All the Wildflowers in Montana

By Red L. Jameson

Meeting the perfect guy for the perfect hookup? Check. Wearing sexy-as-hell lingerie? Check. Breast cancer? Oh...fu—
Laney Jones—PhD, but she feels like a pompous ass reminding people of her English Lit degree because she’s a middle-grade teacher in Hardin, Montana—after being diagnosed with Stage II breast cancer and scheduling a lumpectomy, wants a wild, crazy, sex-filled night before the surgery. A night where she frees herself to be who she wants to be and do whatever the hell she wants to do. And who better to shed her inhibitions than a biker?
Joseph “Monk” Perez has been deep undercover for the ATF in a gun-running gang for the past four years. Tomorrow, he’ll make the biggest bust of his life. The biggest bust in history, period. Tomorrow, he’ll go back to some semblance of the by-the-book man he was before, even if he doesn’t recognize himself any longer. After tomorrow, he’ll start a life for himself. But he has to make it through tonight, and Laney is wrecking his years of training and focus, turning him into a puddle of mushy, romantic goo. She sees straight through his façade to the real him. As much as he loves being seen, it could ruin the bust, his career, or worse, end his life.
Montanan wildflowers are known for their strength to endure arctic winter blasts, hundred-degree blistering summer days, and wildfires, but they always return, more exotic and beautiful than ever. If Joe and Laney make it through the next twenty-four hours, they’ll have to summon the strength of All the Wildflowers in Montana when cancer and a deadly bullet wound become their shared realities or they might never know the most exotic beauty of all: love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Red L. Jameson
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005809447

Red L. Jameson

Red L. Jameson lives in the wilds of Montana with her family. While working on a military history master’s degree, she doodled a story that became her bestselling, award-winning romance, Enemy of Mine, part of the Glimpse Time Travel Series. After earning her gigantic master’s—the diploma is just huge, she couldn’t stop doodling stories, more Glimpse stories—because she couldn’t get enough of hunky Highlanders and buttoned-down Brits—and other stories, a paranormal romance series and a contemporary series, which grew into the pen name R. L. Jameson, under which she writes cerebral and spicy erotic romance. While working on yet another master’s degree—nowhere near as giant as the first, she wrote her first women’s fiction novels. But no matter which genre she writes, her novels always end with a happily ever after.She loves her readers, so please feel free to contact her at http://www.redljameson.com

Book preview

Chapter One

Chapter One with flowers

"Y ou are so getting me laid tonight." Laney Jones smiled at her Charlotte Tilbury Red Carpet Red lipstick, then cringed.

So, yes, she’d started to talk to lipstick while in her car at a biker bar parking lot. But it was beating back her nerves. That made it marginally acceptable. As long as she didn’t get caught, that is. Then the scarlet lipstick’s charm would be for naught. That and she couldn’t use words like naught while inside the bar.

She glanced at the list on the small console of the ’69 Camaro. A little more than two weeks ago, she’d scribbled it quickly. It was almost undecipherable, except for the heading. Bucket List: Things to do before… She hadn’t been brave enough to finish the heading. The list itself had a few items on it. "- Get ride on a bike (one of those big motorcycles that’s loud) - Ride the biker of said bike. - See Paris. - Ride bareback on mustangs with friends in Pryor Mountains one more time. - Finish reading Ulysses so I can stop lying, saying that I did."

She had to clear her throat a few times then unfolded the sun visor to get a glimpse of the tiny vanity mirror in the Camaro she’d basically stolen for tonight. Stolen because her tiny Toyota would not be welcome in this parking lot. Steadying her hands, she applied the lipstick with the Montana hazy ochre spring sunset as her light. Okay, not stolen. But she’d never strong-armed another human being and felt terrible for doing it to Carl, a former student she’d tutored throughout his middle school years. She still wasn’t sure what she’d said to convince him to let her borrow the purring, yet skinned-in-primer ride, but she knew he felt guilty for never paying for the tutoring.

Ah, fuck it. Fuck guilt. What had it ever done to help her?

Glancing around the parking lot, making sure no one was around, she slid a hand along the side of her left breast. The biopsy stitches had come out a week ago. Through the bra and her blouse, no one could feel the scar. She hoped. And the biopsy took care of most of the lump. So she felt kind of normal. Kind of. Still, she wouldn’t take off her bra tonight.

