Eli McGinnis was the grandfather that Billy had never had. He looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a Larry McMurtry novel with his snow-white slicked back hair and a handlebar mustache that curled up at the ends. He wore a plaid Western shirt starched within an inch of its life, a pair of Wranglers and a knowing expression that said he’d been there and done that a dozen times over. An old rodeo cowboy, he’d been a permanent fixture at the Gunner spread for as long as Billy could remember. A mentor to all of the Lost Boys, Billy included. Eli had also been instrumental in Billy’s success on the rodeo circuit. The old cowboy had been handing out advice and badgering him into hanging on just a little longer, a little tighter, a little more, for years now.
“...make sure your hand’s under the rope real solid before you even think about giving the signal.”
“Got it.”
“And keep your back bowed, but not too bowed.”
“Will do.”
“And get your eyeballs back into your head.”
“Already done—” The comment cut off as Billy’s head snapped up. He stared into the old man’s knowing gaze. “What the hell are you talking about, Eli?”
“That uppity-up over yonder.” Eli motioned across the sawdust floor. “If you keep staring at her like that, she’s liable to burst into flames right here and now.”
“You’re losin’ it, old man. I’m doing no such thing. My mind’s all about tomorrow.”
“True enough, but to get to tomorrow, you’ve got to make it through tonight.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Landsakes, do I have to spell it out for you?” He gave Billy a nudge. “Get your ass over there and dance with the woman. Otherwise, you’ll keep wonderin’ and that sure as shit’s gonna kill your concentration and lead to another sleepless night. Better to blow off some steam and get your mind off everything for a little while.”
“I thought it was better to avoid any and all distractions.”
“Yeah, but if that isn’t working out too well, you have to move on to plan B.”
“Which is?”
“Just get to it and get it out of your system.”
Billy glanced across the dance floor, his gaze colliding with the hot brunette’s. The air rushed from his lungs in that next instant, and for a split second he forgot to breathe.
A crazy reaction. But then that’s what happened when a twenty-six-year-old, red-blooded male in his prime went without sex for four months and six days and two hours and twenty-nine minutes.
Lust.
That’s all it was.
And nerves.
Tomorrow was big. The first official day of training for the semifinal round that would, hopefully, lead him straight to the finals. The press would be there. The rodeo officials. The fans. All watching and speculating. It made sense he’d be a little nervous. Not scared, mind you. More like anxious. Excited.
He sure as hell wasn’t getting all worked up because of the way her eyes sparkled and her lips curved into a smile.
A smile, for Christ’s sake.
“Maybe you’re right,” he heard himself say. “Maybe I should just get to it.”
“The sooner you start, the sooner it ends.” Eli nodded. “Then you can get focused again and forget all about those long legs and that tiny little waist and those really big—”
“Enough,” he cut in. “I get the point.”
“Then stop talking and start walking.”
“Yes, boss.” He left the old man grinning after him and headed across the dance floor.
2
SABRINA COLLINS NEEDED a cowboy in the worst way.
One hundred and fifty of them to be exact, which was the only reason she’d agreed to leave her L.A. apartment and head for a place like Lost Gun, Texas.
The small town played host to one of the biggest rodeos in the state, which had started a few days ago with several preliminary events. The official start, however, was tonight’s dance. While the town was little more than a map dot, for the next few weeks it would be the place to be for rodeo fans across the nation. Particularly the male variety.
On top of that, the town had gained recent notoriety thanks to a documentary featuring famous Texas outlaws. Lost Gun had started out over one hundred and fifty years ago as a haven for outlaws and criminals, and so it had been a natural pick for the documentary crew who’d not only played up the town’s history but also focused on a crime committed by one of Lost Gun’s very own who’d robbed a local bank and then bit the bullet in a house fire. The money had supposedly perished in the fire, but the television host had raised enough questions to make viewers think that the treasure might still be out there. The town had been a go-to spot for fortune seekers ever since.
Not that Sabrina was interested in a bunch of treasure hunters.
She wanted cowboys. Hot, handsome, real cowboys.
Just like the one headed straight for her.
He had short blond hair and chiseled features. The faintest shadow of a beard covered his strong jaw. A white cotton T-shirt—the words Cowboy Tuff blazing in red letters across the front—framed his massive shoulders and hugged his thick biceps. Worn, faded denim cupped his crotch and molded to trim hips and long, muscular legs. His scuffed brown boots had obviously seen better days, but then that was the way every cowboy worth his salt liked them.
She could still remember the boys back in her small-town high school, a map dot in East Texas that wasn’t so different from this one. The boys back home would rather duct-tape their favorite boots than give them up for a shiny new pair.
There was no duct tape in sight, but this guy still looked every bit as wild as any wrangler she’d left behind when she’d rolled out of Sugar Creek and headed for UCLA.
Sabrina’s fingers tightened around the plastic cup in her hand and a shiver of excitement worked its way up her spine.
Because he was a cowboy and another name to add to her currently growing database.
She certainly wasn’t feeling all tingly because of the way he looked at her. As if he wanted to take several slow bites and savor each one.
No biting.
No savoring.
No.
She pulled a business card from her purse that listed her email address and her cell phone number.
Numbers. It was all about the numbers.
That’s what Mitch, team leader for the investment firm, had told her when she’d approached them about fronting the start-up cash for a new online-dating service that specialized in Western singles. The service was the brainchild of Sabrina and her two college roommates, Livi Hudson and Katherine Ramsey. Since Sabrina knew how to write, she’d penned the business model, while Livi focused on the marketing and Kat handled the actual web design. The idea had grown out of yet another bad breakup for Livi, followed by a night of apple martinis and Bonanza reruns.
Forget the bank executives and the grungy tattoo artists and the egocentric personal trainers. Livi wanted a real man. A man’s man.
A cowboy.
And if she wanted one, then there had to be a ton of other women out there who did, too, right?
Sabrina hadn’t been as convinced, but money talks and polls on Facebook and Twitter had convinced her that Livi’s