Cowboy, Take Me Away is the first book in a NEW series - the McAllister Brothers Series. This trilogy follows the brothers--Brody, Brock, Cash, and Colt--as they try to find love in the rural mountains of Maryland.
Hot cowboys, lonely nights, and a kiss of suspense make this series HOT and DANGEROUS!
He makes his living as a cattle rancher. She's an animal activist. When an outside force threatens both their lives, they'll have to find common ground to survive. But can they also find love?
Keep reading for a sneak peek into Brock and Kennedy's story.
SYNOPSIS:
Have you ever had an “oh crap” moment so big you wanted to hide under a mountain of warm laundry and eat bread about it? Or better yet, erase it from history?
That was me one morning when I woke up in a bachelor bedroom… with no recollection of the previous night.
And not just any bachelor’s bedroom—but my hot cowboy nemesis, Brock. Time to avoid him like a frat house after party.
Until someone threatens both his ranch and my workplace. It’s like karma is purposefully putting Mr. Grumpy McHardAbs in my path.
Which is totally unfair since he couldn’t have been more my type if Santa’s Elves had custom made him and stuck a big ol’ “For Kennedy” tag on him.
My avoidance plan goes out the window when the vandal ups the stakes. As Brock and I work together to stop the attacks, I’m beginning to wonder if our fiery confrontations would be just as heated in the bedroom…
CHAPTER 1
Kennedy
You ever have an "OH SHIT!" moment? I'm not talking about the lowercase "oh shit, I got mustard on my new blouse" kind of moment. No, I'm talking about the all caps, multiple exclamation point, probably warrants the F-word moment. That's the kind of moment I had when I woke up in a strange bedroom. Back in college, it wouldn't have seemed so bizarre. What happens in college, stays in college—am I right? But I was almost thirty, and my bed-hopping days were behind me.
So, whose bed was I in?
The only logical conclusion? I was still dreaming. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will myself to wake up.
I counted to three, pinched my own arm, and opened my eyes again. The shadows took shape as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Dirty clothes piled in the corner. A nightstand with semi-circle water stains. Window covered in crooked blinds.
Nope. Definitely not my place. This place reeked of bachelor.
Oh shit, again. Memories from last night came into focus slowly, much like the shapes in the room. The bachelor that undoubtedly belonged to this place was a guy named Brock whom I met last night at a bar. A Hollywood handsome cowboy clad in well-worn jeans, cowboy boots, and a "wanna tame me?" smile. Couple that with the dark hair and blue eyes, and he was basically my kryptonite.
How did I go from checking him out at the bar to waking up in his bed? On a work night, no less. I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes to try to remove the fog brought on by sleep and, if the raging headache was any indication, the beginning of a hangover.
I remembered being with my coworker and best friend, Darcy, at Stables, the local bar and grill where any respectable citizen of Hillcrest found themselves during happy hour. We'd ordered our usual—beer and mozzarella sticks—thankful to have gotten there a little early to avoid the after-five crowd for a little bit. That way we had some time to enjoy each other’s company before the buzzed pick-up crew started in with "Let me buy you a drink, sweetheart" and "You girls look lonely, mind if I join you?" Or my personal favorite, "Looks like you ladies are missing some meat at this party." Because starting with a reference to your penis is always a good idea, said no woman ever.
Darcy complained about her long-distance relationship with her douchebag boyfriend Mitch, and Jeb, the bartender, flirted with us. So all in all, a typical Thursday night.
An hour after we arrived, every stool around the bar was full, and Darcy and I were on our third round. With only mozzarella sticks in my belly, I felt the lovely effects of the alcohol blurring the edges of my consciousness. Enough to make me aware that my voice was a little louder than necessary but also enough to not really care overly much. I was thinking about asking for the check when Darcy nudged my arm.
"Don't look now, but I think that cowboy at the end of the bar has been checking you out," she loud whispered. I turned in my seat to see who she was talking about, but she hit me on the arm. "I said don't look!"
"Of course I'm going to look!" I exclaimed.
"Well, don't make it obvious," she said.
"Which one?" I asked, trying to make it look like I was just scanning the crowd.
"Last seat on the left. Dark wash jeans, black baseball cap."