After putting the lipstick away, she blew out an exasperated sigh, looking at herself in the mirror.

You can do this.

Her image arched a blonde brow incredulously.

She rolled her eyes. Remember? You want this.

Her brows furrowed with anxiety.

It’s now or… Again, she couldn’t finish.

Not that she was dying. That might be a tad melodramatic, her team of doctors kept insisting. Stage-two breast cancer, N1, did not mean a fatal diagnosis. There are a growing number of effective treatments, her oncologist had said, then told her the list of things to come: surgery, radiation, new drugs, to look into alternative medicine because her docs thought it might help, emotional therapy and support groups if she wanted, etcetera, etcetera. Hence, the reason for this rushed one-night-stand plan. In two days, she would be in surgery, then…etcetera, etcetera.

The rest of the list would have to wait until after the lumpectomy. She cleared her throat again.

Nodding at her reflection, she pepped herself up by looking at all that crimson on her lips—beautiful red medicine, and turned the keys in the ignition, shutting down the purr, grabbing the list, folding it, and stuffing it into her skirt’s pocket. Then she got out of the car in a hurry. But she stood by the gray Camaro’s door, staring at the bar. It wasn’t a big place—cracked white paint on a squat square building, the neon signs dissected from bars on the windows. Not a nice place. Not for nice girls.

Tonight she wasn’t going to be a nice girl.

The bar was on a highway just outside of Harden, Montana—Crow country, most called it because they didn’t know how or didn’t care to say Apsáalooke. Although, there were Cheyenne and other Native Americans who lived on or near the reservation too. She’d driven by hundreds of times, had seen the motorcycles parked in a neat row. She knew nothing about bikers. Nice girls wouldn’t. She’d heard they were misogynistic dicks.

What did that mean about her wanting one?

She’d have her inner Freud run a psychological analysis later because right now all she wanted to think about was the leather jackets, the unkempt whiskers, the broad shoulders and rough good looks. Something warm centered at her core. Somehow, even though her left breast had been through hell lately, her nipples contracted. For whatever reason that gave her the needed confidence or craziness to make her way across the gravel lot, trying not to wince as her heels found unstable purchase with every step. Maybe stumbling about was a sign. She should turn around and go back to her house and never think about this again.

Her legs kept propelling her forward.

Two steps up to a narrow deck and she was so much closer to the bar than she’d expected. Her breathing was choppy. She wondered if she was sweating through her white button-up blouse. This was stupid, acting on a juvenile fantasy, the Bucket List having so much power over her. So stupid.

She should run.

The door opened. A tall man, dark and a little dusty with a full handlebar mustache filled the frame. His black eyes looked her up and down. Up and down. And once more up and especially down at her ridiculous white heels. Who wore white to this kind of bar? God, she was a desperate fool.

His smile came slowly and only on one side of his face. He blocked the door, taking his time to look her up and down again.

You comin’ in, honey?

"I can’t if you’re in my way…honey." A side effect of having cancer, for her, was this new moxie. Suddenly, she had a backbone. Made from adamantium-vibranium alloy, apparently. Yes, just like Captain America’s shield, and, yes, she read comics. It was a well-established medium and held its own literary merit as much as any novel from a Brontë sister in her esteem.

The mustached man smiled fully, showing yellowed teeth under the bushy hair above his lip. He had a crumb of something orangish stuck in his mustache. Slowly, he moved aside, opening the door wider, waving her in.

Here you go, princess.

As she walked through, her shoulder a hairs width from him, she tried not to shudder as she felt his eyes on her again. He was a tad creepy and not her type. What if no man in here was her type? Well, she wouldn’t force herself to have sex with a man she wasn’t attracted to. She’d give herself that out.

The bar was filled with small tables and chairs askew and men, so many men. A sea of blurry men. She wanted to adjust her glasses because they were fogging up from masculine body heat. It was silly to wear glasses in here, but she hadn’t had time to order contacts. The cramped, too-hot, darkly lit room quieted for a moment, all eyes seeming to be on her. But that couldn’t be right. Lifting her chin, she ambled toward the bar, feeling more confident now that she wasn’t walking on gravel. Still, she never wore heels and worried her gait was stilted and instantly imagined John Wayne in stilettos. She almost snickered hysterically but held it in, hoping to God she didn’t look like that.

