Cowboys Don't Quit

By Anne McAllister

Cowboy on the Run . . .

Once upon a time Luke Tanner had it all. Well, almost all. Then a Hollywood stunt gone wrong stole his best friend -- and Luke knows it was all his fault. He could have stopped it, should have stopped it.

Jillian Crane doesn't agree. When she tracks her late fiancé’s best friend to his Colorado mountain hideaway, she is determined to make Luke start living again. She doesn't know she's the last person on earth Luke wants to see. And she certainly doesn't anticipate the feelings she develops for Luke ... nor realize how deep Luke's are for her.

But can they get over the past they share? And even if Jill can forgive him, can Luke ever forgive himself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tule Publishing
• Release date: Apr 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781944925420

Anne McAllister

RITA Award-winner Anne McAllister was born in California and spent formative summer vacations on a small ranch in Colorado, where developed her concept of "the perfect hero”, as well as a weakness for dark-haired, handsome lone-wolf type guys. She found one in the university library and they've now been sharing "happily ever afters" for over thirty years.

Book preview

Author

Dear Reader

––––––––

Dear Reader,

When I was five, I fell in love for the first time. It was, you will not be surprised to learn, with a cowboy. He was tall (to a five-year-old 5’9" is tall!), dark and handsome. I followed him everywhere. It was a case of imprinting, I think—like a duck. He was everything I wanted in a hero—honorable, tough, competent, generous, and he made my heart beat faster before I even knew why it was doing that.

The memory stayed with me as the yardstick against which I measured the men in my life. A number of years ago now, I met one in a university library. He was all of the above. I snapped him right up (though he still thinks it was the other way around).

I’ve written seventy books now—and there’s a bit of that cowboy in every one of my heroes—even if they are CEOs or architects or beach volleyball players or former rock stars.

But there’s more than a little cowboy in each of the Tanner brothers. When I wrote about Robert, Luke and Noah some years ago, they were, my then editor said, Died-with-their-boots-on cowboys, by which he meant rugged, realistic, down to earth cowboys who didn’t own multi-national corporations on the side.

He liked them a lot, but thought they weren’t right for the line I was writing for then. But Robert, Luke and Noah wouldn’t let me alone. They wanted their stories to be told. And I wanted to tell their stories. Eventually I did. I loved getting to know them. I loved spending time in their world. They started a mini-series of Anne McAllister books all of which had cowboy heroes.

It was a joy to write them then. And I’m thrilled to be able to bring them out again with Tule Publishing now. It was such fun to get reacquainted with them and to bring their stories to life again. I hope you enjoy getting to know them. too!

Read on!

Anne

Chapter One

He was dreaming again.

The same dream. Always the same. They were body surfing near the pier in Manhattan Beach, he and Keith—laughing, joking, competing as always for the biggest wave, the steepest drop, the longest ride.

They were showing off for Keith’s fans on the pier, all of them watching, waving, smiling.

He saw Jillian, Keith’s fiancée, there, too, braced against the railing, her long dark hair tangling across her face in the wind as she waved to Keith, then looked out to sea and pointed.

They both looked back toward where she was pointing. The swell was already noticeable, building now, moving toward them.

Wave of the day! Keith yelled, grinning and moving into position, beginning to stroke toward shore.

Luke watched Keith go, then he moved, too, slower, as he always was in the water, but still in time. He caught the momentum, merging with the force of the wave, rising on its crest to see the water and the foam and the beach spread out before him. He caught a glimpse of Jillian leaning over the railing, watching. He spied Keith just ahead, lose his balance, begin to fall.

And then, as the wave crested and curved under, Luke fell, too. The wave pounded down on top of him, pressing him into the ocean floor even as it dragged him along. He felt a thump. His body collided with Keith’s. Arms and legs tangled in the power of the wave. They struggled, shifted, separated. He felt Keith’s fingers grab for him. They clutched, touched, clung. Oddly frantic. And then they slipped away.

Away . . .

He opened his mouth to call. Keith!