I gave her an incredulous look. She just described every other guy in here. Hillcrest pretty much had two types: ranchers and townies. Ranchers wore jeans, hats, and boots. Almost exclusively. They'd sometimes switch between a t-shirt or a button-down flannel depending on the occasion. Townies wore khakis and dress shirts to happy hour since they came from their office jobs in the neighboring city.
"I said the hat was black," Darcy said, flipping her dark braid over her shoulder in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "Oh, Jeb is talking to him now."
I swiveled around in my stool to peer down the bar. Jeb and a well-built cowboy around my age were doing the fist-grab lean-in thing guys do with friends. I didn't recognize the guy, but I was still relatively new to town, so that wasn't surprising.
And I knew I'd remember seeing this particular cowboy. My half-intoxicated lady bits squeezed their approval as his lean into the bar lifted his finely sculpted ass off his bar stool.
"Do you know who he is?" I asked Darcy, my voice huskier than usual.
"Nope. I don't think he's been in before when we've been here." Then, her chocolate eyes lit up.
Uh-oh, I know that look. I braced myself for her next sentence which was sure to be ridiculous.
"You should go home with him!"
"Are you out of your mind?" I exclaimed. "He's a stranger. I don't want to end up on Dateline."
"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "Jeb knows him. He's cute. And I bet he's good in the sack. You should give him a test drive and let me know if it's worth me breaking things off with Mitch."
"Ew! You'd want my sloppy seconds?"
"If it's good, why not?" she said, laughing again. I shook my head at her.
"Ooo, he has a friend with him," I said, pointing at the equally handsome cowboy sitting next to him. "Why don't you put your money where your mouth is and join me in one-night-stand land," I challenged.
"Kens, you know I have Mitch. I'm not going to cheat on him," she said, but her smile faltered a little. Trouble in paradise—as usual.
"Well, I'm not interested in a one-off right now, either. I have too much going on at work to worry about stroking some guy's ego," I said and downed the last of my beer.
"His ego isn't what I would stroke. But to each their own," she said and winked.
I rolled my eyes at her and squinched up my nose. She laughed. "Don't be such a prude. Oh, another thought: what if he's just passing through? That would be the perfect one-night stand!"
"Darcy, I just told you I'm not into one-night stands," I reminded her. My eyes kept drifting back to the stranger at the end of the bar though. He couldn't have been more my type if Santa's elves had hand-crafted him based on my exact criteria and placed him in this bar with a big ol' "For Kennedy" tag. Dark hair peeked out from beneath his backward baseball hat. His tan skin emphasized the blue of his eyes, which caught the light even at this distance. A hint of a beard ran along his jawline. His t-shirt fit snug around his arm muscles and chest. I bet he could carry me to bed with little to no effort...
Not that I was contemplating that. I wasn't. Not at all.
I. Wasn't. Looking. For a. One-night stand.
"Why not?" Darcy asked, giving voice to my inner monologue. I indulged in another slow scan of Mr. McMeltme. One might even say I was undressing him with my eyes. His clothes said cowboy—and you know what they say about cowboys and the way they ride horses. So, why not indeed?
Maybe there was more than one thing to do in this small town after all.
"You know what? Besides deeply instilled morals from many, many Sunday school sessions, there really isn't a good reason. I'm a liberated, modern woman," I said in my best uppity southern drawl, emphasizing the silent "h" in front of woman.
Darcy laughed. "Indeed. Hey, Jeb!" Jeb sauntered over. "Is that guy you were talking with a serial killer?"
"Who? Brock? Or Cash?" Jeb asked, glancing over his shoulder. I caught the cowboy's eye, and he lifted one side of his mouth into a knowing smirk. That look said, "I know you're checking me out. I know you like what you see." It was both infuriating and sexy as hell. I raised an eyebrow at him.
"The cute one with the backwards hat," Darcy clarified.
"That's Brock. And he's not a serial killer," Jeb confirmed. "Neither is his brother, Cash."
"They're brothers?" Darcy squeaked and squeezed my arm. This scenario was quickly shifting from Dateline to Pornhub. At least in Darcy's mind.
"Married?" I asked, shaking her grip loose.
"Nope."
"Gay?" Most good ones were.
This got us a smirk from Jeb as well. "Not according to most of the girls from our high school."
"Then Kennedy wants to buy Brock a drink," Darcy said.