There were two bartenders. An older man, who Laney approached, and a younger one who was eagerly sidling up to the gray-haired man behind the bar.

What can I get you? both men asked.

The gray-haired man scowled at the younger one, making him skulk away, rubbing a white dishrag on the polished if dented bar.

She wasn’t going to ask for wine; although, that’s what she wanted. She did enjoy beer. But it looked like they only had domestic. And, of course, she was a beer snob. Great. She couldn’t even order a fucking beer. But she calmed, thinking of the rarely-said-out-loud f-word. Swear words were stored in a different part of the brain than any other part of language, making them more memorable. As memorable as life-altering events, like practicing saying fuckin’ A with her thirteen-year-old best friends while desperately trying to sound cool, wild horses grazing only a hundred feet away. All those sunshine-filled and gritty memories locked tight in a fold of her brain that would never forget.

You like huckleberries, miss? a young woman said, somehow standing next to her.

Laney hadn’t seen her approach. She had a tray and set it on the bar. She looked bone-tired, dark rings under her eyes, her hair tied in a messy, cockeyed ponytail. Her shoulders sloped under her white tank top as if someone had given her the worst news of her life.

Laney wanted to hug her, ask if she was okay. But she kept that wanting-to-take-care-of-everyone side of herself at bay. Barely.

Give her that huckleberry ale we got, the cocktail waitress said to the bartender, her voice gravelly. She looked at Laney again. You’ll like that. It’s made by some local boys. Home-brewed stuff but real good.

Laney smiled wider. Sounds great. Thank you.

The waitress shrugged and looked at her tray. Y-you don’t recognize me, do you?

Laney blinked and inspected the woman more thoroughly.

She glanced back up. I’m Rachel. Rachel Zankowski. You taught me English in middle school. You said I was smart. You told me I should think about college after high school, but…you know, shit happens. Her face hardened as tears glistened in the young woman’s eyes. Nothing like the glamour of cocktail waitressing in a fine establishment like this. She ruefully smiled, the look punched Laney in the heart.

She remembered one of the very first classes she’d taught after graduate school, of a girl with braces who was a little heavier and wasn’t consumed with the weight of the world on her shoulders. She’d adored Romeo and one of those boy bands who had been popular back then. And the way Rachel had laughed—a deep throaty laugh for such a little girl. Laney wondered if Rachel still could chuckle like that, or if she even smiled any longer.

Honey, Laney cut herself off from the endearment because it reminded her of the altercation at the door, of the woman who had moxie, while standing in front of her was a reminder of who she really was—the constant teacher and never-paid guidance counselor. I’m sure your life is—Wait. Are you old enough to work here?

Rachel’s tired eyes widened. I need this job. Don’t tell them my age—

But you—

Please, Miss Jones. They pay me under the table and more than I can make anywhere else. I got pregnant freshman year, and things have been…tough.

That was the untold, never-ending story of America—things being tough on a reservation, even if Rachel was a white girl. Laney knew the story well, could recite the verses by heart.

She, Miss Jones—actually it was Dr. Jones, but she felt like a pompous ass if she reminded people of her English Lit PhD—inhaled, thinking, planning. Rachel needed help and Laney would give it. Right now. To hell with the juvenile wish for casual sex when there was someone in need. To hell with the list. It was a reminder of what she was trying desperately to forget anyway.

Everyone talked about the balancing act of life—giving and taking. Well, Laney was good at giving. In fact, that was all she had in life. And if something might happen to her, then wouldn’t it be better that she gave her all before…not that her cancer was fatal, she tried to remind herself.

I won’t tell, Laney whispered, making sure the bartenders were far away, but we have to figure something else out for you, Rachel.

Rachel smiled ruefully. Like what? Harvard Yard for my baby and me? Love you, Miss Jones. You’re just as fierce as I remember, but—

No buts, Rachel. I will do everything in my power to get you to finish high school. Anything and everything, I will—

I’m not a charity case.

