Excerpt from 'Kiss Me, Cowboy'

Eli Barron lay on his back, staring at the dusty beamed ceiling of the barn. What extended family he had left had gone back to Wichita after spending three days mourning the death of Eli’s dad, Jonathan. He turned his head to stare at the only person on earth who truly knew him.

The fading bruise under Jesse Clooney’s eye said everything about his fucked up home life. Jesse had spent a lot of time at the Barron ranch over the years in an attempt to distance himself from his abusive father, and, because of that, Jesse felt Jonathan’s death as deeply as any member of the Barron family.

Jesse squeezed Eli’s hand. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

Eli shook his head. Since the age of fourteen, he and Jesse had made big plans to join the rodeo circuit the minute they graduated. Eli was okay at roping. He’d even managed to place first in the Johnson County Fair’s barrel racing competition the previous August, but he wasn’t near good enough to compete with the professionals. Jesse was good enough, or at least he could be with a few years of practice, but Eli had always planned to tag along with Jesse just to be close to the boy he’d fallen in love with at thirteen.

“I can’t,” Eli finally said. “With Zeb in his first year of veterinary school, it wouldn’t be right for me to ask him to stay home and deal with shit here while I follow you around the country.”

The realization that he’d be left behind hurt nearly as much as his dad’s death, but he couldn’t be selfish. Not only did he have two younger sisters, but his mom didn’t deserve to shoulder the burden of the Barron family ranch on her own.

Jesse rolled to his side and rested his head on Eli’s bare chest. “I can’t stay here.”

Eli wrapped his arms around Jesse. “I know.”

Eli had always known Jesse was better than the life he’d been handed. He still wasn’t sure why Jesse’s mom continued to stay with her abusive husband, but she’d made it clear during Jesse’s last beating that she wouldn’t go against her husband, even if it was to save her own son.

“Maybe once you get everything settled, you can join me,” Jesse said.

Excerpt from 'New Vocations' 

Layne took his time pulling into the Hale Arena parking lot. Driving a four-horse trailer through downtown Kansas City was nerve-wracking enough, but having to back his trailer up to the doors and off-load his horses challenged even his expertise.

A whistle caught his attention. Looking into the side mirror, he saw a man motioning and he realized he was guiding him. Layne waved then eased down on the pedal to keep moving. Another whistle let him know he was close enough.

Once he’d turned the truck off, he tugged the keys out of the ignition then jumped from the cab. He jogged to the back of the trailer, getting there just as a hoof hit the inside wall. The stranger jumped and Layne chuckled.

“Thanks for the help,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Layne Daly.”

“Carl Stewartson. Glad to help. I’ve driven vehicles like this before, so I know how difficult they are to back up.” Carl shook his hand.

Layne wondered if he’d imagined Carl holding his hand a little longer than necessary. He gave himself a mental shake. Didn’t matter if the man had or not. Layne didn’t have time for a hook-up. Not right then anyway. He needed to get the horses settled in their stalls. He checked his watch and grimaced.

“Got somewhere you need to be?” Carl tilted his head toward Layne’s wrist.

“No. Just wondering where my groom is. He was supposed to be driving over from the ranch earlier and have everything set up so I could get the horses in right away. But Quinn hasn’t showed up yet.” He pulled out his phone. Both of them jumped when another kick landed on the wall closest to him.

Carl snorted. “Sounds like they’re getting impatient.”

Layne nodded. “Tigger hates being trailered anywhere. Thank God Boom and Snack are so laid-back, or I’d have a riot on my hands.” He brought up Quinn’s number then hit the send button. “I’m going to chew his ass out about not being here.”

“Well, if you need any help, just let me know. I’ll be around.” Carl started to walk off, but Layne reached out to grab his arm.

Excerpt from 'Stallions and Ice'

As soon as Brandon walked into the arena, inhaled the dust-filled air and saw the numerous horses and bulls running around, he knew he was far away from home. He was used to the harsh smell of ice and the sharp sounds of blades slicing and caressing the smooth surface.

There was one thing that both places had in common—men. While in hockey, the men tended to be bundled up a bit more with safety gear, it didn’t take away from their looks. Out here at the rodeo, all they wore were leather, denim and tight shirts…oh, and hats. He couldn’t forget about those. They were the best part of all.

Brandon leaned against a nearby fence and watched as one guy in particular mounted a horse. The well-practiced grace with which he did it showed that he’d done this activity a thousand times in his life—no doubt since the moment he could walk. That was something that Brandon could relate to. From the moment he was able to stand on his own, his father had slapped a pair of hockey skates on his feet, geared him up and shoved him onto the ice.