Jeb raised his eyebrows at me. Do or die moment. I glanced at Darcy's encouraging expectant face. My inner letch had the same expression.
It must have been the alcohol, but I heard myself say, "Yup. Make sure he knows it's from me."
Jeb chuckled. "Bold move," he said as he walked away to fill my order and deliver it to the cowboy.
Please baby Jesus—or Santa's elves—let the handsome stranger just be passing through. That way if this did turn into a one-night stand, I'd never have to see him again. Since Brock still stared at me, I gave him my own flirty smile in return, ran a finger around the top of my beer bottle, and slowly licked the beer from it.
That part of the night was pretty clear at least. I bought him a drink. He sauntered over, pure cowboy with every step, oozing sex and confidence. I tried not to spill beer on my shirt. We talked. He bought me a drink. We danced. We drank some more.
That's where the memories take a deep dive into a murky abyss. Were we at a hotel? Did we have sex? Do I have my car? Shit. How much did I have to drink?
Three beers with Darcy. At least two with Brock. Five drinks. And a shot? Do I remember a shot? Not good, Kens. Thanks to two dead-beat alcoholic parents, I closely monitored my own alcohol consumption. Usually. And no wonder after a childhood riddled with memories of blackouts and fights and hangovers and "I don't remember"s.
One cute cowboy in jeans that hugged him in all the right places, and I'd thrown caution to the wind.
Wait. Maybe he drugged me! I narrowed my eyes but didn't remember leaving my drink unattended. Besides, Jeb had vouched for him. And really, anyone who wore jeans like that didn't have to use drugs to get a woman.
Tentatively, I reached under the covers to assess my clothing situation. No shirt, but I still had on my bra. And my skirt. And my underwear. I gave a silent shout-out to past me for getting dressed so I wouldn't have to rummage around the dark room for my clothing in nothing but my birthday suit.
I chanced a glance behind me on the bed where a lumpy form laid with its back to me. Must be Brock. I studied his form for a moment in the shadowy darkness. Broad shoulders, muscular back, narrow hips. Damn, he looked good even in silhouette. Given the sizable rod that poked me in the back while we danced, I bet sex with him was great.
I just wish I could remember it.
Well, time for the walk of shame. I had work in a few hours and needed to do something about this raging headache. I checked my phone which I found on the nightstand beside me—two o'clock. Great. I was going to be a zombie at work. At least it was Friday.
I stood up and immediately fell back onto the bed again as the room around me spun. Not from drunkenness this time, but from the aforementioned headache pounding in all corners of my brain. Brock shifted behind me. I willed myself to get it together, squinted my eyes against the pain, and like the strong, independent woman my mother raised me to be, tiptoed out of the room as quietly as I could.
And right into the happy, drooling face of a golden retriever. He whined a little and shifted on his haunches, his tail thumping on the hardwood as it wagged.
"Hi, buddy," I whispered. "I'm just gonna grab my... uh, things," I said, pointing to my missing shirt on the floor of the hallway.
He licked his lips and whined a little louder. "Please don't bark," I pleaded. "We met last night. At least I assume we did." I had no memory of it, but he wasn't growling like I was some stranger, so I assumed that was true. Unless the poor mutt was used to strange women roaming around his owner's house in the middle of the night. Perfect, I was an alcoholic and a slut. Like mother, like daughter.
I shook the familiar self-deprecating thoughts aside to search for my other missing belongings. Finding my purse and shoes a little further down the hallway—must have been a hell of a shag if we couldn't even wait to get into the bedroom before undressing—I let myself out onto the front porch of a cute little cabin. The dog disappeared into the bedroom as I closed the door behind me. Only a big black pick-up truck sat in the driveway. Which meant I'd left my car at Stables. Great. Probably a good idea at the time since my memory lapses clearly show I shouldn't have been driving. But damn. Can't a girl catch a break?
Hesitating only a moment, I dialed Darcy. That heifer got me into this mess, she could help bail me out.
If she answered.
I hung up when I got her voice mail and tried again.
I was cursing Darcy with terrible, incurable acne as her voice mail picked up for the third time when a ball of yellow fur flew off the porch beside me. Lowering the phone, I turned around slowly. Brock leaned against the door frame, baby blue eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and arms crossed over his very chiseled chest. My fingers itched to touch his bare skin, just to see if it would bring back any sensory memories from last night, but I managed to refrain.