This isn’t charity, Rachel. And it wasn’t. But Laney always, always reminded herself of little ol’ white ladies who had the best of intentions and had been the instigators of kidnapping American Indian children from their parents, placing them in boarding schools that shredded their language, religion, hair, and identity from them. She had to check her own little-ol’-white-lady intention, even though Laney was only thirty-three, then said, I’m fucking pissed life has been tough on you, so I want to do something about it. Can I help?

Rachel’s eyes widened once more, probably not expecting profanity from her former teacher who used to quote Jane Austen too much. The young woman sighed. I gotta work for the next couple days. Then we’ll talk.

Laney tried not to cringe. I, ah, have a…medical thing in a couple days. She glanced through her purse, wondering why she’d brought it in here. No woman who belonged in a biker bar would dare bring a purse—neatly organized with a small notebook in it, used mainly for a never finished graphic novel/poetry book—into a place like this. Extracting out a page from the notebook, she wrote all her phone numbers on it. Can you call me tomorrow?

Rachel took the paper and scrunched it into her very short shorts’ pocket. No, I gotta work. She smiled when Laney gave her an exasperated frown. I know you want me to quit, but I can’t. Not yet. But I am willing to talk to you. I swear.

Then you can call me in four days?

Rachel shrugged and watched the bartenders. I think so.

Call as soon as you can, except, in two days, I have a stupid medic—

Medical thing. Gotcha. ’Kay, I’ll call in like four days.

The bartender came back, placing the beer on the bar.

It’s on me, Rachel said, glancing sheepishly at the man. Can you take it out of my tips?

He nodded. Quiet man, and Laney usually liked that, but she wondered if he was the owner of the bar, and why anyone would be willing to employ a girl who was barely seventeen, if that, in a bar filled with men, misogynistic men.

The place felt dirty to her now. She felt dirty. It had been childish and over-the-top to have such fantasies, a one-night stand. With a biker.

Laney took the beer in hand, thinking of being polite, taking a sip, and leaving. She thanked Rachel as the young woman left to give a round of beers to a group of men in the back corner. Laney drank a little of the sweet ale. It was fantastic—saccharine berries mixed with sour malted wheat. She sipped more as she swept her fingers along the back of her neck, feeling as if there was something there, something tickling her, something trying to get her attention.

Then she saw him. Standing with the group of men Rachel served, all of them talking loudly, flirting with Rachel, trying to touch her—asshats. But not him. He stood slightly apart, staring at her. At Laney. At the perpetual teacher who wore white and carried a purse in a biker bar.

She swallowed, not sure what to do, feeling pinned to the spot because of the way he stared. His dark gaze swung down her body, and she palpably felt it. Felt his brown eyes caress her hips, legs, feet, and stomach. That intense gaze returned to hers. She’d stopped breathing, but her heart started pounding. It hammered so hard she heard it in her ears, felt it behind her eyes, wondered if it was lodged somewhere in her throat. There was such an odd sensation buzzing inside her veins—part attraction, part feeling like prey.

She wanted to put the beer down. Her hands were shaking too much to hold it. But she couldn’t move. Not while he stared at her, his dark eyes bearing into hers. Almost never wavering, except to notice things about her, and not in a creepy way like the guy at the door. He was just observing. Appreciating, maybe?

There was another man behind him who clapped a hand on his shoulder, handing him a long-neck bottle of beer, breaking their eye contact. Finally, Laney could turn away, trying to catch her breath. Had she been holding it the whole time? Did the man even have a body or face? She hadn’t noticed. Just those eyes. So dark. Inscrutable. Full of secrets she would have been fascinated to discover.

Placing the beer on the counter, she gathered money from her purse, not about to let Rachel pay with her tips. But with her hand stuck in her purse, she glanced over her shoulder at the man. He was big. Way too big. Tall and muscular, unlike any other man she’d been with. Kind of hulking. He was looking at the other man, his profile severe with a slightly crooked nose, cut jawline, broad forehead, narrowed eyes. The light grazed over him, into him, in such a way that his sunken cheek was shadowed. A vein stood out on his neck as well as the long, thick tendon.

He looked angry.

She had to go, get out of this place. Anger…she couldn’t handle. Never had. Never could. Never would.

Fuck the list. It was stupid anyway. Besides, it wasn’t like she was dying. She had to clear her throat, something blocking it, something a lot like the fear of missing out yet again.