It hadn’t mattered that all Brandon could do was stand out there, deer-in-headlights. He was on his way to being a player—that’s all that had counted in his father’s book. When Brandon had first made his way onto a team and had been put on offense, he’d been a dismal failure. He hadn’t been able to keep up with the other players and never could find the puck. Not one to give up, dear old Dad had switched him to defense.

That had been an even worse nightmare. Not only had they plowed him over, but they had laughed at him, too. Even their parents had made fun of him. His own teammates had hated him and had begged the coach to not play him, despite the rule that all players got equal playing time.

Then, one magical miracle of a day, their goalie had come down with mono. Now, there was no way that anybody with any common sense would strap on all that extra equipment and let the other players hurl very hard pucks at them. But, then again, no one ever said Brandon had any sense at all, common or not, so he’d raised his hand, volunteering himself. That had brought a huge commotion in the locker room until it was decided he couldn’t do any worse damage there. It wasn’t as though their last goalie had been the next Patrick Roy or anything.

Excerpt from 'Playing with Fire'

“Amos Vasquez was just seated.”

“Fuck! You tell his server we’re out of barbecue.” Hayden McGrath pointed at Sheldon, his manager.

“What?” Sheldon seemed confused and Hayden didn’t blame him.

“He isn’t getting any hints as to what I’m going to be doing at the American Royal.” Hayden got out of his chair and headed to the kitchen. He needed out of the office anyway—paperwork was driving him nuts…not like he had a long way to go, as he was proving with the conversation.

“You can’t be serious. He’s eaten here before. He had your barbecue just last week.”

Hayden knew Sheldon was trying to calm him down, but it wasn’t working because the crazy train was leaving the station.

“Not the new one we’re trying out tonight.” Hayden crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hayden, the team is ready. We’ve got this. There is no need to get all…insane.” Sheldon threw his hands in the air.

It was too late. Hayden rushed out of the kitchen so he could spot where Amos had been seated. And there he was, talking to a group of guys as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Damn it, why did he have to look so good? He was tall, dark and handsome with the dark scruff around his face that had scratched when they’d kissed. The tattoo on his forearm was on display. The rest of his tats were hidden where, once upon a time, Hayden had had full access and used it to his advantage. Amos had his flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, as was his usual style—something Hayden shouldn’t have even noticed. He was over the cowboy. Totally over him.

He has such nice strong hands.

But enough of that. The cowboy was probably sleeping with one of those twinks at the table. It was infuriating to see the man looking so happy. He should be sad, pining for what he could never have again.

Excerpt from 'Resuscitating Love' 

“Thanks for coming, everyone. Make sure to send daily overviews on action items from here on out, otherwise, that’s really it for now.”

Everyone chuckled, and he smiled, relieved that the meeting had gone well. He’d been asked to stand in for his boss, J.T., who was missing that day, and lead the meeting of his peers. It was simultaneously an honor and a stressor. Some days he still felt like an imposter, playing at being a respectable businessman instead of a horse wrangler. “Have a good evening.” His words were almost drowned out by the sudden spike of noise as everyone stood and gathered their stuff.

Hill closed down his laptop and swore under his breath when he saw the time. The meeting of directors had run over, and the rest of the people quickly clearing the conference room would probably blame Hill for that. However, less than a week from the start of the two and a half month long American Royal, it was necessary for them to come together one last time and make sure everything was prepared.

He was well behind where he wanted to be in his workday now, and that was going to put him into the heart of rush hour traffic. Hill sighed. Might as well stick around the office and get a few more things done before heading home. Better use of time than sitting in his car…

His car…which was at the dealership getting an airbag recall fix he’d been putting off. David had finally just scheduled the repair himself over Hill’s protests that it wasn’t good timing with the Royal right around the corner.

“Nothing’s ever good timing these days. But come on—get your priorities straight. Better inconvenienced than dead, Hill.” A sigh. “I have office hours until five, so I’ll pick you up around five-thirty…”

“Oh fuck.” Knowing his excessively punctual husband, Hill figured David had probably been sitting down in the parking lot since quarter past five…and it was well after six.

He scrambled to scoop the rest of his things off the conference table, wedged them into the case with his laptop, then headed to his office. Ten minutes later, Hill closed the door behind him and waited impatiently for the elevator. He could finish up whatever else he needed to do that couldn’t wait until morning at home this evening.