Lonesome Cowboy: Whitfield Ranch, #1

By M.M. Grey

Shane Whitfield has only one regret—letting Margarita slip through his fingers. When Margarita shows up on his doorstep with an offer to buy his ranch, Shane makes one thing clear: He’s keeping his ranch and his woman.

After a passionate, unforgettable night, Margarita Ramirez left New Mexico—and Shane—to focus on her career. Now she’s back at Whitfield Ranch and Shane is the only thing standing in her way of a big promotion. She thought it would be easy to convince Shane to sell. But he’s as stubborn as the bulls on his ranch. When Shane turns up the heat, she’s tempted to run—again.

But her rugged cowboy has a few tricks up his sleeve and he’s not giving up until Margarita is his.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Diana Persaud
• Release date: Sep 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386817956

Book preview

~ Chapter One ~

Are you lonesome, Cowboy?

In retrospect, he should have ignored the sexy sweet voice and reached for his bourbon. The double old fashioned tumbler with its liquid heat never let him down. Never made promises it wouldn’t keep.

Come to think of it, she hadn’t made him any promises either.

Shane Whitfield scowled at his bourbon.

Why did he keep coming to this bar?

Sit on this particular stool.

Order a shot of bourbon on the rocks. Knowing that he would hear her voice, relive that night.

Did some foolish part of him think she would return?

Seven years.

Seven god damn years and not a word from her.

No phone call.

Not even a post card to say—

Say what?

Last night was great?

Maybe she was married.

Or engaged.

He scowled at the amber liquid in his glass.

One last fling before settling down?

So why am I here? Thinking about a woman who doesn’t give a fuck about me. Because I’m a glutton for punishment, that’s why.

It was Friday night and he was on a mission to get sloshed. He emptied his glass and motioned to the bartender.

Not even the slow burn of his throat and belly could stop his memory from resurfacing.

Her scent had intrigued him. Honeysuckle after a light summer rain.

Shane turned to his left and there she was, sliding onto the stool beside him.

She was all dolled up—the works—hair, makeup. Sultry eye shadow.

And that dress. He wanted to whistle. No, howl. It clung to every sexy curve, hinting at delicious secrets he was determined to uncover.

At last he found his voice.

Not if you keep me company, Darlin’.

She liked that. Boy did she like that.

She leaned close and gave him a sexy smile that made his heart thump a little faster.

Her eyes—cinnamon chocolate—sparkled with excitement.

He waved at the bartender.

Wagon Bend, a small village in Mora County, New Mexico had one bar. The Saloon. The Saloon—its simple name conveyed exactly what it was—a throwback to the saloons of the Wild, Wild West. Like saloons of olden days, this one had old player piano in front of a staircase that used to lead up to small bedrooms used by the men who frequented the brothel upstairs.

The owners had closed off the top and now that area was their living quarters.

Jimmy the bartender enjoyed dressing up in period style. He wore a red pin striped vest over a white shirt replete with black arm garters. His black bow tie was slightly larger than his bushy old west style mustache. Although most newcomers usually gawked at Jimmy’s appearance—especially that mustache—Shane’s sexy companion was completely focused on him.

And suddenly he regretted not shaving. He hadn’t planned on hooking up tonight. Just wanted to kick back and have a drink or two. Ease the aches of a long, hard day. Home alone, drinking by himself just reminded him of his father. Of times he would rather forget. So he dragged himself to The Saloon.

What are you drinking tonight, Darlin’?

Tequila.

Jimmy, a shot of tequila for the pretty lady.

She blushed and he decided he wanted to see her blush again. All over.

She rose her shot glass in a toast. After a gentle clink, she swallowed her tequila then set her shot glass on the bar.

Would you like another?

She held up two fingers.

Two’s my limit.

So if we’re not drinking—what do we do now? He had a few ideas but it was early yet.

Her eyes twinkled and a dimple appeared on one cheek.

How about a dance?

His hands felt clammy and his leg muscles tightened, as if preparing to flee. Before he could make an excuse, she pulled him to the dance floor and placed his hands on her hips. She slung her hands around his neck and laid her arms along his chest as if they belonged there. He didn’t mind because it felt so right. As if they had known each other for years.

And he didn’t even know her name.

She smiled up at him and the feelings of panic slipped away. With his hands on her hips, he began swaying. She let him lead and he tried his damnedest not to step on her delicate feet.

You come here often?

If she had, he didn’t recognize her.

No. I’m not a bar hopping kind of gal.

Then what kind of gal are you?

She bit her bottom lip and lowered her gaze.

The nerdy kind, she whispered, as if it were a shameful secret.

"That’s my favorite kind—smart and sexy."

She beamed at him then snuggled closer.