Barely. His six-pack abs were made for running my hands over. Or maybe my tongue.
Definitely my tongue.
"Going somewhere?" he asked, his voice gravely and deep.
My eyes snapped from his abs to his face. I said, "Home. If I can find a ride."
"You weren't going to say good-bye?"
"You were sleeping. I didn't want to wake you."
"Well, I'm awake anyway. I can take you back to your car."
"Thanks. Darcy isn't answering," I explained, holding up my phone.
He grunted and turned to go back inside, presumably to get his keys. And hopefully a shirt or some pants. Those boxers left very little to the imagination. And I berated myself again for not remembering our romp in the sheets. I finally get some action with a super hot cowboy after months of a dry spell, and I can't even put it in my memory bank to use as fuel for my menage a moi sessions with my vibrator. I listened to the crickets and tree frogs calling to each other as I waited in the darkness. Maybe they'll have better luck remembering their booty calls.
The dog rubbed up against my leg and planted his head decisively under my hand. What could I do but pet him? Smart dog. With such soft fur.
"Aren't you a sweetie," I said. I bent down to get both hands into his fur behind his ears.
I was practically hugging him when the front door opened, and Brock emerged fully clothed—a blessing and a disappointment. He gave us an amused half-smirk and gestured to his truck. I stood to follow him. When he opened the back door, I almost snorted. Did he expect me to sit in the back like an Uber? I rolled my eyes, ready with a smart-ass comment, when he gave a quick, sharp whistle and the dog jumped in the back seat. He shut the door.
"You can sit up front," he said as though he read my mind. I pursed my lips at him and walked around the front of the cab.
"What's his name?" I asked as we pulled out of the long, gravel drive.
"Duke." At the mention of his name, Duke stuck his head between our seats and tried to lick my face. "Sit," Brock said firmly. The dog sat.
"He's great," I said. Brock nodded but didn't say anything else. We lapsed into a semi-uncomfortable silence, so I stared out the window. Trees lined one side of the driveway. I could see open fenced-in field on the other. Not a neighbor in sight. God, I was going to end up Dateline. I scooted closer to the window and comforted myself with the fact that Brock had chosen a golden retriever—the stuffed animal of dogs—as his companion instead of something more menacing. Like a wolf or hyena.
We turned on Main Street before Brock spoke. "You know, the streets are empty now if your offer of road head still stands."
Sharply, my eyes locked on him, and I leaned even further into the door away from him. Had I really offered road head? That didn't sound like me. Of course, I don't usually make drinking into blackout a habit either, so who knows what drunk, horny Kennedy did or said last night?
"I'll take your silence as a no," he said with a smirk. A smirk I found sexy last night as we danced but now wanted to wipe off his smug face.
"I think last night was quite enough," I said, hoping the vagueness was enough to cover whatever had happened between us last night. My headache and lack of memory was making me bitchy. He just chuckled and turned up the radio. No "come on, baby, one more time" or "my dick has your name written all over it"? Usually guys tried harder for a blowjob.
Wait. Did I suck in bed? Was he not begging me to stay for round two because the sex was bad? Is that why I couldn't remember it? My mind was blocking it out?
"You okay over there?" he asked, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "You're a bit pale."
"Headache," I mumbled. Not a lie.
"Yeah, I bet. Maybe lay off the drinks a little next time," he said.
"Excuse me?" Was he seriously lecturing me on drinking? After soliciting road head?
"Just an observation."
"I don't need advice from strangers about my drinking habits."
He grunted in response. How did I ever find this man attractive?
"Besides, you weren't complaining last night," I added as we drove into the Stables parking lot.
My little blue Kia sat alone under a light post. Brock parked alongside it.
"Neither did you. 'Cowboy, take me away', remember?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows a little.
A flash of memory clicked into place. Me willingly plastered against him while we danced to some country song. His erection pressing into my hip. His mouth on my ear as he whispered, "Wanna get out of here?" Me, in my best put-on sultry voice purring, "Cowboy, take me away."
