Charming Texas Cowboy, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2022 by Tracy Mort Hopkins
Cover and internal design © 2022 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by Stephanie Gafron/SourcebooksCover images © Rob Lang, sakchai vongsasiripat/Getty Images, zhuang wang/Getty Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
Excerpt from Big Chance Cowboy
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Lucy—the barking-est dog we ever did love
Chapter 1
“I think you have a real knack with those dairy goats,” Jen Greene’s mom, Joanie, gushed as she loaded mason jars full of fresh goat’s milk into the back of their vintage Suburban.
Jen grinned and turned toward the camera with a wink. “Milking was a lot easier once I figured out which ones were the girls.”
Her mother gave a not entirely fake snort. “Do you think we should start a herd at Summer’s Ridge?”
“Well, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?” Jen asked, drawing a raised eyebrow from Joanie.
“Cut!” Brock called, making his signature—and way overused—move of frustration, grabbing a handful of his hair. It fell back into place as though he’d never touched it. Through clenched teeth, he asked, “Jennifer, what are you doing?”
“What?” Jen pretended not to understand what Brock was talking about. It was a passive-aggressive move, but come on—Joanie and Jen lived in a three-bedroom split-level house on a quarter acre in suburban Austin. There was no Summer’s Ridge. Jen wasn’t planning to announce that to their audience, but she loved making little inside jokes about it, even if she was the only one who thought it was funny.
One of the many Nigerian dwarf goats belonging to the farmer they were visiting nudged Jen’s backside. She squatted to pet the little guy—er, girl. If she ever got her dream farm, she was totally getting some goats.
“For crying out loud, Jennifer, can you be a little less ladylike?” How was Brock not bald, considering how much he yanked on that hair? “You look more like Johnny Bench than Laura Ingalls Wilder at the moment.”
Jen glanced down at her slightly spread thighs, firmly encased in denim, and glared up at their director/manager/lord and master and said, “I’ll remember my prairie dress next time.”
Brock might or might not have muttered something about a giraffe, but Jen decided not to ask him to repeat his words.
“Come on, Jennifer,” Joanie said. “Give him a break.”
Jen forced a smile and gave the little goat one last pat before rising to her full five feet, ten inches. Brock was about five four including hair and had a bit of a body image issue. He often tried to pass that on to others. Jen, not being a Baseball Hall of Famer, tried not to catch what he was throwing.
But jeez, he was such a jerkface.
“We need to get to the Summer’s Ridge test kitchen before I have to pay the videographer overtime,” Brock said. “Joanie, do you want to ride with me?”
Joanie bit her lip in hesitation, but Jen just waved her on.
“I’ll see you at the studio,” Jen said, refusing to call the rented kitchen with the vintage white cabinets and massive marble countertops “Summer’s Ridge.”
Normally Joanie and Jen would ride together and brainstorm about their next steps, but things were so scripted now that there wasn’t any need, and frankly, Jen needed a few minutes alone to get her head back in the game. No one had promised her this gig was going to be fun every single minute, and it was unprofessional to pout just because Brock had insulted her.
What was wrong with her today? It was true that she’d disliked Brock from “hello,” but he usually didn’t get to her. Joanie seemed to have drunk whatever Kool-Aid Brock was pouring, which bothered Jen—and not just because there had been a gulf developing in their normally tight mother-daughter relationship. She was really worried that Joanie might be backsliding, but it had been so long and there had been so much therapy since the last time her mother met a this is the guy who will save me guy Jen was pretty sure her mom was cured. For a few years there, as in the first fifteen years of Jen’s life, there had been a series of losers moving in and out of their home, taking a little more of her mom’s sanity and self-esteem in every garbage bag full of personal belongings.
Finally, Joanie had gotten better and had thrown herself into making arts and crafts, eventually starting a blog, and then a couple of years ago, when Jen graduated from college with a degree in digital media, they’d joined forces and started the Homemade with Joanie and Jennifer show. Jen loved it because she liked hanging out with her mom, and it gave her a chance to learn new things and to have a little control over her life—something that had been sorely lacking after her father went out for cigarettes the day she was born and never came back.
Until, that was, they’d decided they needed someone to manage all of the little details that came with a runaway YouTube sensation, and that someone had turned out to be Brock.
Jen decided she was probably suffering from PMS. She kind of hoped that was it. A few cramps and a couple of Hershey bars and things would start to look sunnier. The alternative was facing the uncomfortable possibility that she might not want to be the Jennifer half of Joanie and Jennifer anymore.
