The Cowboy's Texas Rose Read online

  The Cowboy’s Texas Rose

  A Dixons of Legacy Ranch Romance

  E. Elizabeth Watson

  The Cowboy’s Texas Rose

  Copyright© 2022 E. Elizabeth Watson

  EPUB Edition

  The Tule Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Publication by Tule Publishing 2022

  Cover design by Lee Hyat Designs

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-954894-89-1

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  Dedication

  To June. The best dog daughter. Always Loved

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Dixons of Legacy Ranch series

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I’m grateful to many people and places who have helped either directly, or indirectly, inspire, shape, support, or critique this book. I might never have been exposed to the amazing field of archaeology had it not been for an archaeology elective taken years ago at Temple College in Temple, TX. A spring break field trip to view prehistoric pictographs in West Texas changed my entire educational trajectory, and eventually I transferred into the University of Texas (UT) at Austin to continue studying anthropology and archaeology. Further, I was lucky to be able to volunteer for, or attend events with, organizations such as the Texas Archaeological Society, and the Rock Art Foundation, and further my research thanks to two Undergraduate Research Fellowship Awards granted by UT Austin. I also need to thank the Journal of Big Bend Studies, who published my first ever research paper on rock art recording. Rose’s character is very much an inspired one and while I had no plans to write a fiction novel back then, it’s thanks to all these organizations and the people in them for inspiring me and planting the seed!

  But there are many others to thank. Volunteering for Carolyn Spock from the Texas Archaeological Research Laboratory exposed me to how site records from all across the state were centralized and documented. The archive room was my favorite place! Further thanks to Reeda P., who although it’s been many years since we’ve spoken, was an enormous influence and mentor out in the field. Little did either one know at the time that stories of spunky heroines and stubborn ranchers were taking root in my head, ha! More directly, I need to thank a list of people. Thank you so much to Erin Caro Aguayo and her husband José Aguayo, for helping me with my Spanish translations. Much appreciation to the contemporary authors in my weekend writing group: Mary, Robyn and Christi, who’ve listened to me both rejoice, and cry (!) over the books in this series. A special thanks to Christi Barth, who’s always willing to critique my writing and tell me when I’m doing something way too crazy—her feedback is invaluable and helps me become a better writer! To my agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg, who believed in this series getting published, thank you. And to my editor at Tule, Sinclair, thank you for seeing something worthwhile in my story, for being patient and thoughtful, and for helping me shape it into a finished product I’m proud of, as well as the rest of the Tule team: Jane, Cyndi, Meghan, Kelly, Nikki, and Lee, for their hard work in every aspect of bringing my book to life (and for tolerating all my questions!). And lastly, my family. To my relatives and mother-in-law, Donna, who cheer me along and read every story I write, I cherish your support. To my awesome sons, who tolerate the time writing takes, and who inspire me every day. And lastly, a big thank you to my husband, Brant. His support over the years, listening to me when this writing rollercoaster hits those ups and downs, and his advice long ago that with every rejection, I was simply “one ‘no’ closer to a ‘yes’” and to keep trying, helped me dig my heels in and go for it.

  Prologue

  June, 2016

  “Ain’t any readier than I’ll ever be.”

  Toby Dixon swilled the dregs in his coffee mug and swiped his Stetson from the desk, plopping it onto his head. His daddy would roll over in his grave if he knew what his youngest son was about to do. Harold Dixon had been a hard man. He never would have entertained the idea of changing the future of the Legacy—the family ranch—or the future of Dixon Cattle Company.

  “Daddy isn’t going to be around forever. No one says you can’t make the Legacy into your own after we’re gone and give it a new legacy.” The memory of his mother’s encouraging words threaded through his mind and bolstered him now. “Someday, I have faith you’ll see this, too. Someday, I have faith you’ll listen to what’s in your heart and go for it.”

  He tamped down thoughts of her voice. For the first time, he was going for it. He finally felt as if he had a compass and knew which way to travel. He marched down the hallway and hopped down the step into the great room, cutting across it to the kitchen to deposit his mug in the sink. His truck keys sat on the counter where he’d left them that morning after riding out to the back forty to check on Sam, his foreman, who’d been working diligently to repair and rewire the fencing. Next to the keys sat the folder. Within that folder was a stack of financials and a proposition.

  He snagged them, giving the keys a little toss to jingle them and grinned a one-sided grin that tipped up the corner of his lips, when he heard the roar of a truck engine rumble around the circle drive and park. Probably someone for Ms. Shirley, his office manager who took care of every vital detail to keep this ranch running smooth like Arbuckles’ though a coffee filter. And with her out on leave for the first time that Toby could ever remember, he’d been caught off guard by each task that’d cropped up, tasks Shirley normally handled.