Chapter Two

Chapter Two with wildflowers

Joe Perez woke from a dream, when Escorpion clapped him on his shoulder, saying something. Maybe saying something to him. Maybe to the brothers. It didn’t matter. For once, Joe felt like a man when he’d been looking at the woman in white. Even if she did wear a black skirt, he just noticed the white. She was so pretty he couldn’t breathe. So elegant he wanted to hide her from the bar. She was not the kind of woman he’d have expected to come in here. He hadn’t seen anyone like her in years, cultured and yet warm. She sparkled. He felt it, that effervescence. It heated something inside of him. After four years of feeling frozen and similar to a lost pilgrim finding Mecca, Lumbini, or the Vatican City, he felt saved and…hot.

Out of all the gin joints in the world, she walks into mine.

She was Lana Turner with glasses. Perfect, yeah, but more. She reminded him of the classy women at mass he’d had crushes on when he was a teenager, the ones who wore white gloves and their little white pumps with a string of pearls. And, oh God, the white scarves over their heads. They were beautiful, reverent, and so fucking clean. He’d been sure he was going to marry one.

That was a hell of a long time ago, when he used to think he would marry, when he used to think he was normal.

Escorpion shook him a little, his hand still on his shoulder, shattering the lust zipping through Joe as he had to take a peek one more time. Jesus Christ, the blonde was…yeah, all his teenage dreams wrapped up in one pinup-looking present with a curvy figure, delicate features, but it was the feeling that she was clean that had his knees weakening.

Never one to miss an opportunity, no matter what that opportunity might be, Escorpion narrowed his eyes at the blonde and then started smiling.

Joe shook his head because in truth he wasn’t a man. He was a cog in a big fucking machine that was about to eat everyone at this table alive.

Four years he’d been deep undercover with this subset gang from the Almighty Latin Kings. Four years of his life totally gone. He hadn’t been Joe, no one knew he was a Perez or even which nationality. He’d mimicked a Veracruz accent, which had taken years to perfect, and no one knew that he’d been born and raised in Miami, was Cuban American, and as a boy had loved to drink guarapo—sugar cane juice—lying next to a rivulet of the Everglades, feeling the sun in his pores while reading. But when he’d stared at the elegant blonde, he remembered. He remembered who he was.

He kept shaking his head at Escorpion, the leader of the Mosquete gang, grabbing the beer the man offered, knowing Escorpion was plotting.

Monk. Escorpion smiled that charismatic grin that captured young men and pinioned them into his service for life. Joe’s gang name was Monk, not because he was pious or all that virtuous compared to his brothers in the motorcycle club. It was because he insisted on wearing condoms, which made all the guys rip on him, calling him The Priest and whatnot until someone started calling him Monk and the name stuck.

And tonight Monk was celebrating. Tomorrow the ATF agency, FBI—because the bastards had to have their noses in everything--local and Air Force military cops were going to arrest this gang in one of the biggest arms busts ever. Four years of undercover work would come to an end. Four years of being Monk, doing whatever it took to gain Escorpion’s trust, being ruthless and turning into one of the coldest motherfuckers alive. Four years of this shit would end.

But it hadn’t been shit. All Joe had was the Mosquete and his brothers. That was it. He’d done his duty for the ATF and filled them in on the details and had been the rat he was supposed to be. But after tomorrow, after the bust, then he’d just be the rat. And that fucked with his head. His heart. He hated thinking about what was going to happen tomorrow.

Earlier today, he’d noticed a white piece of cloth, stuck on a barbed-wire fence and had wondered if that would be him. Stuck to a barb, twisting in the wind, forever hanging into oblivion.

Escorpion shook his head and smiled at him. Of course. He softly laughed, making sure no one was paying attention as the rest of the crew tormented the cocktail waitress. I should have known. Four years and I still feel like I’m getting to know you. You’re a man of discerning taste, from vodka to…women. He glanced again at the Lana Turner lookalike who had her back to them now, rummaging through her purse, maybe paying her bill.

Good. She’d better get on her way and out of sight. Never before had Joe slipped, showed an ounce of himself, wanted something that Monk wouldn’t want. Not once. It had been easy, really. He’d just been Monk—a soulless asshole, the right-hand man for Escorpion. Joe Perez had been long dead by the time he’d slipped into Monk anyway.

