the money and he wanted to see the Chisholm name cleared, he wasn’t as haunted by it as his oldest brother. No, he’d killed himself shoveling dirt for Jesse. So that his oldest brother could make peace with the past.
Cole wasn’t half as anxious to make peace as he was just to forget. To leave the memories where they belonged—way, way behind him—and focus on the future. His RV was packed and waiting back at the prime stretch of land he’d purchased on the outskirts of town. The perfect spot to breed some prime, Grade A horseflesh if he ever got the notion.
A slim possibility because Cole liked moving around, traveling, living.
He’d spent his entire childhood barely existing. Food had been in short supply. Money had been practically nonexistent. And love? He’d had his brothers, but Silas had been a piss-poor excuse for a father. There’d been too much misery, too many days spent feeling like he was being suffocated by his situation, snuffed out, beaten down. He’d been so close to giving up.
But then legendary bull rider Pete Gunner had taken him and his brothers in and helped them become rodeo’s best and most notorious. Cole was now one of the infamous Lost Boys—the hottest group of riders on the circuit, so named because they all hailed from the same small town.
For him, it was all about living life now rather than merely enduring it. About feeling the rush of adrenaline when he climbed onto the back of a bronc, smelling the fresh dirt that kicked up around him, hearing the thunder of his own heart, seeing the whites of his knuckles as he held tight to the reins and gave the ride everything he had.
He felt alive then. Free.
All the more reason to get back out on the road.
“Move your ass.” Billy reached out a hand to Cole and helped him out of the hole. “We’ve got an hour to get back to town and get cleaned up before we head over to the church. Jimmy and Jake will kill us if we’re late.”
Yep, he was leaving, all right.
After he stuffed himself into a tuxedo and walked some blushing bridesmaid down the aisle.
“I’ll put in a call to the sheriff and see if I can set up a meeting for tomorrow morning so we can get this money back to its rightful owner.” Jesse started gathering up their tools. “In the meantime, we’ve got a wedding to get to.”
1
IT WAS THE SECOND biggest wedding the small town of Lost Gun, Texas, had ever seen. Next in line only to the marriage of pro bull-riding legend Pete Gunner who’d married his one and only earlier that year.
Nikki Barbie hadn’t been in attendance at that particular event because she’d been home nursing a bad case of strep.
Thankfully.
Weddings were definitely not her thing.
The truth struck as she stood to the right of the minister of the Lost Gun First Baptist Church and listened to her two oldest sisters vow to “love, honor and cherish.”
Crystal and April were marrying the Barber twins in a massive double-wedding ceremony, complete with a fairy-tale theme that translated in the form of castle-shaped sugar-cookie favors and a live butterfly release. Jimmy and Jake Barber were the hottest team ropers on the rodeo circuit and members of the Lost Boys, which meant that in addition to the few hundred guests, there were at least a dozen reporters crowded inside the sanctuary. Snapping pictures. Documenting memories.
This was definitely the worst day of her life.
And not just because she was wearing a floor-length, pink satin dress, complete with parasol and matching sandals.
Raylene Barbie—Nikki’s mother and owner of The Giddyup, Lost Gun’s oldest and most popular honky-tonk—was the culprit behind the tragic state of Nikki’s life. Raylene was a card-carrying, ball-busting Southern bad girl who would sooner guzzle a lukewarm beer than narrow down her options and give up her freedom to just one man.
Not that she didn’t like men. Quite the opposite. She appreciated a good hunk of beefcake as much as the next red-blooded woman. More so, in fact. Raylene Barbie went through men faster than the members of the ladies’ auxiliary went through panty hose.
Men were good for one thing, and it had nothing to do with any sort of happily ever after. They were fun. Exciting. And very, very temporary.
Which explained why she sat in the front row and stared at her youngest daughter as if she were the last beer in the cooler at a Fourth of July picnic.
Nikki was so screwed.
She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat and tried to focus on the positive. At least her mother had shown up for the wedding, which had made Crystal and April two happy campers. The woman had been giving them both the silent treatment since they’d announced their engagement six weeks ago, and so there had been speculation about her putting in an appearance on the most important day in their lives. But she’d come through, even if only out of desperate hope that they would both back out at the last minute.
Nikki drew a much-needed breath and tried to settle the gymnastics routine currently going on in her stomach. Sweat beaded on her upper lip. Her hands went damp and she had to readjust her grip on the heavy bridesmaid’s bouquet.
Tulips, of all things. And baby’s breath. And while the entire thing looked sweet and delicate, that was the point entirely. The Barbie sisters didn’t do sweet and delicate. Crystal and April lived in hot-pink cowboy boots, itty-bitty tank tops and black leather miniskirts. They were bold. Beautiful. Bad.
Once upon a time.
They’d traded in their racy clothing for two of the biggest, most poofiest white dresses this side of the Rio Grande. They were giving up their old ways. Getting married. Settling down.
Nikki sucked in a much-needed breath. Geez, it was hot. And stuffy. And bright.
Daytime weddings should be outlawed. Particularly when they took place at a church where the reverend prided himself on locking in the temperature at an economy-saving seventy-five degrees.
Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows of the sanctuary, temporarily blinding her. She blinked and swallowed against a rising wave of nausea and the crazy urge to call a halt to the entire ceremony.
I object!
If Crystal and April weren’t sane enough to do it themselves, then she needed to step up. To preserve her own sanity.
Her lips parted. Her tongue moved. Her voice box squeaked—
The sound of a throat clearing cut her off before she could blurt out the first word. Her gaze snapped up and collided with the best man who stood directly across from her.
Cole Unger Chisholm, pro rodeo’s biggest and best saddle-bronc rider, narrowed his gaze as if to say “Stay out of it,” and her own gaze narrowed.
She clamped her lips shut and frowned. He had a lot of nerve. He was the crazy one. The impulsive wild card who prided himself on doing the outlandish. From standing upright on a bucking bronc during the last few seconds of his ride, to flipping off reporters when they got a little too close, Cole was the quintessential bad boy. The last one left now that the rest of the