But the water choked him. Gagged him. Pressed down upon him, swirling and pounding, grinding him into the sand, crushing his lungs, burning his throat . . . Then for a moment, blessed air. And just as suddenly the wet suffocation was back, choking his mouth, covering his nose . . .

Luke jerked awake. Hank, the old herding dog, was licking his face.

Damn. He shuddered and pushed her away. Hell of a way to say good mornin’, he grumbled at her, but he knew it wasn’t Hank’s fault. It was the dream.

Always and, it seemed, forever—the dream. And it wasn’t even the way it had happened, for God’s sake.

It—Keith’s death.

Even now, almost two years later, it was hard to think of Keith Mallory as dead. Intense, dynamic, irrepressible Keith—mover and shaker, dreamer and doer, one of America’s best-loved actors, not to mention his own best friend—had always had more to live for, more to give than anyone Luke knew.

His fists clenched futilely against the lingering sense of Keith’s fingers slipping out of his grasp. He drew a ragged breath.

In reality he’d had no chance to even come that close. He hadn’t even been in the water. He’d been standing high and dry on the riverbank, too far away to help, yet too near not to realize what was happening.

Luke sat up on his cot now, shivering still, not so much from the cold as from the memory. He dragged in another breath of the crisp Colorado mountain air and tried to shake the shivers off. But even though it was July already, at close to nine thousand feet it never got very warm until the sun was up, and what memories didn’t accomplish, the cool morning temperature did.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his body trembling in a now familiar cold sweat. He rubbed a hand across his wet face, tasting salt amid the dog slobber. Tears. He rested his head against his bent knees and tried to steady his breathing.

Keith. Oh, God, Keith. I’m sorry. It should have been me.

The dog nudged his shoulder and tried to lick him again. Luke looped an arm around her neck and rubbed his face against her fur. Then he scrubbed a hand across his eyes and hauled himself to his feet. There would be no sleeping now, no point in even trying.

Not that he wanted to. Not when he dreamed.

He could tell from the faint light filtering through the window of the rough log cabin that it wasn’t quite dawn. The sky to the east was still more dark gray than rose. But there was nothing to be gained by staying in bed. He would just lie there remembering what he would give his soul to forget.

He picked up the coffee pot, let himself out into the crisp mountain air, and headed toward the pump by the spring. He filled the pot, then carried it back to the cabin, dumped in the coffee, and started a fire on the small propane stove.

He made himself concentrate on each task as he performed it. He could’ve done it all mindlessly, but he knew better than to do so.

Whatever part of his mind he didn’t keep firmly focused on what he was doing would be on the dream or, worse, on the memories that caused it.

He rubbed his fingers together. He couldn’t feel the clutch of Keith’s fingers anymore. Sometimes the feeling lasted for hours. Not, thank God, today.

While the coffee was heating, he scrubbed his face with some of the water he’d brought up the night before, then dragged a comb through his shaggy dark hair. He could tell by feel that the next time he went into town he’d better stop by Bernie’s and get a haircut. Not that he’d be going anytime soon. Lots of camp men these days came down off the summer range every week or so, but they had friends, family, people to see, mail to pick up, a life to keep in touch with in town. Luke didn’t. Nor did he want any. He set his hat on his head and tugged down the brim, then went back to the stove.

The coffee was hot. He poured himself a mugful and stood staring out the small window, his hands wrapping the cup, as he made himself think about what he needed to do that day. Chivvy cattle up out of the creek bottom. That was a given. They were like magnets, those cows. You barely got them up to the head of the draw and left them, and they drifted right back down again. Or got spooked and ran back again. He needed to circle up the mountain and check on the cattle near the National Forest land, making sure the gates were closed. Hikers didn’t seem to realize all the work they caused if they didn’t leave gates the way they found them. If one was open he’d have his day’s work cut out for him.

In the early morning light he could look down across the meadow and see three of his horses already lurking by the quaky fence waiting for him to holler ’em down and grain ’em. He didn’t even need to holler anymore. He’d been doing it for more than a year now—long enough that they knew what to expect.

