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  Chapter 1

  Lorelei

  It’s been the normal crazy-hectic twelve-hour day at the Chestnut Creek Diner, and I’m beat.

  Nevada, our cook, ducks her head into my office. “See you on Monday, Lorelei.”

  “Enjoy your day off. Say ‘hey’ to Fish for me.”

  “Will do.” She waves her fingers and the door falls closed. I’m glad Nevada’s happy. Of course I am. She and Joseph “Fishing Eagle” King may come from different cultures, and be total opposites, but they fit together like layers of a Kit Kat bar.

  My sister Patsy has her pick of cowboys on the rodeo circuit, Carly has Austin and her baby (soon to be babies), Nevada has Fish, and I…I’m just blue tonight, I guess. I shut down the computer, pull my saddlebag-sized purse from the drawer. I’m proud that our railroad-station-turned-café is the social hub of Unforgiven. I’m proud to be the manager, feeding hungry people. It’s a good, clean, honest job. I just wish sometimes that I weren’t so…invisible.

  I am a human golden retriever: loving, loyal, dependable. But in my experience, humans with those traits tend to go unnoticed. The dogs, on the other hand, people find adorable.

  I walk through the pristine kitchen and push through the swinging door into the diner. The streetlight outside makes little inroads in the room’s deep shadows. I check to be sure there’s plenty of coffee setups for morning.

  In the quiet, the earworm that’s floated through my head all night cranks up. An old melancholy song of yearning and broken hearts. I hold up my arms and waltz with a shadow-partner across the floor. I try to imagine his face, but of course, a shadow man has none. I remind myself that it’s better that way. Happily-ever-afters happen for stray golden retrievers, not their human counterparts. My feet slow to a stop and I drop my arms.

  I have friends. But the last time I had a date, we had a different president. I have so little time for whatever single people do for fun that I sometimes feel like I’m watching life from behind a pane of glass.

  But I’m the one who installed the glass. When you put your young heart into the hands of a casual liar the first time, you scrutinize men’s hands after that.

  “Stop it, Lorelei, you sound whiny; you’re not a whiner.” I take the few steps to the door, unlock it. “Besides, Momma’s waiting.” I step out and lock it behind me.

  Unforgiven doesn’t literally roll up the sidewalks after dark, but if they did, no one would notice. Everyone is home with their families. I drive from the light of one streetlamp to the next, past dark stores, and too many windows dressed in butcher paper. The square and its dingy gazebo look tired and a bit spooky this time of night. Unforgiven has struggled since the railroad shut down years ago and we are miles off the interstate. Sure, some tourists come through, but fewer every year. “Route 66” means nothing to Millennials.

  I turn off the town square and head for home. No streetlights out here to break the vast blackness of a New Mexico summer night. The only beacons are safety lights on poles and outbuildings. Three miles out, I stop at the mailbox with “West” on the side, and the little yellow tube below for the Unforgiven Patriot. Just the usual flyers and bills. I’m silly to think Patsy would write when she doesn’t answer calls or texts, but still there’s that little let-down sigh every time I open the box.

  Patsy’s off living an exciting rodeo-road life. That life isn’t for me, but it would be nice to get a glimpse of it now and again—from a safe distance. Living vicariously would suit me just fine.

  The headlights of my old Smart Car sweep the house, highlighting that it needs a coat of paint—or three. But I have no time, and there’s no money to pay for someone to do it. Besides, if I had the money, it’d go for a new roof. The warm light from the kitchen spills onto the porch, drenching my smile. That light has welcomed me home every one of my thirty-seven years. Well, since I was old enough to leave it, anyway.

  The screen door shushes over the lintel, and home wraps around me with the smell of meat loaf and the sound of laughter.

  “That piece doesn’t go there, Mary.”

  “Yes it does, see?”

  “No, you can’t force it. You know better than that.”

  I cross the worn linoleum to the living room. Mom and Mrs. Wheelwright are at the card table, putting together their latest jigsaw puzzle.

  “What’s up, ladies?”

