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Forever Cowboy: Montana's Rodeo Cowboys
by Nan Reinhardt
It was supposed to be just a vacation fling…
43-year-old Beth Dykeman’s life is spiraling—her 20-year marriage is over as is her career in Nashville’s Chamber of Commerce. Now back home in River’s Edge, Indiana, she’s grieving the end of her dream to have a family. Hoping to restart her life, she books a relaxing long weekend at a spa in beautiful Montana. But Beth arrives only to discover she accidentally booked a stay at a working dude ranch in the middle of Marietta’s 87th Copper Mountain Rodeo celebration weekend.
When he’s not competing, 36-year-old bronc rider Del Foster works at the Aspen Springs Ranch. He’s ready to hang up his spurs. This rodeo will be his last competition before he finally settles down and buys his own small spread to train cutting horses.
Their instant chemistry shocks them both, and on her last night, Beth indulges the attraction, knowing she’ll never see Del again. But fate has a way of changing plans and challenging assumptions. Can Beth and Del both have what they never knew they always wanted?
Excerpt:
Del could’ve stayed at the overlook for hours, simply watching Beth’s breathless exhilaration. He followed her gaze to the soaring mountain and the valley floor, a patchwork of still-verdant fields with the town tucked in among them. Marietta had been his home for so many years, and the beautiful mountains and valley had become so much a part of his very being that he often forgot to simply bask in the . . . what was the word she’d used? Glorious. He forgot to breathe in the gloriousness of it all.
A ghost of a smile hovered on her mouth. Speaking of glorious. She was perfection, standing there with her arms out, her eyes taking in the scenery, her lush lips curved upward. He ached to kiss her, to touch her soft cheek. All he had to do was take one step, reach out, and she’d be in his arms. He blinked.
What the hell is the matter with me?
Clearing his throat, he pushed off the fence post and backed up. “We should go. I need . . . um, I need to get back with the . . . the . . . you know, stuff for Noel.”
She turned to him. “Of course. I’m sorry. I’ve just never seen anything so—” She caught her lower lip in her teeth, revealing a tiny chip in one front tooth. An imperfection that made her even more perfect. She crossed her hands over her heart and shook her head. “No words.”
It was the softness of her gaze that nearly undid him. It was also what kept him from giving in to the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her stupid. She wasn’t a small woman, but somehow, she seemed fragile, vulnerable, and she brought out all his protective instincts, while at the same time, a hunger so intense he felt it from his head to his toes and everywhere in between.
As they walked to the truck, he said, “I remember when I first came here, the spectacular scenery took me by surprise. Nothing like it in Boston.”
She quirked one brow. “I thought I detected a bit of back East in your accent. You’re from Boston?”
“Yeah, but I’ve been here a long time—long enough to be considered an official Montanan. Tell me about your home,” he said, as they pulled back onto the two-lane highway that fed down into Marietta. “Indiana?”
“River’s Edge.” Beth leaned back against the headrest. “It’s . . . beautiful in its own way too. It’s right on a big bend of the Ohio River, and it’s full of history and art and music and good people. I was gone for twenty years, except for holiday visits, and so much has changed since I left. I feel like I’m going to have to learn the town where I was born all over again.” She gave a little shrug. “I’ll confess I haven’t made much of an effort since I’ve been back.”
Del glanced over. The joy that had emanated from her at the overlook had faded and there was that sad smile he’d seen off and on since she’d arrived. “Why’d you leave Nashville after your marriage . . . you know, ended?” It was a deeply personal question and maybe he had no business asking, but she’d already told him she was recently divorced.
“Nashville is Doug’s town.”
He waited, hoping she’d elaborate and, after a pause, she continued. “He loves it there, and I was so young when we got married, it never occurred to me to not love it too.”
“You were there for twenty years?”
She nodded, and he debated whether to ask the question he really wanted the answer to. They rode in silence for a few more minutes, then he gave a mental shrug and went for it. Hell, in for a penny, as his grandmother used to say. “What happened?”
She clasped her hands in her lap. “It was about babies.”
“Babies?”
“The divorce. Well, not entirely, but we’d been trying for a long time—years. Everything. It got expensive, but I wanted children, and my ex wasn’t interested in adoption.” She lowered her voice to a deeper pitch. “If I’m going to have kids, they’re going to be my kids.” She gave a little choked laugh. “It never happened. Apparently, I have a hostile womb.” She tipped her head to glance at him. “Sorry. TMI.”
“No, it’s okay. So, no kids . . .”
She looked rather sheepish for a second, then she squared her shoulders. “We grew apart. He was fine not having a family. I was devastated. I wanted what I grew up with—lots of family—parents, grandparents, sister, brothers, cousins. I just couldn’t seem to get past it, and that turned everything between us sour. He hated how sad I was. I hated how easily he let it all go.”
“So you left? Went home to Indiana?”
“Not immediately.” She snorted. “We became an age-old story. He couldn’t deal with my unhappiness, so he found a distraction and gave me a reason to go.”
Del didn’t know what to say to that. He’d seen so many marriages disintegrate because the two people simply weren’t on the same page. Especially guys on the circuit—rodeo life was damn hard on marriages, due to the extensive travel involved, the high stress of competition, the risk of significant injuries, and the constant time away from family.
Author Bio:
Nan Reinhardt is a USA Today bestselling author of sweet, small-town romantic fiction for Tule Publishing. Her day job is working as a freelance copyeditor and proofreader, however, writing is Nan’s first and most enduring passion. She can’t remember a time in her life when she wasn’t writing—she wrote her first romance novel at the age of ten and is still writing, but now from the viewpoint of a wiser, slightly rumpled, woman in her prime. Nan lives in the Midwest with her husband of 52 years, where they split their time between a house in the city and a cottage on a lake.
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