To Love Her Cowboys Read online

  Contents

  Copywrite

  Dedication

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Jason

  Gwynn

  Jason

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Jason

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Jason

  Dean

  Jason

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Jason

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Jason

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Jason

  Gwynn

  Dean

  Gwynn

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading and Reviewing!

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Laura Sutton

  Cover design by Michelle Ruggiero

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, including Information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Printed in the United States of America

  408 hwy 77 South

  Robstown, Texas 78380

  First Edition Published November 2019

  Dedication:

  For Michelle. Your friendship and support saved me in more ways than one. Thank you for the conversations, random grammar questions and recipe swaps. Thank you for inspiring me to chase my dream.

  You are wonderful.

  Gwynn

  Gwynn was certain she was lost. She’d seen nothing but cows on either side of this barely paved, one-lane ranch road for at least the last ten miles. Her GPS assured her she was going the right way, but out here? Who even knew if the lady in the GPS could be trusted out here in Nowhere, West Texas?

  She blew a messy, dark blonde curl out of her face and groped around the front passenger seat for the directions to Mariposa Ranch again.

  She checked the directions on the map one more time, taking her eyes off the road long enough for her small Jeep SUV to hit a deep pothole.

  “Oh!”. She instantly dropped the pages and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she cooed to her car reassuringly. Gwynn believed her car could feel, and that it responded to her voice. No one could change her mind—not that anyone really cared to. Gwynn led a solitary life. At the ripe old age of twenty-five, she was a moderately successful blogger and ghostwriter. She didn’t write her own fancy blog full of interesting rhetoric or witty substance. As her mother would say, she was far too plain and uninspiring for that. Instead, she had contract work as a guest blogger, and she wrote blogs for professional websites for hospitals, cities, and community groups.

  It was fine to write blogs and books for other people. It paid the bills—kind of—but it wasn’t what she dreamed of doing when she'd imagined being a writer as a little girl.

  She dreamed of creating worlds, places where others could hide and escape to the way she had done with books when she needed to get away. Gwynn was dying to write stories full of love, adventure, and romance. Her computer contained folders full of novel plot lines and character summaries, all begging to come alive on the page, and now was the time to make it happen.

  The whispers of the characters’ summaries were so remarkably incessant in her mind that she found herself hurdling down this road in the middle of nowhere. She was driving toward her destiny, and her destiny was Mariposa Ranch. She would live on this ranch in a converted carriage house for the next four months, and she would write. She would block out all the noise and negativity that was her world and just create.

  No outside distractions. There would be no meddlesome, overbearing mother telling her to get out of her frumpy clothes and find a man before her youth wasted away. No expensive apartment in Houston to maintain, trying to live a life that didn't quite fit, like a pair of tight heels at a dance—the kind that looked beautiful at the store, and on your feet but pinched on the dancefloor and made you limp and wince with pain.

  She had accepted a small advance from a publishing firm owned by her mother’s third husband—Gwynn’s favorite of the six her mother had married—then she put her big things in storage and hit the road with nothing but some clothes and Griselda, her old, grumpy cat. She headed out over five hundred miles west towards Andrews, Texas. Their destination, the Mariposa Ranch, was still another twenty-five miles west.

  “We should be there by now, shouldn’t we, Griselda?” Gwynn muttered in frustration to Griselda, whose permanent scowl spoke enough words for both of them. It was already four in the afternoon, and she had confirmed with the owner of the ranch via email that she would be there by four, and she hated being late.

  Finally, in the distance, she saw an arching iron gate that appeared to be covered in giant metal butterflies. That had to be it! Gwynn remembered happily that “mariposa” meant butterfly in Spanish, so if any place was to have a butterfly gate, it would have to be the Mariposa Ranch! Leaning in closer to the steering wheel and gripping it a little tighter, she truly hoped it was.

  “Please be it,” Gwynn pleaded. She had driven straight through from Houston, almost nine hours, stopping only for food and bathroom breaks. She was tired, and her skin felt sticky and gross covered in a thin layer of sweat and dirt. Poor Griselda was moody having been stuck in her cage most of the trip, and she had been howling and hissing for the last hour straight. Gwynn just wanted to get to her new “home” and settle in with a long hot shower and a quick sandwich.

  She turned onto the ranch, going under that giant, beautiful mariposa arch. Off in the distance was a large, sprawling, two-story ranch house likely over a hundred years old. It was painted a cheery pale yellow, with a large wrap-around porch and beautiful antebellum-style columns. The entire house was trimmed in white, and Gwynn considered the thought that if the carriage house she would be staying in was a fraction as nice as this house, it would be a wonderful four months ahead.