  Mom’s small, dried-apple face comes up, wreathed in smiles. “Oh, Patsy’s home!” She stands, and ignoring her walker, shambles over and throws her arms around me. I hug her back, inhaling her dusting powder scent, choking back the sticky wad of disappointment in my throat. “It’s Lorelei, Momma.”

  She backs up enough to look into my face, a wrinkle of worry between her brows. “When is Patsy coming home?”

  “Don’t know, Momma.”

  “Mary, I need help. Can you find where this piece goes?”

  Momma totters off, Patsy forgotten. For now.

  Mrs. Wheelwright gives me a small, sad smile. She is a godsend, staying days with Momma for next to nothing. She’s only a few years younger than my mother, but she’s a former nurse and says she’s happy to help out. I think she wants to escape her too-quiet house, since her husband passed last year. I blow her a kiss and wander back to the kitchen to get dinner finished and on the table.

  Momma mistaking me for Patsy usually doesn’t bother me, but tonight it does. I have been the constant in Momma’s life even before her stroke two years ago. I’ve stayed in Unforgiven, kept up the house, worked to pay the bills, keep her company.

  Still, she longs for Patsy.

  Not that I blame her. My younger sister got all the charm, looks, and the glitter; she was always everyone’s favorite. I don’t begrudge her that—I’m right there in her pack of admirers. You can’t not like Patsy. She’s so full of herself, and confidence, and…life. She lights up the room when she walks in, and when her focus is on you, you feel special, smart, important.

  I pull on the worn oven mitts and take the meat loaf pan from the oven, setting it on the back of the stove to cool. I cross to the pantry by the back door, reach behind the gingham curtain, and pull out the Potato Buds without looking. They’ve been on the same shelf, always.

  But it sure would be great if Patsy could make it home sometime. The last time she was here was after Momma’s stroke. But she was antsy and made more work than she helped. My sister is many great things, but caregiver isn’t one of them. Within the week, she was gone, back on the road with her latest cowboy-boyfriend. And except for a sporadic text or two checking on Momma, nothing since. But we love each other in this family—it’s our only superpower.

  I pour the tea, finish whipping the potatoes, and move everything to the table. “Dinner’s ready!” Mrs. Wheelwright starts dinner, I finish it—that’s the deal. When they’re seated, we hold hands, I say a quick prayer over the food, then pass the plates.

  After dinner when Mrs. Wheelwright has left and I’ve gotten Momma into her nightgown and in bed, I sit in her rocker and pick up the book we’ve been waiting to start. Reading is beyond Momma now, but she loves to be read to. I enjoy it, too: it calms, helping me put the day down, relaxing my mind for sleep.

  Momma loves all romance, but when I happened on a sci-fi romance last year, she’s been hooked ever since. I picked up this one by Fae Rowen at the library. “You ready, Momma?”

  She fists her hands on the sheet and nods, her eyes bright. Her stroke mostly affected her mind, making her childlike and apt to forgetting. Her face is as full of delight as a ten-year-old’s—in bad need of ironing. I lean over and kiss her forehead. “Do you know how much I love you?”

  “I love you too, dear.” She pats my face. “Where would I be without you?”

  “Well, you’ll never have to find out, so you settle in.” I turn to the first page. “O’Neill never expected a glorious red and purple sunset to be her e
nemy…”

  * * *

  Lorelei

  I love summer for a lot of reasons, but especially because I can drive to work on a Monday with the sun coming up over the Sandia mountains.

  George Strait sings “Amarillo by Morning” from my phone. If this is our high school busboy calling in sick, I swear— “Hello?”

  “Is this Lorelei West?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Officer Beaumont, New Mexico State Police. Do you know a Patsy Lynn West?”

  “What?” My hand jerks and the car makes a sharp swerve. My heart beats timpani in my ears; my blood swirls in a dizzying storm surge. I pull off the road, skid to a stop in the gravel, and throw it in park. “She’s my sister. What—”

  “Ma’am. I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I need to inform you there was a vehicular accident last night—”

  “Where?”

  “Out on Highway 10—”

  “No, where are you calling from? What city?”

  “Oh, Las Cruces. Ma’am, I’m so sorry to inform you, but your sister died on the way to the hospital last night.”