But she…her…He glanced at the blonde again, helpless to stop himself, making fists at his sides because he hadn’t wanted in so long. Her cheeks were a tad more pink. Her breathing was fast as she shoved money toward the bartender. Watching her made his chest fizzle, his solar plexus explode with sizzling sensations.

He turned more toward Escorpion and did his best not to say anything, pretending nonchalance, which, for whatever reason, charmed Escorpion. It always had. The gang’s leader had called him an enigma, and he loved solving puzzles. So Joe/ Monk did his best to never be solved. And that woman, God bless her and her perfect legs with those damned heels, would ruin everything.

Escorpion laughed a little harder. Oh no. You can’t play your game.

What game?

Pretending-nothing-matters-to-you game. I saw the way you were looking at her. And…she’s getting ready to leave. He laughed even harder. I can’t let that happen.

No! Joe gripped at one of Escorpion’s leather sleeves. The gang leader usually took off his jacket and exhibit his tats and muscles, flexing for the girls. But it was cold. Then again, they were in Montana, not Texas or Mexico. So there you go.

Escorpion laughed even harder. "Oh, you like her. You really like her."

Joe swallowed and let him go, wishing the fuck he could slip back into the mask that had protected him for the last four years. That mask was merely a tattooed man, with scars—too many to count, bruises from a fight night before last, and had too many secrets to keep his conscious in good order. But the mask worked. It had also made him too fucked up for a woman like that. Too fucked up, period. He knew it. Why couldn’t Escorpion get that?

The gang leader stood closer, tucking his chin, looking like the perfect confidante. Brother, you have gotten me the best deal of my life. Tomorrow, thanks to the US fucking government—and trust me, I’ve never gotten them to give as much as you have—we’re going to be richer than we ever could have imagined. I owe you. Escorpion smiled and walked toward the woman.

She’d gotten snagged by some local cowboy—a squat, muscled man who looked like he could throw a few good punches. She was shaking her head when Escorpion approached, glaring at the man. Joe shuffled behind him, not sure how to play this out.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. When he’d been a teenager, staring at those pristine women at mass, he’d thought about tunneling his big clumsy fingers into silky hair. He’d had Ivory Soap dreams.

Now he fucked around like his brothers did. His mother would be ashamed. His father would’ve shaken his head and said, That’s not my son.

Escorpion’s scowl improved into a menacing grin at the cowboy. My friend, the good woman wants you to leave her alone.

She turned, her arched dark blonde brows furrowing. Oh my gosh, look at you, walking out of your cave and protecting me. You’re a big strong man, aren’t you? Am I to bat my lashes with gratitude? She frowned. I can tell him to take a walk on my own, thank you very much.

The cowboy took the not-so-subtle hint and turned tail, and Joe might have made an odd gurgling noise, admiring every single, well-articulated word she’d uttered.

In his dreams back then, he hadn’t thought of what a woman would say, too excited to touch one. He’d never thought if she could shoot her mouth off like they did in the old black and whites that his mother had watched incessantly, swooning and repeating lines like, We’ll always have Paris.

And this little blonde was shooting off her mouth at the most notorious arms dealer in Mexico, which almost had Joe laughing hysterically. Escorpion was level-headed, which made him the cunning criminal he was and yet to be caught. Still, Joe wasn’t about to trust the gang leader’s temperament concerning her. He was about to insert himself between Escorpion and the woman when he caught his leader chuckling. And not in that way he did before he was thinking about killing someone. Like he was genuinely enjoying himself. For once.

My good woman— he cut himself off from the impact of her frown. Lady?

Just Laney. She pursed full lips that looked like a perfect red heart-shaped target to kiss.

Laney, how pretty, like the woman herself. Escorpion held his hand out. She didn’t take it, which made him laugh again. May I present my brother, Monk.

Monk? She arched a brow, looking Joe over like he was a thirteen-year-old boy with a delinquent library book. He felt pubescent and ridiculous in front of her and that scathing blue-eyed gaze. She flayed him with it. He was skinless in front of her. He was only Joe. Which should have scared the shit out of him, but he loved it.

"Don’t be fooled by the

Reviews for All the Wildflowers in Montana

[KristenDeCraeneFrankovitch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Oh, my God ! This book made me bawl like a baby ... in a good way. Thank you !