As she drove, she thought about calling her best friend, Robin, just to vent, but she felt guilty. It seemed like the only time she ever called Robin or any of her other friends was to complain. She never called to ask them about their own lives or their kids or husbands.
It was a teeny bit possible that her hesitancy to check in with friends wasn’t so much guilt over how selfish she could be. It might also be a little bit about how bummed out she got when her friends talked about their husbands and kids—because Jen had neither. She’d somehow figured that by the ripe old age of thirty-one, she’d be married and spending her time making Pinterest-inspired snacks and homemade Halloween costumes for her little ones, but instead she was almost painfully single. Even if she had time to date, where would she meet guys? Okay, yeah, online like everyone else in the universe. But as Jennifer the YouTuber, she was supposed to be a proponent of slowing down and living an authentic, wholesome life. Virtual speed dating was not part of her brand.
Well, heck. Maybe her next craft project for the show could be homemade personal pleasure devices. Can you say “Ewww?”
Unfortunately, the twenty-minute drive in air-conditioned solitude had done nothing for Jen’s peace of mind, and now she had to get in there and be a maker.
She took a deep breath and tried to focus on today’s “homemade pleasure”—which had nothing to do with self-gratification beyond the satisfaction of being able to say you’d made something yours
Her mother had set things up for the segment, and it was almost Jen’s turn.
With her trademark lyrical enthusiasm, Joanie said, “And now Jennifer’s going to add lye to the lovely fresh goat’s milk, and we’ll be on our way to making our own goat milk soap!”
Jen picked up the measuring cup to do her part and said, “Remember, don’t ever pour your milk into the lye, or you’ll get a caustic volcano.”
Fortunately for everyone in the studio, Jen poured the lye into the milk and not the other way around. Unfortunately, she poured it into the fresh, warm jar and not the prechilled milk her mother had just taken from the fridge.
Oops. This wasn’t going to be good.
She jerked her hand back from the mixture and knocked over the jar of cold milk, which flooded the counter, while the warm milk literally began to scorch from the heat generated by the chemical reaction.
“Oh my God, what’s that smell?” Joanie asked as Jen tried not to gag.
At least it wasn’t volcanoing, she told herself. It was just stinky. Not sticking to anyone like napalm or anything. Wouldn’t that be something? Suddenly the whole situation seemed too ridiculous, and she had to stifle a grin.
“Cut!” called Brock as Joanie hissed, “Don’t squinch your face up like that! You’ll ruin your makeup!”
“Ugh, it’s disgusting!” Jen laughed. “I ruined it, didn’t I?”
Brock nodded, scowling, but said, “That’s okay. We’ve got the practice version in the pantry. We can use that.”
“Okay, then let’s shoot a little explanation—” She looked to the videographer, a new guy Brock had hired, who rolled his eyes before turning his camera back on.
Brock shook his head. “No. We don’t have time for that. We can use this and cut before you notice the smell.”
“We can’t do that!” Jen protested. “People will do it the way I did, and it won’t work, and they’ll complain, and—”
“We’ll deal with that if it happens. You don’t really think people try this crap at home, do you?” He laughed and gave Joanie a conspiratorial wink, which Joanie, to her credit, didn’t return. Joanie also didn’t disagree with him, which was a drag because Joanie and Jen’s whole reason for doing Homemade with Joanie and Jennifer was to promote authentic do-it-yourself stuff.
Wasn’t it?
Suddenly everything—the fake estate, the fake kitchen, the fake smiles, the fake goat’s milk soap, all seemed to be crushing Jen from the inside out. And now Brock, who was supposed to be working with them, was dismissing her.
“You know what, Brock? You don’t have a clue what you’re talking about. I do think people do this stuff themselves. That’s why they watch us. Because we’re authentic people.”
Brock snorted. “There’s nothing authentic—whatever that’s supposed to mean—about any of this. They don’t watch because you’re some kind of magical unicorn of living the good life, they watch because you’re good at acting like a funny klutz, and because Joanie’s got perfect tits.”
“Excuse me?” Jen asked, because surely she hadn’t heard that right.
“You heard me. Joanie’s got a great rack. Better than yours, anyway.”
Joanie had the good grace to look shocked and put a hand over the opening in her low-cut blouse, but she didn’t call Brock out for being a pig.
Jen stared at her. “Mom? Are you going to take this?”
