her sister.
Charlotte Stone was ten years younger than Gracie. And while she’d been too young—four years old, to be exact—to remember the devastation when their parents had died in a tragic car accident, she’d been plenty old enough at nine to feel the earthquake caused by the death of their older brother. She’d morphed from a happy, outgoing little girl, into a needy, scared introvert who’d been terrified to let her older sister out of her sight.
Gracie had known then that she could never leave Lost Gun. Even more, she’d vowed not only to stay but to settle down, play it safe and make a real home for her sister.
She’d traded her beloved photography lessons for finance classes at the local junior college and ditched everything that was counterproductive to her new safe, settled life—from her favorite fat-filled French fries to Jesse Chisholm himself.
Especially Jesse.
He swiped a hand across his backside to dust off his jeans and her gaze snagged on the push-pull of soft faded denim. Her nerves started to hum and the air stalled in her lungs.
While time usually whittled away at people, making them worn around the edges, it had done the opposite with Jesse. The years had carved out thick muscles and a ripped bod. He looked even harder than she remembered, taller and more commanding. The fitted black-and-gray retro Western shirt framed broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Worn jeans topped with dusty brown leather chaps clung to trim hips and thighs and stretched the length of his long legs. Scuffed brown cowboy boots, the tips worn from one too many run-ins with a bull, completed the look of rodeo’s hottest hunk. The title had been held by local legend Pete Gunner up until he’d proposed to the love of his life just two short years ago. Since then Jesse had been burning up the rodeo circuit, determined to take the man’s place and gain even more notoriety for the Lost Boys, a local group of cowboy daredevils who were taking the rodeo circuit by storm, winning titles and charming fans all across the country.
Wild. Fearless. Careless.
He was all three and then some.
Her gaze shifted to the face hidden beneath the brim of a worn Stetson. While she couldn’t see his eyes thanks to the shadow, she knew they were a deep, mesmerizing violet framed by thick sable lashes. A few days’ growth of beard covered his jaw and crept down his neck. Dark brown hair brushed his collar and made her fingers itch to reach out and touch.
“If I were you, I’d stop staring and put my tongue back in my mouth before somebody stomps on it.”
The voice startled her, and she turned to see the ancient cowboy who came up beside her.
Eli McGinnis was an old-school wrangler in his late seventies with a head full of snow-white hair that had been slicked back with pomade. His handlebar mustache twitched and she knew he was smiling even though she couldn’t actually see the expression beneath the elaborate do on his top lip.
“You’d do well to stop droolin’, too,” he added. “We got enough mud puddles around here already. A few shit piles, too.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Drooling?” he cut in. “While I ain’t the brightest bulb in the tanning bed, I know drooling when I see it and, lemme tell ya, it ain’t attractive on a fine upstanding public servant like yourself. Then again, you ain’t actually the mayor yet, so I guess I should be talking to your uncle when it comes to serious public-health issues.”
“Uncle E.J. already left for Port Aransas. He and my aunt just bought a house there.” Her brow wrinkled as the impact of his words hit. “A public-health issue?” The notion killed the lingering image of Jesse and snagged her complete attention. “What health issue?” A dozen possibilities raced through her mind, from a city-wide epidemic of salmonella to a flesh-eating zombie virus.
Okay, so she spent her evenings watching a little too much cable TV since Charlie had moved into the dorms at the University of Texas last year. A girl had to have some fun.
Anxiety raced up her spine. “It’s mercury in the water, isn’t it?” Fear coiled and tightened in the pit of her stomach. “E. coli in the lettuce crops? Don’t tell me Big Earl Jessup is making moonshine in his garage again.” At ninety-one, Big Earl was the town’s oldest resident, and the most dangerous. He came from a time when the entrepreneurial spirit meant whipping up black diamond whiskey in the backyard and hand-selling it at the annual peach festival. Those days were long gone but that hadn’t stopped Big Earl from firing up last year to cook a batch to give away for Christmas. And then again at Easter. And for the Fourth of July.
“You got bigger problems than an old man cooking up moonshine in his deer blind, that’s for damn sure.”
“Big Earl’s cooking in his deer blind?”
Eli frowned. “Stop trying to change the subject. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”
“Which is?”
“Fake cheese on the nachos. Why, the diner used to put a cup of real whole-milk cheddar on all the nacho platters, but now they’re tryin’ to cut costs, so they switched to the artificial stuff.”
“Fake cheese,” she repeated, relief sweeping through her. “That’s the major health concern?”
“Damn straight. Why, I was up all night with indigestion. As the leader of this fine community—” he wagged a finger at her “—it’s your job to clean it up.”
O-kay.
“I’ll, um, stop by the diner and see what I can do.”
He threw up his hands. “That’s all I’m askin’, little lady.”
Her gaze shifted back to Jesse, who now stood on the other side of the arena talking to two men she didn’t recognize. They weren’t real working cowboys but rather the slick, wealthy types who flew in every now and then to buy or sell livestock. With their designer boots and high-dollar hats, they probably intimidated most men, but not Jesse. He held his own, a serious look on his face as he motioned to the black bull thrashing around a nearby stall.
“That boy’s too damned big for his britches sometimes,” Eli muttered.
Her gaze dropped and her breath caught. Actually, he filled out said britches just right.
She watched as he untied his chaps and tossed them over a nearby railing, leaving nothing but a tight pair of faded denims that clung to him like a second skin, outlining his sinewy thighs and trim waist and tight, round butt—
“It’s mighty nice of you to come out and warn him.” Her gaze snapped up and she glanced at the old man next to her. “Even if he don’t realize it.”
“It’s fine.” She shrugged. “It’s not like I stop by every day.”
Not anymore.
But for those blissful three weeks before they’d graduated, she’d been a permanent fixture on the corral fence, watching him every afternoon after school. Snapping pictures of him. Dreaming of the day when she could leave Lost Gun behind and turn her hobby into a passion.
She’d wanted out of this map dot just as bad as he had. Then.
And now.
She