  I’m dreaming. I’m in my bed, and this is just a nightmare, probably from the chilis in the meat loaf—

  “Ma’am? Are you there?”

  “Yes,” the word comes out on an emphysemic wheeze.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am, but I need to know—”

  “You’re sorry?” The word spirals up as pounding blood spreads over my vision in a red-tinged haze. “Where do you get off, calling at”—I check the clock on the dash, like the time of day could make the least bit of difference—“five a.m. to tell me you’re sorry?” My shout echoing off the windshield slaps me, making me realize I could be a tad hysterical.

  “Ma’am.”

  I heave in a lungful of air and come back to myself. “No, I’m sorry. Give me a second here.” My arm loses function, and the phone drops to my lap. I rest my forehead on the steering wheel. I’m not dreaming. Patsy is…gone. A picture flashes, of the last time I saw her. She gave me a hug and a dazzling smile, told me she loved me to pieces. Then she hopped in her truck, threw me a kiss in the rearview, and, dust billowing, rode into the sunset.

  If I’d had any inkling of the future, I’d still be holding on to her. Even though she’d be kicking and screaming; she loved the excitement of the next rodeo down the road. How could she be gone for good? Forever? I feel like I’ve fallen into an alternate universe. Because this world has my baby sister in it.

  “Ma’am? Ms. West?”

  When I become aware of the tinny sound, I realize I’ve been hearing it for a while. The phone weighs a ton when I lift it to my ear. “I’m here.”

  “I am truly sorry, ma’am. I just need to know what you plan to do about the baby, since neither the mother nor the father survived the accident.”

  I pull the phone from my ear and stare at it. Either I am sleeping, or he’s crazy. Or maybe, both. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your sister’s baby.”

  “You’re telling me Patsy had a baby.” I dig my nails into my palm hard enough to draw blood. Funny, I never felt pain in a dream bef—

  “Yes, ma’am. A”—papers shuffle—“Sybil Renfrow was apparently babysitting and called us when Ms. West didn’t return.” For the first time, his voice shifts from administrative to human. “I know this is a shock, but if you don’t plan to come for the baby, I need to let Social Services know. Are you aware of any other—”

  “Stop! Stop right there!” My brain does a slow, sluggish turn. “I’ll be there, okay? I’m on my way.” I check the clock again. “I’ll be there by lunchtime. I’ll take the baby. Text your address to my phone. You called me, so you have the number.”

  “I do.”

  “And, sir?” I take a breath. “How old is the baby? Do you know its name?”

  More rustling. “Six months old, ma’am. Her name is Sawyer. Sawyer West.”

  Somehow, knowing her name makes her real. Oh, Patsy.

  About the Author

  Laura Drake grew up in the suburbs of Detroit. A tomboy, she’s always loved the outdoors and adventure. In 1980, she and her sister packed everything they owned into Pintos and moved to California. There she met and married a motorcycling, bleed-maroon Texas Aggie, and her love affair with the West began. Her debut Western romance, The Sweet Spot, won the coveted RITA Award for Best First Book.

  In 2014, Laura realized a lifelong dream of becoming a Texan and is currently working on her accent. She gave up the corporate CFO gig to write full-time. She’s a wife, grandmother, and motorcycle chick in the remaining waking hours.

  You can learn more at:

  LauraDrakeBooks.com

  Twitter @PBRWriter

  Facebook.com/LauraDrakeBooks

  For a bonus story from another author that you’ll love, please turn the page to read Wild Cowboy Ways by Carolyn Brown.

  Blake Dawson hopes he can make Lucky Penny Ranch finally live up to its name, but the property needs a ton of work. Allie Logan and her carpentry skills are his best shot at getting things in order. Besides, her brown eyes and dangerous curves have him roped and tied. Now Blake only needs to convince her that a wild cowboy can be tamed by love—and she’s just the one to do it…

  Chapter One

  The Lucky Penny had never lived up to its name and everyone in Texas knew it. Owners had come and gone so often in the past hundred years that if the deeds were stacked up, they’d put the old Sears catalog to shame. Maybe the two sections of land should have been called Bad Luck Ranch instead of the Lucky Penny, but Blake Dawson couldn’t complain—not for the price he, his brother, and cousin had paid for the place.