He swayed along to a slow, sorrowful Country tune, about love lost and never ending heartache. He wanted to know more about her, but every time he started to ask a question, she would place two fingers against his lips and shush him. Then stroke his jaw. And once she tipped her head up and closed her eyes, his questions faded away. Forgotten as he pressed his lips against hers.

She let him take what he wanted, surrendered to his dominant mouth. Let his hands slide down her back and caress her bottom. Then she would pull back far enough to break his kiss and return his hands to a more appropriate spot. But she never moved away.

One sad song flowed into another and they stayed on the dance floor, wrapped in each other’s arms.

Until the band decided to take a break. Then she glanced at her watch.

I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to go—

She started to pull away from him. He held on just a little tighter. Her teasing kisses had riled him up and he wanted—needed a little more time. Another kiss. Another—

—Go? But it’s early yet—

She flashed him a regretful smile.

But if I don’t leave now, I’ll miss my ride home.

Your name isn’t Cinderella, now is it?

She laughed.

No. Margarita.

Margarita, he repeated.

Not a name he would soon forget.

~ Chapter Two ~

Sunlight stabbed his eyes like an ice pick, driving deep into his skull, skewering his brain.

Shane groaned.

Tasted sour-god-awful-why-did-I-have-that-last-bourbon-last-night.

He swallowed, keeping rising bile from filling his mouth.

Nostrils flared.

A cloying scent surrounded him. He would have bolted upright if his head didn’t suddenly weigh two hundred pounds.

Her breathing was slow and even.

Still asleep.

Thank God.

He hated the awkwardness of The Morning After.

No desire to hear why she wasn’t interested in anything more.

How she had a good time but—

She had to get back to big city name.

Or she had a cheating boyfriend and he was her revenge fuck.

Or his all time favorite, she didn’t want to ruin her heels at his ranch. Cow shit was everywhere, wasn’t it?

Best to leave before things got uncomfortable.

He reached for his clothes, dressed then got the hell out of her apartment before she woke up. Luckily for him, he found a pair of sunglasses, or he would never have made it home.

The veins on his temple pounded incessantly.

Aspirin.

He opened his medicine cabinet.

He reached for the bottle.

Empty.

Fuck!

Now his head felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it and they didn’t intend to stop.

Kitchen.

He pulled open a drawer and riffled through it.

Where the fuck is the aspirin?

Now he was hearing bells.

Shit. Doorbell.

Pinching the spot on his nose between his eyes, he staggered to the front door.

A woman in an ugly beige pantsuit stood on his front porch. If his head wasn’t about to explode, he might have studied her face. Right now that damned sun was sending lasers deep into his brain.

Wincing, he shaded his eyes with his arm.

Can I help you? he snarled.

Whatever happened to country charm? she asked.

My head is killing me and I don’t have any aspirin. So make it quick will you? he grumbled.

She fiddled with something in her purse then pulled out a small box and offered it to him.

I have some Aleve. Go ahead. Take a couple.

He knew it was rude but he couldn’t help snatching the pill box from her hand. His thick fingers fumbled with the delicate lid.

Here, let me, she offered.

She took the box from him, opened it and shook it. Two oval blue pills tumbled onto his palm.

Thanks, he rasped.

Shane returned to his kitchen, filled a glass with water and swallowed his pills.

His body craved water. He filled up another glass then turned to face the woman.

She was studying him intently.

Her expression seemed to waver between disapproval and concern.

Do you have a rag? she asked.

He shrugged. She opened a drawer, withdrew a small dish towel and turned on the faucet. She soaked the rag, wrung it out then pointed to a chair.

He sat down and she placed the rag over his eyes.

Finally, a reprieve from that dammed sun and its razor sharp ice pick.

Soft fingers pressed against his temples, gently moving in small circles.

The hammering in his temple eased to a dull throb.

Her scent surrounded him.

Honeysuckle and something else.

He lifted one side of the rag so he could see her.

Do I know you?

She straightened and flashed him a fake smile. Then she smoothed down the jacket of her pantsuit.

Stalling?

Mr. Whitfield, I represent Jackson Wireless. We are very interested in buying your land and we are willing to make you a very reasonable offer.

No.

But you haven’t heard the offer— she protested.

Ms. Ramirez?

A young man with shocking red hair and a complimentary yet equally ugly blue suit stood in his kitchen.

Paul. I think you should wait in the car—

Her voice.

Her scent.

His head whipped around then he jumped out of his chair. Gripping her chin, he stared deep into her eyes.

Cinnamon chocolate brown eyes, full of worry and panic stared back at him through thin lens.

Margarita.

No wonder I didn’t recognize her. She looks so different now.

Glasses.

Those lovely tresses chopped down to nothing.

That masculine pantsuit—reeking of power and neutrality.

Margarita had finally returned to him. Because she wanted his