A Christmas Wedding For The Cowboy

By Mary Leo

Wedding Planner Zoe Smart is getting a reputation for being a jinx. The worst part is, the rumours may be true. Zoe's last two brides bailed on their grooms, so she really needs cowboy Carson Grant's wedding to go off without a hitch, aside from the one in her heart every time they meet.

Though Carson knows he has to tell Zoe the wedding's cancelled, he doesn't want to give the town's wagging tongues more fodder. Besides, Carson is having way more fun planning a nonexistent wedding with Zoe than he ever did planning his real one. But time is running out to tell the truth. Will Carson's ruse charm Zoe's romantic spirit, or will their love be jinxed from the start?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781489227430

Mary Leo

Mary Leo grew up in a big Italian family in South Chicago. She now lives in Las Vegas with her husband where she enjoys writing for the Harlequin Western line and is busy working on her next book. You can read more about Mary at www.maryleo.com where you can sign up for her newsletter and learn about her upcoming books and events. You can also find her on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/maryleoauthor

Book preview

Prologue

All at once the excitement of the rodeo came crashing in around Carson Grant, filling his senses with the familiar sights and sounds. The steady beat of loud, badass country music heightened his focus as he readied his bronc, Red Comet, for the ride. Every seat in the large arena was filled with enthusiastic fans who cheered, whistled and clapped as a decked-out Miss Rodeo, sitting high on a black stallion, raced from one end of the rodeo ring to the other holding up an American flag three times her size. She electrified the air and Carson thrived on the buzz. Even his horse, a deep-brown-colored mare, seemed to be fired up.

Easy boy, he said as he firmly patted Red Comet’s neck. The horse blew out air, took a step back and turned his head slightly to check out Carson. Once the animal seemed satisfied with what he saw, he bent a knee and faced forward again.

You got yourself the luck of the draw tonight, the cowboy attending Carson’s chute said as a wide grin spread across his weathered face. He’s awful twitchy tonight. Might be wise to ask for anther bronc.

Meant to be, Carson answered, knowing perfectly well that Red Comet was the best bronc in the bunch, the bronc that could give him the highest score. For the past two years, if Red Comet’s rider wasn’t bucked off during the mark out, he’d usually score in the high eighties or low nineties, and Carson intended to be one of them.

He took in a deep breath, savoring the combination of rich earth, manure, sweat and determination as he leaned over Red Comet, giving a tug on his bronc saddle to make sure it felt snug and secure. Adrenaline ripped through his veins as the usual rodeo-high took over his mind and body. It was almost as if he was one with the night, supercharged and eager to go.

The fans whistled, clapped and laughed at Barney the clown, wearing his monster-sized bright green Western hat, a matching shirt and checkered pants. The clown joked with the announcer as the other saddle bronc riders prepared themselves for the event. Carson knew he would have no problem outscoring the entire group. He was on track once again to make it into the top fifteen saddle bronc riders in the country. Once there, he’d qualify for the NFR Championship in Vegas. Getting the winning score tonight would give him a large enough purse to place him four or five holes from the top, and from there he would win it all. He was sure of it.

When Carson saw the third horse in front of him go, he zipped up his vest, tucked the flank strap flat under the saddle, marked his hack rein, checked that his stirrups broke half over the horse’s shoulders, secured his cream-colored hat on his head and climbed up the metal rails on the side of the chute.

Ready to rock and roll, he said to the cowboy over the chorus of cheers that went up for the bronc rider who’d scored an eight point six. The announcer yelled out the score as the jumbotron closed in on the last rider’s smiling face, and the supersized neon sign displayed his numbers in fluorescent yellow.

The cowboy helping Carson held fast to the bronc’s neck rope as Carson eased himself onto the saddle while holding on to the swell and slowly dropping his legs on either side of Red Comet, careful not to rile the horse. He slipped his right foot into a stirrup, making sure it hit his boot in the correct place, then leaning to one side he grabbed the hack rein and slid his left foot into the other stirrup.

Red Comet threw his head back, snorted and tried to move forward, hitting his nose on the metal bars. The cowboy held him as steady as he could, but Carson knew the horse was anxious to break out of his restraints.

Easy there, buddy, Carson said in a reassuring voice. The horse whinnied, took a step back and seemed to accept the command. Once Carson had eased his butt down in that saddle, he knew dang well it was the most dangerous time for both the horse and the rider. Carson’s heart thundered inside his chest as the pickup men escorted the rider right before him out of the arena. It was now Carson’s turn and he was ready to win. The faster he could get out of the chute, the better his chances at a high score. He took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he thrust his chin down to his chest, held on to the rein with one hand, held up his other hand and gave the signal.