  On either side of the drive, she could see cattle meandering behind the fence effortlessly chewing on their cud, and slowly the drive opened to a well-manicured, beautiful green yard. To the right and slightly behind the main house, she could see a corral with a few horses being worked by a very large man. Even from hundreds of yards away, Gwynn could see how huge and powerful he was. She could feel herself flush thinking about how strong he must be and how his muscles would feel bunching and flexing under her touch.

  Not that Gwynn knew what it felt like to touch such a powerful man. Her one boyfriend from college was decidedly not built like the man on the horse. Josh was nice, thin—way thinner than her, actually—and they never did much beyond kissing. Josh claimed he respected her too much to take it any further, but Gwynn always wondered if he had just not been that attracted to her.

  Their relationship lasted the spring semester of her sophomore year, and when he went home to California for the summer, he never returned to school the following fall, and eventually their emails and pho
ne calls slowed to a stop. Gwynn threw herself into her studies for the next two years, took advantage of a study-abroad program in London one summer, and began to build her writing portfolio, always telling herself she just didn’t have time for men. While it wasn’t a complete lie, deep down she also knew it wasn’t the whole truth. She could make time, but she always felt like she just wasn’t good enough—not pretty enough for a man to date. Her perfect mother’s voice was always in her mind. “Gwyneth Lawson, stop dressing like a frump-monster. Show off your assets however few they may be,” or “Gwyneth, you will never get a man with your nose in a book. Men don’t want smart women; they want pretty women, women who look good on their arm at social events,” she would harp constantly.

  Between her mother's words, Gwynn’s introverted ways and her love of books and thicker-than-socially-desirable body, Gwynn now found herself at the ripe old age of twenty-five and still a virgin, with no prospects to alter that course.

  Gwynn mentally shrugged as she pulled her SUV to a stop in front of the gorgeous ranch house. She turned to her cat in the carrier in the back seat. “I think we made it, Gris!” An angry meow was the only reply the grumpy cat was willing to give, obviously not as impressed by the surroundings as her owner.

  “Okay, Griselda. I know. I will get us settled in as soon as possible.”

  Gwynn got out of the car just in time to see a very handsome man come down the front steps of the porch. He was dressed in jeans and a brown, long-sleeve work shirt. His golden blonde hair shone in the waning afternoon sunlight. It was a color Gwynn could only achieve with the help of her hairdresser. Sadly, as she grew older, the blonde locks of her childhood had dulled to a terrible dishwater blonde. Her “crowning glory,” as her mother had said, had begun to lose its shine, and Gwynn worked diligently to keep it pretty. She was sure this guy didn’t have to work so hard to keep his hair that color. Some men were just gifted with what women would kill for, and Gwynn would kill for her hair to still be that shade.

  “Hi!” he called out to her, a friendly smile on his incredibly handsome face. She closed her car door and headed toward him, proud that her steps didn’t falter under the gaze of such a desirable man. Gwynn was sure that if she Googled cowboy fantasy man, this man’s picture would appear on her computer screen.

  “Hi!” Gwynn shouted back, offering her outstretched hand for the sexy cowboy to take. He was tall and very fit, not huge but solidly built, like an Olympic swimmer or gymnast. She could feel her cheeks heat, and she knew her blush was spreading across her face and even down her neck. She was always uncomfortable and a bit shy around handsome men, and this man had to be one of the most handsome she had ever met.

  “You must be Dean?” she queried as he reached her and took her hand in his much larger one to shake.

  When he touched her, Gwynn felt a jolt of something, like an electrical shock but different—deeper—she couldn’t explain it, but it made her want to lean into him and cuddle her body into his solid frame the way Griselda did with her at times.

  God she wanted to pet this man, to run her fingers through his hair the way one would tame a lion’s mane. What had happened to her? Did she lose her mind in one of the five hundred potholes she hit getting here?

  “No,” he answered through a bark of laughter. “No, I’m Jason Caster-Leigh. I’m the ranch manager here at the Mariposa. Dean is over in the corral working a stubborn gelding that the ranch just acquired. He will be a good, strong work horse if Dean can tamper down his will a little bit.”

  He smiled at her and had yet to release her hand. He was holding it just a little longer than was normal for a perfunctory “hello” handshake. It was almost like he was caressing her hand. Gwynn shook that thought away. He wasn’t. A man like this wouldn’t look twice at a girl like her.

  She pulled her hand out of his grasp, becoming very self-conscious with her thoughts.