He took another swallow of coffee, then set his cup down and poured out food for the dogs. There were two others besides Hank—a scruffy looking catch dog called Muff, and another border collie named Tommy. They brushed against his legs as he poured their food out for them. Hank nudged under his hand, her pointy nose wet and cold against Luke’s fingers. Luke rubbed her under the chin.

The panic was gone now. The pressure had eased on his lungs as the dream faded and the sunrise brought light and clarity and color to the mountain meadow he called home.

Breathing more steadily now, Luke finished his cup of coffee. He made and ate a quick breakfast, then set to work.

Some days were more work than others. Today—because of the dream—Luke made it more work than it was.

He moved twenty head of cattle out of the creek bottom, doctored some foot rot, rode the fence all along the National Forest line. The gates were all closed, but someone had cut the wire to get through where there wasn’t one.

He rounded up a dozen cattle and brought them back down, fixed the fence, then circled over through a stand of aspens toward the creek. And found that young Soler bull caught in the middle of a willow patch.

Bulls weren’t the easiest critters to deal with at the best of times, and when they’d been stuck as long as this bull likely had been, their tempers weren’t exactly sweet. The Soler was no exception.

Luke was tempted to leave him. Wasn’t anybody looking over his shoulder, and it was his bull. But the bull couldn’t do his job unless Luke did his. More than that, though, Luke knew a dreamless sleep came more often when he was so dead tired he couldn’t move.

He laid a loop over the bull’s head, alternately dragging and chivvying the animal, while Hank and Tommy nipped and prodded. He was chivvying on foot, not dragging on horseback, when the bull finally broke free and rewarded Luke by a kick at his ribs.

He missed. But he had foot rot.

Son of a gun, Luke muttered, taking off his hat to swipe a hand through sweat-dampened hair. Must be my lucky day.

He was dirty, and sweaty, tired and sore by the time he rode back over the rise that looked down on his camp. The bull might’ve missed his ribs with his first kick, but he hadn’t missed his shin later when Luke was sidestepping his horse in close enough to give him an injection. Luke figured he’d be hobbling tomorrow. He didn’t care. Physical pain wouldn’t keep him awake or make him dream.

Tonight he’d earned his sleep.

He thought he just might get it, too. Until he saw someone sitting by his cabin door.

Nobody he’d invited, that was damn certain. Since he’d moved up the mountain a year ago last spring, Luke hadn’t encouraged visitors. Jimmy, his hand who was renting Luke’s ranch house down in the valley, came up when Luke asked him to help move cattle. Now and then he brought Luke provisions or a coffee cake or some cookies his wife, Annette, had made. But Jimmy had just been up three days ago. And Luke’s only other visitor was an old schoolmate, Linda Gutierrez’s, son, Paco.

You don’t want him around, you send him away, Linda had told him from the first.

But Luke knew Paco’s dad had died three years ago and he remembered all too well how he’d felt when his own dad had died. He’d been older than Paco when it happened. Sixteen. Paco was only eight and needier even than he had been.

Luke hadn’t had the heart to send the boy away.

Besides, talking with Paco was a form of penance. All the kid ever wanted to do was hear about Keith. He probably knew by heart every movie Keith Mallory had made and he took great joy in asking Luke all about the ones he’d worked on.

Luke wondered when the boy would realize that it was Luke’s fault his hero was dead.

He sat up a little straighter in the saddle now, trying to guess his visitor’s identity. Whoever it was saw him and got up, beginning to move toward him now.

It was a woman.

A tall and slender woman in jeans that hugged curves no cowboy would ever have. Long brown hair tangled across her face in the evening breeze. Then the breeze lifted the swath of hair and Luke felt as if the bull had kicked him right in the gut.

God, no! It couldn’t be.

He shut his eyes, begged and pleaded with the Almighty. Then he opened them again, still praying.

To no avail.