Red Comet exploded out of the chute and bucked with his head up, exactly as Carson had expected. The mark out was perfect, with Carson keeping his feet well above the bronc’s shoulders as Red Comet’s front hooves hit the ground for the first time. The jolt racked his body, and his butt popped up off the saddle, then came crashing back down, hard. He leaned back and braced himself for the next one.

When the horse bucked again, everything went wrong in an instant. Carson had allowed his mind to drift, and in that split second, the horse went down with shocking suddenness, and Carson went down with him, hitting the ground with such force that it took his breath away. For a moment it seemed as if the entire arena fell silent, and all Carson could hear was Red Comet’s heavy breathing, along with his own heartbeat drumming in his ears. Dirt shot up his nose and filled his mouth with its gritty, acrid taste. His breath came in short spurts, and he seemed to be pinned under the tremendous weight of the horse. He heard screams and gasps from both the fans and the other cowboys as Red Comet struggled to right himself.

Carson couldn’t move his left leg, his shoulder burned with an intensity he’d never felt before, and even though he’d spit out dirt and blood, he still couldn’t catch his breath. All he could think of was getting out of there, of standing and walking off the arena floor, but his leg was still pinned under Red Comet. Panic began to creep up his spine. He refused to let it take hold, and as his horse continued its struggle to stand, Carson somehow managed to roll free. The quick movement brought on a wave of intense nausea that he tried desperately to control. No way was he going to vomit for somebody’s home video.

He told himself to calm down, that help was on the way, but the fact that he couldn’t take a deep breath kept him on edge, kept the panic knocking around in his head.

Then, as thundering hooves shook the ground, and a flash of bright green crossed his path, Carson’s entire world faded into black.

Chapter One

Three months later: December

Carson Grant emerged from yet another sleepless night with one thought on his mind: Marilyn Rose Connor, his fiancée, had called off their wedding. Not only was his body bruised and battered from the bronc riding accident in the arena, which almost killed Barney, a rodeo clown who had tried to save him, but now his heart had been hung out to dry.

He’d known things hadn’t been good between him and Marilyn Rose for months. But he thought they could work it out, talk it over, see a counselor or, at the very least, argue.

Apparently, that wasn’t what Marilyn Rose had thought. She wanted it over, plain and simple. No talks. No therapy, and under no circumstances would she argue. Going over the past two years of their love affair, he couldn’t remember one moment when she’d fought with him over anything. Even when he’d forgotten their anniversary and inadvertently stood her up for dinner at some fancy restaurant in Las Vegas. When he’d finally caught up with her, she’d merely pouted for a few minutes and let it go.

He had expected a bit of fire, a few harsh words, a verbal slap, but Marilyn Rose didn’t believe in arguments of any kind. She viewed an argument as a failure in the relationship and therefore under no circumstances would she fall into the trap of angry words.

Carson had mustered up a few of those angry words last night when, cool as a breeze coming off a snowcapped mountain, she’d handed him his engagement ring, which he had refused to accept. Instead of lashing out or pleading like a puppy dog, he’d left her sitting at a table inside Sammy’s Smokehouse at the edge of town and somehow managed to walk the five blocks home, in the icy snow, alone, totally dependent on his cane to see him through. She’d followed him, calling out to him to please get in her car, but eventually, after he ignored her pleas the entire way, she drove off right before he opened his front door.

Dang fool, he mumbled to himself.

Carson rolled over on his back and stared up at the blank ceiling wondering why he’d never taken the time to do something interesting to all that emptiness. When he was a kid, he’d taped every poster he could find of his favorite saddle bronc rider or bull rider or generic rodeo flyer on his bedroom ceiling. He’d spend hours lying on his bed, staring up at the rodeo stars, dreaming of the day when he’d be one of them. Why was it that when you grew up posters on your bedroom ceiling became taboo? Who made up the adult rules, and why? He would have liked to stare at something right now other than white nothingness. To be able to focus on something positive instead of all the negative crap that spun around in his head, keeping him from thinking straight and keeping him from sleeping.

He blew out a sigh and shoved a hand under his head, realizing that posters of saddle bronc riders would only make him more stressed right now, especially if they were of him, which was one of the reasons why he rented this house in town. The walls at his parents’ ranch house were littered with framed photos of his rides, his awards and his promising future as a saddle bronc rider from the time he’d won his first buckle to just before his last ride.

He stopped himself from musing any further. He wasn’t going to think about that last ride. Not now. Not this morning when he’d just been dumped with less than a month to go before his wedding. Couldn’t she have called it off before they’d sent out the invitations? Before all those people had started sending gifts?

At least she dumped your butt before you were standing at the altar waiting for her to happily walk down the aisle.

He thought about his sister Kayla’s wedding day and what a fiasco that had turned out to be, and decided this was probably some kind of cosmic payback...that he fully deserved. He still felt bad for Jimmy Bartley.

Poor sap probably never saw it coming.