Joanie’s forehead creased and she bit her lip. “Maybe we need to take a minute.”
Brock threw up his hands. “We don’t have a minute. Time is money, and if we don’t get out of this kitchen in ten minutes, we’ll be paying for another half day’s rent in addition to overtime for the cameraman.”
Jen put her hands on her hips. “I’m not going to demo the finished product if we can’t spend a few extra minutes explaining about the milk.”
“Then I’ll just cut in something else,” Brock said.
“Mom, we can’t let him do this!” What had happened to their simple little mother-daughter enterprise? And how had Jen completely lost her right to have an opinion in how they did things? Yeah, her mom—just by virtue of being the mom—had always been the spokesperson for the pair of them, but she’d always taken Jen’s opinion into account when it was time for decisions. Since Brock had come along, though…
Joanie looked to Brock, who raised his eyebrows expectantly, then turned back to Jen. “We really don’t have time right now—”
Something snapped in Jen at that moment. Maybe it was some sort of metaphorical umbilical cord, severed when her mother decided to take Brock’s side over Jen’s. Maybe she’d been too attached to her mother for too long anyway. “Fine. We don’t have time? You’ll have a lot more time to do things your way from now on, because I’m done.”
She turned and marched away, snatching her bag from the back of a chair and digging for her car keys. “I’m so done with this stupid show. ‘You’re the funny klutz,’ my patootie.”
She didn’t mind providing a lighter side to their reality show, but she wasn’t there to be the comic relief while her mom got to be the pretty, sexy one. Which sounded like jealousy, but damn it, Jen realized, she hadn’t had a date in…forever. She’d subjugated her whole self to this stupid show, and she was lonely, exhausted, and miserable.
She had believed in what they were doing. Getting in touch with life, with food and textiles, and back to basics in this plastic, artificial world—all that had been worth a few Saturday nights when she’d been too tired to do anything but fall into bed by nine. But once Brock had come in and started changing everything, it wasn’t okay anymore. And then he had the nerve to compare her boobs to her mom’s? As she unclipped the microphone from her ridiculous chicken-embroidered chambray shirt, she accidentally popped a few buttons loose. Screw it. She tore it the rest of the way open and held the sides out as she turned to face Brock (and her mother, and the damned videographer). “Just so you know, Jerkface, I’ve got perfectly adequate tits!”
Chapter 2
“Trixie, sit.” The little dog obeyed, watching Tanner expectantly. At about thirty pounds, with long, wavy curls, a pointed nose, and intelligent eyes, she seemed to land somewhere between a sheltie and a labradoodle on the mixed-breed range. She gave him all of her charming, adorable attention, pretending to ignore the five other dogs sitting a few feet away, perfectly well behaved on their assigned spots in the training enclosure. Tanner told her she was a good girl and gave her a tiny bite of hot dog. “Are you ready to try this without a leash?” he asked.
She seemed to nod, so eager to please he couldn’t imagine she’d ever not been able to sit long enough for a reward. When she’d first come to the Big Chance Dog Rescue, all she’d wanted to do was chase the other dogs. It had taken a ton of patience and even more hot dog bits, but she was finally following basic instructions. Most of the time. Granted, Tanner wasn’t the most experienced dog trainer on the ranch. He wasn’t an official trainer at all, but he helped out with the new dogs, working on basics. Trixie had become his special project. She reminded him of himself as a kid, eager to please, and even more easily distracted.
Unfortunately for Trixie, her future also seemed to be taking the same trajectory as Tanner’s. He’d been discharged from the army with no hope of a useful future, and Trixie had flunked out of service animal school before she’d even started. So here they were at the Big Chance Dog Rescue, just trying to behave well enough to keep from getting kicked out. At least Trixie was cute and had the potential to be a great pet.
Tanner? He definitely wasn’t cute—his bad decisions in the army had seen to that—and he wasn’t likely to become anyone’s lapdog, either.
“Ready? I’m going to let you off leash, and you’re going to stay right here until I give you the word.” Trixie smiled and panted, hanging on Tanner’s every word. She leaned her silky head against his leg, eager to be petted.
He complied, unclipped the leash, and before he could even straighten up, the little dog was off. Running toward the other dogs, stirring them into a frenzy.
“Damn it, Trixie, no!” he barked.
She ignored him. Yipping and dancing and twirling around the other dogs like a ballet dancer on meth, urging the other dogs to participate in her madness.