  A cold north wind cut through Blake’s fleece-lined denim jacket that January morning as he hammered the bottom porch step into place. The wind was a bitch, but then it was winter, the first Monday in January to be exact. And that damn robin out there pecking around in the dead grass sure didn’t mean spring was on the way. No, sir, there would be a couple of months of cold weather. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t have to deal with snow and ice. But Blake wouldn’t hold his breath wishing for that. After all, when had anything in this place been lucky? Besides, in this part of Texas weather could change from sunny and seventy to blustery and brutal with a foot of snow within twenty-four hours.

  He finished hammering down the last nail, stood up straight, and stretched. Done. It was the first job of too many to count, but he sure didn’t need someone falling through that rotted step and getting hurt. His dog, Shooter, had watched from the top of the four steps, his eyes blinking with every stroke of the hammer.

  Shooter’s ears shot straight up and he growled down deep in his throat. Blake looked around for a pesky squirrel taunting him, but there was nothing but the north wind rattling through the dormant tree branches. Blake gathered his tools and headed back into the house for another cup of hot coffee before he started his first day of dozing mesquite from the ranch.

  Clear the land. Plow it. Rake it. Plant it and hope for a good crop of hay so they wouldn’t have to buy feed all winter. His brother Toby would bring in the first round of cattle in early June. Blake had promised to have pastures ready and fences tightened up by then. Meanwhile, Toby would be finishing his contract for a big rancher. His cousin, Jud, would be joining them, too. But he was committed to an oil company out in the panhandle until Thanksgiving. So it was up to Blake to get the groundwork laid for their dream cattle ranch.

  He shucked out of his coat and hung it on the rack inside the front door and went straight to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, he wrapped his big hands around the warm mug. He was deep in thoughts about clearing acres and acres of mesquite when he heard the rusty hinge squeak as the front door eased open. He pushed back the chair, making enough noise to let anyone know that the house was no longer empty, when he heard the shrill, muffled giggle.

  Surely folks in Dry Creek knocked before they plowed right i
nto a person’s home. Maybe it was a prank, kind of like an initiation into the town or a bunch of wild kids who had no idea that the ranch had been sold. Whatever was going on, his instincts had failed him or else his neck was still too damn cold to get that prickly feeling when someone was close by.

  Shooter, who had been lying under the table at his feet, now stood erect and staring at the doorway. Blake would give the joker one more chance before he let him know he was messing with the wrong cowboy.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  “Don’t play games with me, Walter.” The voice was thin and tinny and definitely not a teenager.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  “Don’t be silly. You know who I am, Walter.” The voice got closer and closer.

  What the hell was going on?

  Back in the summer when the Lucky Penny went on the market, Blake, Toby, and Jud decided that they didn’t believe in all that folderol about bad luck. The Lucky Penny’s previous owners clearly just hadn’t put enough blood, sweat, and tears into the land, or it would have been a productive ranch. They hadn’t understood what it took to get a place that size up and running and/or didn’t have the patience and perseverance to stick it out until there was a profit. But now Blake was beginning to question whether the bad luck had something to do with the supernatural.

  He scooted his chair back and stood, Shooter close at his side, hackles up and his head lowered. Blake laid a hand on the dog’s head. “Sit, boy, and don’t move unless I give you the command.” Shooter obeyed, but he quivered with anticipation.

  “Walter, darlin’, where is she?” If it wasn’t a ghost, then whatever mortal it was with that voice should audition for a part in a zombie movie.

  Before Blake could call out a response, a gray-haired woman shuffled into the kitchen. The old girl was flesh and blood because no self-respecting ghost or apparition would be caught anywhere looking like that. She wore a long, hot-pink chenille robe belted at the waist with a wide leather belt, yellow rubber boots printed with hot pink flamingos, and her thin hair looked like she’d stuck her finger in an electrical outlet. The wild look in her eyes gave testimony that the hair wasn’t the only thing that got fried when she tested the electricity that morning. He felt a sneeze coming on as the scent of her heavy perfume filled the room.