  Tucking his folder under his arm, he strode to the foyer as the truck door outside thudded shut and feet started clopping closer, closer. He squinted through the foggy, decorative glass windows beside the door but couldn’t get a read on who was coming. He snatched his wallet from the side table, slipped it into his rear pocket, tucked his cell phone into his front pocket—he still couldn’t bring himself to wear one of those cell phone belt clips like his dad had worn in his final years, the ultimate mark of an old man—and fished his feet into his boots, straightening the cuffs over them, ensuring his button-up shirt was still tucked in and looking right, giving the belt buckle he’d won in the National High School Rodeo—a relic of bygone days, but something he was still proud of—a tug to ensure it was good and centered.

  The feet outside thudded slowly up the front steps. By the look of the distorted shape through the glass carrying a parcel, it was a delivery guy. Fine. They could leave the package on the porch, and he’d slip out the back. He could pick whatever it was up when he got home—

  The doorbell chimed.

  On a sigh, Toby grabbed the latch and succumbed to the moment’s inconvenience. He probably had to sign for whatever it was. Sam had requested new sheet-metal pliers the day before, and their supplier had promised next-day delivery. No matter. He’d be on his way soon enough.

  He swung open the door. “Hey, thanks, man. I’ll take it…”

  Toby’s words trailed away. He dropped his outstretched arm, withdrawing back a step. His face, no doubt, drained of color. His heart started pounding like a stampede, and his head began shaking back and forth of its own volition. No, no…

  “Now Toby, son, you know I can’t hold onto this forever,” Mr. Richardson, in his dark sport coat and turquoise bolo tie, said gently, a cream-colored Stetson perched evenly on his head. “It’s been a year. It oughta been claimed by now. I’ve bent the rules for you, you know, but I’ve got to see this released.”

  Words fled Toby. Thoughts scattered like birds after a shotgun discharge, and the sun that perpetually blazed down on this scorched, punished desert earth faded to the margins as his eyes locked onto the turquoise stone embedded in silver cinching the leather strings at Mr. Richardson’s neck—he
couldn’t look at what the man was holding, resting against his paunch.

  “Not now, Dale,” Toby finally croaked, chewing the corner of his lip.

  “Toby—”

  “I ain’t ready.”

  “I don’t have a choice, son,” Mr. Richardson replied.

  Toby’s chest clenched. He barely remembered scrawling his signature on the release papers. Barely remembered barking at Mr. Richardson to set it in the foyer. Barely remembered slamming the door, tossing his truck keys and folder onto the side table, and snatching up the keys to his Bronco as the man drove away. He strode out the door and locked it, jogging down the steps as he ripped off his nicely pressed pearl snap to reveal the cutoff T-shirt he wore underneath.

  He hopped up into the Beast and turned over the engine on a roar, stuffed the shirt behind his seat, tore out of Park, and gunned it down the driveway onto the stretch of gravel ranch road leading to the main gate as a plume of dust streaked like a jet stream in his wake, leaving the pearlescent urn behind him exactly where the funeral home director had put it.

  Chapter One

  Toby’s eyes squinted open. The dimness of morning was blocked by cheap motel drapes. Thank God because his head was pounding. Kathleen…or was it Katherine? Maybe Kameron? Hell, he couldn’t remember. Some pretty, random blonde slept beside him, forearm flung over her head.

  He rubbed the sleep from his face. What the hell time was it? How many shots had he downed?

  It’d been a year since he’d drunk like that. A year(!) since he’d been such an idiot and vowed to his dying mother that he’d clean up his act. Who knew what all he’d done last night? Toby almost didn’t want to remember. There’d been a mechanical bull somewhere…at Amigo’s? That hole-in-the-wall at the end of town? Crap. There’d been tits, too. Whose, he didn’t know. Lots of laughter that made the whiskey-hazed memory right now clang like an old steam-engine bell in his brain.

  He winced and rolled over, draping an arm off the mattress, and fished for his clothes on the floor, stifling a moan at the headache hammering a hole in his forehead. Someone was bound to gossip if he’d done anything stupid, and then all of Alpine, Texas, would know that Toby, the rich, third son of the Dixon Cattle Company dynasty, was living in the fast lane again.

  Which would surprise no one.

  His brothers would nail his sorry ass to the fence post and rip him a new one if they were here. God, “perfect Tyler” shaming him to grow the hell up was the last thing he needed, right alongside Travis staring at him with those cold eyes that had seen too much and knew firsthand how privileged they all were after returning from Afghanistan a changed man.

  He slipped a foot onto the floor, bracing himself, trying not to dip the bed. He’d creep out of here if it was the last thing he did. Kristy, or Kallie—whoever—gave a soft snore and shifted at the shake to the discount mattress that—judging by the uneven springs—had seen a lot of mileage. He held his breath. Her bottle-blond hair, fanning across the pillow and smelling like cotton candy, tangled around her face, and she settled back to sleep.

