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Her Cowboy Lawman
Pamela Britton
Not His First RodeoSheriff Brennan Connelly knows he should avoid anything that could hint at scandal while he’s running for reelection, such as falling for a gorgeous young widow. But despite the age difference and the political risks, Bren and Lauren Danners share a remarkable connection. And as he coaches her young son in the rodeo, the former Green Beret is drawn ever closer to her.Lauren Danners may be young, but she's long past the age of swooning over devastatingly handsome men. And Bren Connelly may be handsome, but Lauren has had her fill of men in dangerous jobs. To protect her son—and her heart—she tries to keep Bren at arm’s length. But whenever she’s around him, all she wants is to be in his arms!
Not His First Rodeo
Sheriff Brennan Connelly knows he should avoid anything that could hint at scandal while he’s running for reelection, such as falling for a gorgeous young widow. But despite the age difference and the political risks, Bren and Lauren Danners share a remarkable connection. And as he coaches her young son in the rodeo, the former Green Beret is drawn ever closer to her.
Lauren Danners may be young, but she’s long past the age of swooning over devastatingly handsome men. And Bren Connelly may be handsome, but Lauren has had her fill of men in dangerous jobs. To protect her son—and her heart—she tries to keep Bren at arm’s length. But whenever she’s around him, all she wants is to be in his arms!
“Is it unlocked?” Lauren glanced toward his truck.
In response Bren moved to the passenger side and opened it. She hadn’t had a man open the door for her in…well, a long, long time.
“Thanks.”
He nodded. She had to look away.
Great. Less than two minutes in his company and it was all she could do to look him in the eye. He caused her heart to pump at what felt like a million beats per minute.
“Need help up?” he asked, holding out a supporting hand.
“No, no.”
But he helped her anyway, his hand capturing her elbow and gently guiding her. She might have moved, but inside everything froze, her breathing, her heart, even her vision as she stared straight ahead. And then he let her go and she wilted into the cab of his truck, the door sealing with a pop.
Oh, dear Lord.
How would she ever make it through the next few hours?
Dear Reader (#ulink_d9047ccb-e3b6-5674-b6e0-58c22997bacd),
I’ve spent a lot of time at junior rodeos, but not because I have a kid who likes to compete. Actually, I have a kid who’s a junior rodeo queen—complete with the big silver crown.
Recently, as I watched my daughter proudly represent her rodeo, I spotted an anxious mom helping her steer-riding son, and I was grateful I didn’t have to deal with that. I couldn’t imagine watching my kid compete in such a dangerous sport. I found myself wondering if the woman was a single mom, and if so, how she managed on her own.
I love it when an idea for a book comes to me full-blown. Authors will tell you the “what if” game is how stories are born. I started thinking about that single mom, imagining that her life had been torn to shreds, yet she’d made it through to the other side. That poor woman at that rodeo has no idea she was the inspiration for a romance novel.
Lauren Danners is my favorite kind of character. Smart. Driven. A great mom. She’s pulled herself up by her bootstraps and changed her life all on her own. She doesn’t need tough-guy lawman Bren Connelly. She’s doing just fine. Or is she?
You’ll have to read the book to find out. As always, I hope you enjoy my grown-up-girl horse story. I always try to write about ranching and the animals I love. I hope you like reading about them. Drop me a line if you’re so inclined. I’m on Facebook at Facebook.com/pamelabritton (http://www.Facebook.com/pamelabritton).
Pam
Her Cowboy Lawman
Pamela Britton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
With more than a million books in print, PAMELA BRITTON likes to call herself the best-known author nobody’s ever heard of. Of course, that changed thanks to a certain licensing agreement with that little racing organization known as NASCAR.
But before the glitz and glamour of NASCAR, Pamela wrote books that were frequently voted the best of the best by the Detroit Free Press, Barnes & Noble (two years in a row) and RT Book Reviews. She’s won numerous awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award and a nomination for the Romance Writers of America Golden Heart® Award.
When not writing books, Pamela is a reporter for a local newspaper. She’s also a columnist for the American Quarter Horse Journal.
Dedicated with heartfelt gratitude to all the men and women who protect this country.
Contents
Cover (#ufdf8f3cd-ac94-551f-bc66-1781c45fc79e)
Back Cover Text (#u34ba71c4-4561-54b2-9528-72e1bc3f7adb)
Introduction (#u211c27df-3d1f-5661-80b8-6ad438c52809)
Dear Reader (#ulink_ad5577d3-8a63-5c96-a5f3-f2fb2ef91e2f)
Title Page (#ucfab988a-7a26-54f1-9a06-5016e1bd892a)
About the Author (#u0ebb30b7-5be0-5b92-807d-603e652383b2)
Dedication (#ub9c00dc5-1391-508a-b7bf-8d2549709db4)
Chapter One (#ulink_9da013ad-30ee-51ba-b86c-734d57b37a21)
Chapter Two (#ulink_3c9c746b-ccc9-5582-9923-0d6310e1a890)
Chapter Three (#ulink_dd3cf1e5-fc8e-5ec6-8636-744d8a8051a7)
Chapter Four (#ulink_38cfa072-0077-5445-87f5-e91802daccbf)
Chapter Five (#ulink_0be4e042-856b-58ec-a508-e0845853f1a9)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_9cbe475f-447b-5892-b720-4a64aab5d23b)
Lauren Danners leaned against one of the five wooden columns that supported the rodeo’s announcer’s stand and tried not to hyperventilate. In front of her—a mere two feet away—a young steer tried to jump out of a rodeo chute. A flurry of voices called, “Watch out, watch out,” around her, but she didn’t look away. She had eyes only for the young boy intending to sit atop the steer—her ten-year-old son.
