plate for enough games to prove it, my pop time and caught stealing percentage would be enough to at least open the door.

And I’ve been working my ass off to improve the rest of it.

This is the first year I’ve been given an actual contract.

I’m usually non-tendered before I get a shot at proving my worth, so while I may be a negative asshole most of the time, there’s a bit of a fire in my belly that this year might just be the one for me.

And if not, well then . . . I wasn’t exactly joking about quitting in my conversation with Mom this morning.

I’m early on purpose. I know that my father and the more seasoned guys won’t roll in for another hour yet, and I like having time here on my own, without his shadow looming so damn close.

But also, I’m trying to show off the effort I’m willing to put in.

Usually, it’s just the pitchers out here earning brownie points.

But I figure they need someone to catch for them, and I need all the face time with the coaching staff I can get.

I let out a heavy breath, abandoning the weight of my morning run-in with my dad as I exit the driver’s side.

I snag my gear bag from the truck bed, thankful that Willie 2.

0 didn’t chew the straps off during his short ride.

I sling the hefty bag over my shoulder and push my sunglasses down my head and the bridge of my nose.

That’s when I spot her.

Hair the color of honey streams down her back in waves, and the fitted white blouse tucked into the snug black skirt that stops at her knees hugs her curves like glaze on a piece of pottery.

I’ve seen her around the complex the last few days.

Campbell Hines. I only know her name because I overheard her leaving a message for someone when she walked by the bullpen the other day.

I think she’s the new marketing rep. She has that PR polish about her.

And I can’t deny that she’s good for our image.

Hell, with a body like that, she can make anything look good—even a Triple-A club squeezed between a dying ranch town and a college hub.

She’s pacing near the front offices, her phone pressed to her ear. She’s on that thing a lot. I drop my gaze as I close in on her, not wanting to appear like I’m ogling or anything. Even if I am.

“I hear what you’re saying, Skip, but what I’m telling you is I’ll get you a lead story.

This place is so exciting right now. The club is on the brink of a killer season, and the talent coming through here .

. .” Her lashes flit about a second before her green eyes meet mine.

Her lip inches up on one side, the glossy red color taunting me like one of those apples in Snow White.

“Hi,” she mouths through her smile.

“Mornin’,” I say with a nod. I’m still dressed for ranch work, my boots dirty from the barn and my forehead damp with sweat.

My hair is mushed under my Stetson. I feel burlier than normal, like a bear trying to maneuver his way into an office.

But I manage to hold open the glass door for the goddess giving hell to whomever is on the other end of that phone call, and when she whispers “Thank you” as she passes me, I swear I’m hit with a rush of dopamine and citrus blossoms all at once.

“Got it, Skip. I’ll deliver. Thank you,” she says, ending her call where the hallway splits in two directions—left for players and right for the money folks.

“Thank you, by the way,” she says, spinning to face me before we part ways. My heart speeds up, and I realize as her hand juts toward me that my palms are suddenly sweating. I run my hand along my thigh and take her slender palm in mine. She gives me a tough shake, and it makes me smirk.

“What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t hold a door open for a beautiful woman?” I say, my eyes squinting with my smile. I think my fucking cheeks are actually hot. What the hell is happening?

She leans into me during our shake, then whispers, “You’d be a real asshole.”

I chuckle and nod as our grips release.

“Well, I might be that already.” I figure I might as well lead with the shit she’ll figure out on her own soon enough.

“I’m Campbell,” she says.

I nod and smile.

“Yeah, I know your name. You stand out around here. The last marketing rep was, well, in his sixties. And let’s just say his jeans hung a little too low on his waist.”

Campbell scrunches up her face as she chuckles.

“Oh, no. That’s bad. Please tell me if my jeans are ever riding too low, would you?” she replies. She’s being clever, but my damn hot cheeks are making it hard for me to keep my manners in check.

“No, ma’am. I’m afraid if I see your jeans low, I’m going to like it.”

Her smile falls, and fast. Then she takes a noticeable step backward. It’s not like I lied. I told her I was an asshole. My mom hates that sexist shit. Fuck, Jake. Think before speaking.

“I’m Jake, by the way. Mc?—”

“I know who you are,” she says, a hint of a smirk playing at her lips. My shoulders relax. Maybe I didn’t absolutely dig myself a grave with that jeans comment. Of course . . . I know why she knows who I am, and it’s not because of anything I did.

“Right. I guess I should get used to that this season. If he sticks around, that is.” I stop short of rolling my eyes.

“Oh, I thought this was your dad’s final year.

The way I understand it, he’s here to pass the torch and be the veteran player who spreads his wisdom.

Between me and you, I bet they put him on staff to coach in Sweetwater.

I’d say he’s here for the long haul. I mean, they’ll retire his jersey in Texas probably, because, well, he’s Roddy McKinney.

And he’ll have to leave for that. But he’ll be back. ”

“We’ll see,” I say, backing away while I’m ahead. Or at least before I go back under.

“What makes you so sure?” Her eyes narrow on me, and her mouth falls into this gentle curve as if she’s genuinely curious. I got used to folks around here knowing my story.

“Oh, I’d put it about the same way you did before. Because, well, he’s Roddy McKinney.”

I shoot Campbell a half-smile before spinning on my boots and heading toward the clubhouse locker room to change and try my damnedest to be useful enough to keep around.