Annoyance bit through my headache as I quickly got out of his truck. So, I said that. So what? Not my most original line—thank you Dixie Chicks— but it felt sexy and clever at the time. I scowled at him and said, "A real gentleman wouldn't remind me of it."
He waited until I had slammed the door to yell through the open window, "Hey Kennedy. Thanks for the dirty, wild ride. How's that for gentlemanly?"
And then, with a wink, the asshole left me standing there alone, in the dark, with my mouth hanging open as he sped away.
CHAPTER 2
Brock
"Come on, man. Why are you dragging your ass?" My brother, Cash ragged me the next morning. It was cock-crow o'clock in the morning, and we were on the ranch for morning chores. Cows and chickens could care less if you had a hangover or blue balls. And so, apparently, could my younger brother.
"I hope she was worth it," Brody, my oldest brother, chimed in with a smirk. There were four of us in all—the McAllister brothers—Brody, already married; me, the middle child; and the twins, Cash and Colton. Colt was off raising hell in veterinary school while the three of us were left ranching beef cattle on our ranch and taming horses on the newly acquired Walker ranch next door. Acquired because Brody married the farmer's daughter, Tessa. They'd been best friends since they were kids. Everyone saw their union coming except them.
"Hardly," I said in answer to his question. "I got zero sleep for nothing."
Brody stopped to lean on his shovel and look at me. "I swear I saw you bring a girl back to your place last night. You losing your game?"
"Hell, no. My game is just fine. She'd had too much to drink. As soon as her back hit the bed, she passed out," I admitted.
She'd teased me by avoiding my kisses and stripping off her shirt in the hallway. I was right behind her, I swear. But by the time I disentangled myself from Duke and followed her into my room, she was snoring away on my sheets.
"Oh man. That sucks!" Cash laughed. "You sure know how to pick 'em."
"Is that so? How'd it go with her friend? I didn't see her sneaking out of your room."
Cash busied himself with shoveling. "She has a boyfriend, apparently."
Now it was my turn to laugh.
"Didn't I teach you two better?" Brody shook his head in mock-disappointment. "Now that I'm married, someone has to carry on the McAllister legacy."
I snorted. "Right. The legacy of being in love with the same girl since you were 10? That legacy?"
"Seems to have worked out just fine for me. My girl stays in bed with me," Brock shot back and gave his wedding ring a kiss. Cash and I rolled our eyes.
"Seriously sorry about your date," Cash said. "She was hot."
Understatement of the year. I'd noticed her as soon as I walked into Stables last night. Correction, I noticed a red high heel attached to a long bare leg first. Hard to miss since every other female wore cowboy boots. I followed that shapely leg up to mid-thigh and the hem of her tight skirt. Then along the lines of her bare shoulders in the tank top she wore that left little to the imagination. Her short blond hair was swept to the side. She looked sophisticated and sexy. And city.
And just what I needed after a few months on the road. A quick one-off with a feisty stranger. No commitment, no problems.
No go.
Trying desperately to forget the feel of her ample tits pressed up against me while we danced, I resumed my shoveling of the stalls in the barn. We turned the horses out early so we could give their stables a good cleaning. I was itching to just ride—work off some of the pent-up energy I didn't get to release last night. Trust me, I tried everything to wake her up but drew the line at throwing cold water on her. Not that I wasn't tempted. It'd been a little while since I'd had a beautiful girl lying half naked on my bed. I'd hoped maybe she'd sleep it off a little bit and then wake up hornier than before. Instead, I caught her sneaking out.
Well, Duke caught her sneaking out. He woke me just in time to make sure her escape wasn't successful.
Sure, the gentlemanly thing to do would have been to assure her nothing had actually happened. Clearly, she didn't remember much. But when she opened her mouth and all that sass came out, I couldn't help adding fuel to her imagination. Serves her right for her "I've had my fill" comment. Had her fill, my ass. If she'd had a piece of Brock McAllister, she'd be begging for more.
Besides, she'd remember eventually, so no harm done. In all likelihood, we wouldn't cross paths again. Too bad, really, because she was a firecracker. She'd bought me a drink, for Christ's sake. No girl had ever done that before. I was about to do the same, but when that busty blond sent me the beer and sucked a finger into her mouth, I knew I was in for a fun night. Too bad she couldn't hold her liquor as well as she could hold a conversation. The flirtatious sparring was a welcome change from silly girls dissolving into giggles.