Please, God. Don’t let him get hurt.
“You know you could always watch from the grandstands,” said a man wearing a black cowboy hat and a commiserating smile. “You could put your head between your legs up there if you feel like you’re gonna vomit.”
She pulled herself out from beneath a haze of panic to note the man had a gold star pinned to the front of his polo shirt, one with the word Sheriff clearly etched into the metal.
“Bren,” someone said, another cowboy, this one older and with a bushy gray mustache that matched the hair beneath his ratty old cowboy hat. “I would have thought for sure you’d be helping out.” He nodded toward the bucking chutes.
“Nah. They’ve got things under control.”
The man beside her sounded like a cartoon character of a Texas lawman. Low drawl. Deep voice. Slow words. But they were in Via Del Caballo, California. A long ways away from Texas.
“You new around here?” asked Bren.
She could barely see Kyle between the half dozen men helping him mount his first rodeo steer. Her son hadn’t looked once in her direction. Not once. She didn’t know whether to be offended or relieved because clearly he’d decided to focus on the task at hand. That was good, because if he’d glanced at her with fear on his face and terror in his eyes, she would have run over to him and ripped him off the dang cow...or steer...or whatever it was called.
“Just moved here,” she admitted, recognizing the words for what they were. A lifeline. A way to distract her from the fact that her son was about to do something she really didn’t want him to do but that his uncle thought would be “good for him.” And now her brother was the one up in the grandstands watching from a distance while she was the one about to throw up.
“He’ll be okay,” said the man next to her. “The steers aren’t half as bad as bulls. That’s why they use them for the junior rodeos. The most they’ll do is buck a few times and maybe run off.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. Run off. With her son strapped to his back. Good Lord, she didn’t need that visual.
“Look, Officer...”
“Sheriff Connelly,” he said, holding out his hand. “Brennan Connelly.”
“Lauren Danners.” She took the hand, and she wasn’t so preoccupied that she didn’t notice how firm his grip was. And that his tan arms had tight cords of muscle running along the length of them, and that dark hair spotted the surface, the ends bleached blond from the sun. Good-looking didn’t even begin to describe him.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Danners.” He tipped his hat, something she’d only ever seen men do in movies.
“Same here.” She smiled as brightly as she could. “But please don’t take this wrong. I appreciate your friendliness, I really do, but talking means I have to open my mouth and I really am afraid I might spontaneously vomit all over the front of you and that would only add insult to injury where this day is concerned.”
His smile grew. A couple feet away, the steer Kyle tried to mount had settled down and the sudden quiet made her stomach turn even more. She’d been hoping they’d let the steer go. That he’d get to try riding another one, a calmer one. Maybe one that was so old it could barely get out of the gate. Obviously not. She stood on a raised wooden dais, one that allowed spectators to peer down into the rodeo chutes, and against her better judgment she took a few steps forward, bringing her so close she could smell the steer and the sweat of the men around her.
“Easy there, Sparky.” Bren placed a hand on her shoulder. She barely noticed. The rodeo announcer told everyone to put their hands together because a local kid new to riding steers was about to make his debut, which meant...
The gate opened.
Kyle.
Her son, her baby boy, shot through the air. He didn’t ride for one second, much less eight, arms akimbo, limbs splayed as he landed on his backside. She knew this because she’d jammed herself up against the edge of the chute without even realizing it, her son in a heap practically at her feet. Then and only then did he look around for her, his eyes catching her own, the grin beneath the metal face guard attached to his helmet unmistakable.
“That was great!”
She turned around and the man behind her caught her. She struggled for a moment because she really did think she would be sick, but he wouldn’t let her go.
“Don’t ruin this for him,” he said softly. “Just breathe. The sickness will go away. He’s all right.”
She clung to him even though she’d just met him, even though a part of her felt outrage that he wouldn’t let her go, even though it took all her strength to do as he asked and breathe.
“Look. He’s getting up.”
She turned. Sure enough, Kyle slowly stood, his beige protective vest, his green shirt and his jeans all covered in mud. In the arena, the steer had already left through the exit gate. Her son waved to the crowd, who applauded in response, and she could swear she heard her brother yell, “Attaboy, Kyle!” all the way from the grandstands.
“I don’t think I can do this again,” she muttered.
She made sure that Kyle really was okay before turning back to the man who stared down at her. She had to have been distracted earlier because this time it hit her. The size of him. The breadth of him. The gorgeous golden-brown color of his eyes. Those eyes gave her such an odd sense of déjà vu that she took a step back, almost falling over the top of the chute.
“Whoa.” His hands caught her shoulders. “Careful there.”
“Sorry.” She forced herself to smile. “I’m a little light-headed.”
Because you almost tossed your cookies.
Nope. Not because of that. She was long past the age of swooning over handsome men, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t acknowledge when one took her breath away. This one did. And he seemed so familiar somehow. As if she’d known him all her life. She’d had the same sensation when Kyle had been born and she’d stared into his eyes for the first time.
“Mom! Are you proud of me?”
It was as if fate had turned on the stereo of her inner musings and called up the voice of her son. Kyle had crawled back over the chute, cowbell clanging, bull rope dangling, a grin she’d seen only on Christmas morning plastered across his face.
“I stayed on for at least a minute.”
She almost laughed. She was too aware of the man standing next to her. Kyle suddenly became aware of him, too, drawing himself up. She’d seen that reaction before. She rarely brought men home, but when she did, it was as if Kyle bristled invisible hair.
“You did great,” Sheriff Connelly said, tapping the top of her son’s helmet.