  Jason’s smile didn’t falter, and Gwynn resisted the urge to shield her eyes. Looking at his wide, bright smile was like staring into the sun. He had nice teeth, she thought, though not perfect. He had one slightly crooked tooth on the bottom row that showed in his full smile. It didn’t deter from his attractiveness. If anything, the slight imperfection added to it.

  “You must be Gwyneth, our new tenant in the carriage house,” he said as a statement of fact, not a question.

  She returned his smile and nodded, not trusting her voice at that moment, afraid she would squeak her answer and sound like an idiot. She really needed to rein in her attraction for him.

  “Good! We were afraid you might get lost. Out here, all the ranch roads look alike. Trust me, I know. I got lost for two hours trying to find the place when I first came out here.”

  She continued to smile and nod her head, desperately hoping she didn’t resemble a lunatic.

  “We are excited to host a writer for a few months, you will be the first person to stay in the carriage house since we renovated it. It was built in 1900 along with the main house, right after the Whitfield family first started to really make money with the ranch.”

  He smiled again and gestured for her to follow him.

  “Come on, we’ll take a quick walk to the corral, and then Dean and I can help you move your stuff in. Most of the ranch hands are gone for the day. It’s not herding season, and we only keep three guys on the payroll full-time, and all three live in town, not here on the ranch.”

  Gwynn followed him, listening as he talked. Apparently Jason liked to talk, and he had a deep, even voice with a slight Creole accent. His voice sounded the way good bourbon tasted–smooth with just the right amount of burn.

  “So, what kind of writer are you? Historical smut? All heaving chests and bodice ripping?” he asked with a teasing grin on his face, but his curiosity seemed genuine to Gwynn.

  She couldn’t help but return his grin with a smile of her own. There was something about Jason that made her feel welcome, almost safe. She had never really felt safe around men. Too many in and out of her and her mother’s life to ever feel secure. Jason felt different somehow, even if she had just met him.

  “No, afraid not,” she answered with a light laugh. “Though I wouldn’t mind knowing how you know about historical romances—bodice-ripping and all. I feel like there might be a story there,” she said with a teasing tone she almost didn’t recognize. Was she flirting with this man, this creature that exuded power and raw sexual energy? Maybe it was the fresh West Texas air that was making her feel bold.

  “No, I’m a bit geekier than that, I’m afraid, though I do enjoy reading some bodice-ripping from time to time,” she hastily continued, not bold enough to wait and see if he would give her a flirtatious answer back. “No, I’m finally working on my epic fantasy series. I’ve had it plotted for years, probably since college. I’ve spent all my free time building a world I hope would make Tolkien proud, even going so far as to create and research different languages for my novel.”

  They continued to walk toward the corral, and she let her passion for writing take over. This story was her one true love. It had been in her brain for years, her constant companion, her one goal with every paper turned in to professors. Every article written, every blog post, every class on editing were all working toward this one goal. This series. This fantasy world.

  “So, I took some money I saved, didn’t renew the lease on my apartment, and moved away from everything so I could just sit and write for four months. I came across the ad for this rental, and it sounded perfect. A new environment free of distractions—just what I think I need to get a rough draft finished.”

  She finished just as they made it to the corral. She looked up to see Jason’s face full of awe. Maybe? She wasn’t sure, but she was sure no man had ever looked at her like that, and it made her legs feel wobbly, and she was hot to her very core.

  “That sounds awesome,” he began. “I grew up on Tolkien as well, and a few others. When life became too much, there was a world I could immerse myself in and
just drift away for a little bit.” Gwynn studied him as he said those words, the look on his face something she recognized—a child needing to escape, and she wondered why he had needed those books as a child. Suddenly she didn’t just want this man, she wanted to protect him, to hold him and kiss away his pains. She would never get to, but it didn’t stop the want from building in her chest.

  He smiled at her, and suddenly he was back to all good looks and charm. That hint of vulnerability shuttered now, and he turned away from her to look at the corral instead.

  “Dean!” he called out, and from the other side of the very large corral came the man she had noticed when she first pulled in, and goodness he was even bigger close up.

  She watched as he made his way over to them. His stride was fast and determined, the stride of a confident man, Gwynn thought. A man who works and gets what he wants.

  While Jason was big and solid, this man was huge. Dean was built like a man who could move a mountain. He was about two inches taller than Jason, at maybe six-five, she guessed. His chest was wide, its muscles as well as his arms straining the fabric of his light blue work shirt.

  His skin was a beautiful light bronze from working outside, and his face looked like the marble statues of Greek gods brought to life. His jaw was square and sharp, his lips just full enough for her to know that if he kissed her, they would be soft against her own. His dark hair was shorter than Jason’s golden locks, hidden beneath a dirty straw cowboy hat.