  Dammit, he cursed, standing and catching himself against the bedside table as dizziness threatened to send him to the floor on his bare ass. Toby had little recollection of her, barely remembered tossing her down onto the bed as she’d giggled and begged him for a good time and…

  Oh God…

  Had he passed out before they’d done the deed?

  He had.

  He’d left her hanging. She’d expected some horizontal two-stepping, but he’d collapsed on the pillow and crumpled right into it. Lights out. He was a damn lightweight these days. At thirty-one, he didn’t have that all-night stamina anymore. What the hell kind of asshole took a girl back to a motel room and then fell asleep?

  Dude. What kind of guy takes a girl back to a motel room, period? That was perfect Tyler’s voice again—the lawyer, the dad, the Harvard grad, the Eagle Scout, the guitarist, and varsity football captain all rolled into one, who’d always been too damn good for his own good, the bastard.

  Glancing around the seedy room, two red plastic cups and a half-empty fifth of Jack were tipped over on the table. Hot-pink panties were flung across the chair beside them, along with the microscopic skirt she’d been wearing.

  Toby rolled his eyes at himself. He’d been so desperate to escape his sadness, he’d blown his plans the day before—just like the screwup he’d always been. Shit, he hadn’t even called to cancel his appointment with the Brewster County Junior Ranchers program, just tossed everything down and jetted. “K Girl” had made him forget his grief, if only for a little while.

  His momma would be so disappointed in him.

  He found his jeans wadded behind the table, fished his legs through the holes, and hooked the oval belt buckle. As he tucked his T-shirt under his arm, he felt his pockets. No wallet. Crap! Had he lost it? He searched the table, underneath the chairs, and knelt beside the bed, patting his hand underneath until he felt the fold of leather and his keys. He exhaled, then sifted through the contents, pulled out two twenties, and jotted a note on the motel’s pad of paper to use it for cab fare. Then he grabbed his socks and tucked them into his back pocket along with his handkerchief, jamming his feet into his shit-kickers.

  He slipped out the door while it was still early and morning “rush hour” hadn’t hit. There was no way in hell he was sticking around for the whole of Alpine to see his ’88 Ford Bronco parked at God-Knows-Where so the rumor mill could start grinding out gossip.

  “That Toby Dixon, still hasn’t pulled his head out of his rich little ass… Mister and Missus Dixon would be horrified to see what their youngest son has become…” Or worse. The women. “Mmm…wouldn’t mind being a notch on that cowboy’s belt… Give me a chance to tame that bull…”

  The remarks might make a sixteen-year-old pissant feel like hot stuff, but he wasn’t a kid anymore. And he had a reputation as “not the marrying type.” Love ’em and leave ’em. A good time. While his friends had started shackling themselves to the proverbial ball and chain, he found himself more and more alone. Poker nights were down to a scant few anti-ball-and-chainers as their buddies married one by one and moved on.

  He squinted in the pre-dawn light, stark against the desert backdrop. Where the hell was he, and how had he ended up here? But as he got his bearings and his eyes adjusted, he simultaneously heaved a sigh of relief and groaned as he read the motel sign. God-Knows-Where turned out to be the King Pin Motel. This nasty joint? This place was slimier than a cowboy with a ten-gallon hat and no horse. Toby Dixon, the irresponsible brat of the family, could. Not. Be. Caught. Here. Dead. Or. Alive.

  Still. Amigo’s was just across the street, where yesterday’s escapade had begun and thankfully ended. His jacked-up, unmistakable Bronco was still in the Amigo’s lot, parked haphazardly across two parking spaces. He shook his head and jogged across the quiet road as the lone stoplight this far out of town blinked yellow, dodging the few oncoming trucks on their way to work. He hopped over the guard rail protecting Amigo’s lot and yanked on his door handle to get the hell out of there. It took three yanks to realize that while he’d parked like he owned the lot—tip of the hat to the owner for not towing him—he’d somehow had enough presence of mind to lock the doors.

  “Son of a…” he cursed, fishing out his keys, unlocking the truck, and climbing up into the cab.

  A note was jammed under his windshield wiper, and he leaned out to snatch it up and read it aloud: “Hey, a parking spot just for you, F-ing jerk.”

  F-ing jerk? He laughed. The person who wrote it had actually censored their complaint? He cranked down the window, fired up the Beast, pulled out onto the road, and headed for Stella’s, where he could wake up for a minute with some coffee and reevaluate how yesterday had gone so wrong. His headache pulsed hard, and he tossed the stupid note on his floorboard. He grabbed his cowboy hat and jammed it onto his head, grumbling. Need. Coffee. And some ibuprofen and a gallon of water because, dang, his mouth tasted like cotton. He also needed some of Stella’s famous B&G. The grease from those fluffy buttermilk biscuits and creamy sausage gravy was just what his stomach needed to glue itself together again.