It was Jillian. Jillian Crane.

Luke wished the earth would open and swallow him up.

No such luck.

He slowed his horse, tempted to turn tail and head right back up the mountain, knowing damned well he would have if she hadn’t seen him. But she had, so he had no choice but to continue down.

He didn’t know what the hell she was doing here. Couldn’t begin to imagine. They hadn’t seen each other since the day of Keith’s funeral almost two years ago. They hadn’t spoken even then.

They hadn’t needed to. Jill had said everything there was to be said the afternoon Keith died. Luke could remember it as clearly as if it had been yesterday. Her words haunted him so regularly that it might as well have been.

They’d been two weeks into a new movie, a tough-guy mountain man script with lots of the action adventure stuff that was Keith’s forte and, as his stunt double, Luke’s bread and butter. It was grueling, strenuous, and more than a little dangerous—exactly the sort of thing they both loved.

They’d been filming for fourteen days straight, based in a gritty little town on the Salmon River in Idaho, and by the end of the second week in October they were as dirty, earthy, and wild-looking as the landscape.

It was still warm during the days, but chilly after the sun went down, and every night after they finished, he and Keith and some of the rest of the crew would warm their insides in the local bar.

They were a few beers into the warming process, throwing darts and arguing about which of them was the better shot—and hence the better man—when Luke stepped up to take his toss.

Suddenly the door opened . . . and there she was.

Jillian.

Luke’s dart sailed over the top of the board.

If anyone noticed, it wasn’t Keith.

Hey, Keith had shouted, a sudden broad grin lighting his unshaven face. My lady’s come! And he knocked over a bar stool in his haste to get to her.

Luke didn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, watching as Keith wrapped her in a bear hug, then turned, grinning, his arm looped over her shoulders, and faced the rest of them.

Look who’s here, he said unnecessarily.

Bring ’er over, one of the sound men had called out. Plenty of room, ain’t that right, Luke?

For a moment, Luke didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was prepared. So get prepared, he commanded himself. He drew a deep, steadying breath, met Keith’s grin, then let his eyes settle on Jill. That’s right, he said.

Keith just shook his head. Not on your life. Come on, sweetheart. He started to draw Jill with him toward the door, then stopped and kissed her long and hard, surfacing only long enough to glance over his shoulder at them and say, Find your own women to keep you warm. Then he dragged

Reviews for Cowboys Don't Quit

[anna_erishkigal · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Romance novels are ... well ... let's face it. Fluff. We read them because we want a formula of boy-meets-girl, not-too-insurmountable difficulties, and then a happy ending where the girl gets the boy. On the way, hopefully the author will teach us something and make us fall in love along with the characters. This was one of the ones that met those goals.Luke Tanner is poignant as the cowboy-turned-stunt double-turned-cowboy who retreats back into his original trade after the tragic death of his best friend after the friend died after insisting on doing his own stunt. Not only mourning his friends death, but also to escape unresolved feelings for his deceased best friends grieving fiance, Luke turns back to the hard, solitary life of a cowboy to find peace. When his best friends fiance suddenly shows up two years later to interview him for a memoir about their mutual movie actor/friend, old wounds are suddenly reopened.Unlike most romance novels, this one was written entirely from the viewpoint of the hero. We get to inhabit Luke's head as he keeps pushing Jillian away despite his resurging feelings for her and realize he isn't doing so simply to be a jerk. His guilt over not talking his friend over doing the stunt the day he died and the fact he had always possessed feelings for the woman now at his doorstep feel palpable and genuine, not contrived.Especially realistic was the authors descriptions of the daily duties of a cowboy. No glamor here. Just lots of hard, repetitive, lonely, dangerous work. I know little about the real life of a cowboy, but the job description felt gritty and real, not some watered-down romantic version of what it meant to be a cowboy. I learned something.Keeping in mind a 5-star rating for a formula romance novel isn't the same thing as, say, 5-stars for Charles Dickens, I would say put this one on your reading list. You'll feel good at the end.