At the time, Carson had been focused on his sister’s misery and her not wanting to go through with the wedding. Now, after being dumped, he knew exactly what Jimmy Bartley had felt: total humiliation.

He knew his sisters could change their minds on a dime, but he’d never thought any one of them would actually change her mind minutes before one of the biggest decisions of her life.

But then this wasn’t the first potential marriage for Kayla. He’d been the one who’d rescued her out of the first one, as well. Seemed he did a lot of rescuing for his sisters over the years. Probably more than his fair share. And where did it get him?

Dumped by your fiancée, that’s where, he said out loud.

He could use a little rescuing right about now.

Unfortunately, he knew he wasn’t the type to accept it or he’d be recovering comfortably at home with his mom and sisters doting on him day and night.

The mere thought of all those women bringing him food and fussing over his battered body was way too much for him to think about much less allow. Nope, he’d much rather be sulking on his own until he could figure out his next step. He didn’t want or need anyone’s care, apparently not even his own fiancée’s.

Careful to not sit up too quickly, he slid out of bed with deliberate care. His head still wasn’t right from the concussion he’d suffered, and he was sure his shoulder would never be the same after the torn rotator cuff and broken collarbone. Even though his doctors had assured him he’d be as good as new in a few months, Carson realized good as new wasn’t in the cards for him. Not this time. He’d suffered a lot of injuries since he’d started the rodeo circuit, but none had been this devastating. His ribs still ached from having been cracked, and if he tried to put all his weight on his left leg, the pain in his thigh would sometimes bring him to tears. His thigh bone had been cracked in four places, and if it wasn’t for the metal rod that held it all together, he probably wouldn’t be able to walk.

But none of that mattered this morning.

What mattered was that Marilyn Rose had come all the way to Briggs, Idaho, right before the Vegas Nationals, where she was a shoo-in to win a buckle and a substantial purse for barrel racing, to extinguish the only light that still burned in his otherwise bleak life.

At least she’d had the decency to tell me to my face, he said as he slipped on a robe over his T-shirt and pj bottoms to keep warm in the chilly, essentially empty house.

He’d rented the two-bedroom bungalow a couple months back thinking he and Marilyn Rose would furnish it together, would call it home for the next year or two when they weren’t on the road pursuing championships to keep their dreams alive. Unfortunately, Marilyn Rose had never stepped one foot into his house and even last night she’d insisted they meet at a restaurant.

He should have known something was up as soon as she’d suggested Sammy’s, but he’d been so excited that she was finally flying in for a visit that he hadn’t considered anything other than a heart-to-heart conversation on how they could make their relationship work.

Dang romantic chump, he mumbled as he made his way out to the kitchen, rubbing his two-day-old beard while walking past the stacked wedding presents that had begun to arrive on a daily basis. He’d opened the outer boxes on a few of them, but hadn’t unwrapped anything. Now there they sat as a reminder of his failed attempt at love.

He really needed that first cup of strong black tea and a dose of his drugs to ease the pain that still racked his body.

He’d stopped taking heavy pain meds about a month ago, replacing them with over-the-counter types that at least allowed him to move around freely. He wondered if he could find something on the drugstore shelves to help ease his broken heart...or was it more his broken ego? Nothing made much sense anymore. It was almost as if his emotions had somehow gotten tangled up with his physical discomfort and he could no longer tell which was hurting more.

The doorbell rang before he could get to the kitchen and instead of answering it he proceeded to his destination, put the teakettle on, poured a glass of orange juice and dumped out his pills on the cluttered counter. He wasn’t much for keeping things tidy and had hired a cleaning service to come in once a week to manage the place, which seemed to make him only more careless.

Ding-dong.

He figured either it had to be another wedding present being delivered by an energetic UPS driver, or it might be Sal Hastings ringing his doorbell. Sal was his eighty-two-year-old neighbor who liked to drop by to remind him they needed to clear the fresh snow from the sidewalks and walkways out front. Whenever even one snowflake fell, Sal revved up the old snowblower and proceeded to clear off the entire block. Carson had no choice but to help him. If Sal collapsed blowing snow off his walkway, Carson would never forgive himself. Besides, Sal had been a rock to him while he’d been recuperating. He hoped it wasn’t more snow; he couldn’t be loopy while handling machinery with a senior citizen in tow. He’d tried it once and nearly ran over Sal’s right foot.

Ding-dong.

I’ll be right there, he yelled at the closed door. He glanced out through the sheer curtains on the front windows and didn’t see the familiar brown UPS truck, which meant that Sal was ringing the bell. Problem was, he really didn’t want to deal with Sal this morning. He needed time to brood and feel sorry for himself. The thought of conversing with another human being was like a heavy weight bearing down on his shoulders. He hoped Sal would somehow get the telepathic message, lose interest and go away.

Unfortunately, Sal, being a determined, persnickety senior, was now knocking on Carson’s door. Quick little