But thinking about what could have happened did not ease my current blue ball situation. I dug the shovel into another pile of dirty straw and nearly tumbled headfirst into the stable when the handle broke off.
"Shit!" I exclaimed, catching my balance on the wooden wall. Both brothers lifted their heads in question. I held up the shovel handle, sans shovel, for them to see. "Second one this week."
Brody's eyebrows knitted together. "Really? That shouldn't happen."
"Guess I don't know my own strength," I said, flexing for them.
Cash rolled his eyes. "I had one break on me last week too. I'll make a note not to buy this brand again."
"Let me see it." Brody held out his hand for the handle. I handed it over. He inspected the broken end.
"Look," he said, pointing at the handle. We looked. "This is a clean break not splintered. It almost looks like someone cut through it."
"Who would do that?" I asked. "Any ranch hands complaining lately?" We had a crew of a few dozen men—some from town, some wanderers—who worked for us seasonally. Most of them had been with us for years. I couldn't see any of them doing this maliciously.
"Not that I've heard about," Cash said. "Think it was a prank taken too far?"
"Monday morning, round everyone up. We'll have a meeting," Brody said.
"Three broken shovels warrants a meeting?" Cash asked with a snort of derision. "We'll be called 'Karen' behind our backs for sure."
Brody sighed. "Maybe I'm overreacting. Could just be a faulty batch of shovels. Or normal wear and tear. We have had these for years. Brock, what do you think?"
"Has anything else happened like this?" I asked. I hadn't noticed anything, but I'd been away for the last several months visiting other ranches on the East Coast researching ways to be environmentally sustainable. The McAllisters were going green.
Brody and Cash both shook their heads, unable to think of any other weird occurrences.
"I say we let it ride for now then. No need to get everyone riled up if it turns out to be coincidence," I said. "We need those guys when slaughter season starts."
Brody nodded and went back to his stall. He inspected his own shovel but must not have seen anything suspicious since he didn't say anything.
I grabbed a rake from the stack by the tack room to finish clearing the used straw from the stable.
That afternoon, I made a trip to the local hardware store to grab some new shovels. The owner, Mack, sat behind the counter. I told him about the broken shovels.
"Hmmm. Strange. That company is usually one of the best. Must have been a bad batch. I can cross-reference your order and send them a damage report," he offered.
"You don't have to go through all the trouble," I said, placing the new shovels on the counter for him to ring up. A flier on the community bulletin board beside the register caught my eye. On it, pigs stood huddled behind a chain link fence. The words blazoned on top were "Taking Action for Animals" with some random statistic about the conditions on factory farms. The fine print read "Humane Alliance of America, Garrett County Chapter."
I snorted and hitched a thumb toward it. "If you keep allowing that drivel in here, I may have to shop somewhere else." An empty threat, and Mack knew it. He had the only hardware store for a least thirty miles.
"Free speech and all that. I felt sorry for the poor girl. She's fighting an uphill battle in this town and seemed so earnest," he said.
"You old softie," I teased with a smile.
"Yeah, well. She's trying to get some momentum for a rally or walk or something that group is planning."
"Good luck to them," I said. Most of the people in Hillcrest were ranchers, and most of the rest relied on those ranchers for the local economy.
Mack finished ringing up my purchases, and I headed back to the ranch. But I couldn't stop thinking about the flier.
The animal activists had been more vocal lately in Hillcrest and the surrounding towns, but I hadn't given it much thought. McAllister Acres and Walker Ranch were not factory farms. Our cattle were pasture raised and grain fed—they had hundreds of acres to roam. The chickens were free-range, and our pigs lived their best life in a large paddock of their own. Still it pushed my buttons to think some goody-two-shoes city company thought they could come out here and put hard-working people out of business. Or at the very least make them feel guilty about the way they've been making a living their entire lives.
Now, the Pullmans were another story. Rumors about the less than savory treatment of their livestock had been circulating for years. If this activist group could put them out of business that would benefit our little farm tremendously. And save the animals, of course.
I shook my head at myself. I must still be grouchy from lack of sleep and lack of sex. None of my business how another family made their living.
I pushed the flier from my mind and turned up the radio. There was nothing a little Toby Keith couldn't cure.