"Chock-full of humor, wit, and Texas charm."
Reviewed by Maria Munoz
Posted May 16, 2012
Romance Contemporary
As the wife of the owner of Dalton Oil, Shirlene Dalton
lived in a mansion and enjoyed the finer things in life. Now
a widow who used shopping to deal with her grief, Shirlene
finds herself with no money and kicked out of her foreclosed
home. Trying to save face while she comes up with a plan,
she (and the pig she's pigsitting) move into the rundown
trailer in which she grew-up. It's hard to keep her
presence a secret though when she finds a group of children
living in the trailer and hot cowboy Billy Wilkes in the
trailer next door. Billy is in Bramble, Texas with a score to settle.
Generations earlier the people of Bramble hurt his family
and now he and his brothers plan to wipe Bramble off the map
to even the score and break a curse. He's not thrilled to
find himself distracted from his plan. The people of Bramble
are starting to grow on him, the kids need his help, and
Shirlene's sexiness and spirit put him in mind of a whole
different
plan. Billy and Shirlene are good at fighting with each
other, can they let go of their pride long enough to feel
the love? CATCH ME A COWBOY is chock-full of humor, wit, and Texas
charm. Katie Lane creates a sense of being in Texas with
her clever use of dialect and metaphors, as well as her
colorful descriptions of Bramble. Shirlene and Billy make
an intriguing couple and strike sparks with their physical
attraction and battle of wills. The supporting characters
add charm, wit, and challenge. Fans will be pleased to know
that this third book in the Deep in the Heart of Texas
series brings back many of the characters from the earlier
books.
SUMMARY
Shirlene Dalton has it all: a dream marriage to a man who
spoils her rotten and the most outrageous mansion
Bramble,
Texas, has ever seen. But when her husband unexpectedly
dies, Shirlene finds herself right back where she
started-in
a rundown trailer on the wrong side of the tracks. Never
the
type to let a little bad luck and a whole heap of
heartache
get her down, Shirlene is ready to prove to the local
gossips she can make it on her own . . . until she ends
up
living next door to the most tempting cowboy in town. Billy
Wilkes has a score to settle and a plan to wipe Bramble
right off the map. But when his sexy, redheaded neighbor
figures out what he's up to, his good ol' boy charm won't
be
enough to save him. With the town on his tail, Billy will
have to come clean quick-or kiss Shirlene goodbye.
ExcerptChapter OneWhoever came up with the saying, "You can never go home
again " was loonier than a snakebit coyote. You can go
home.
You just shouldn't. Ever. This became crystal clear to Shirlene Grace Dalton as she
stared out of the windshield of her Navigator at the
beat-up
trailer she'd been born and raised in. Not that her mama
had
done much raising. Abby Lomax preferred raising a bottle
to
raising her two children. And even though her mama had
been
dry for over eleven years, it was hard to hang on to
forgiveness when memories swept through Shirlene's mind
like
the west Texas wind buffeting her childhood home. But Shirlene had never been one to live in the
past— a
philosophy that had gotten her through the trials and
tribulations of the last year. She believed in living in
the
present. And at the present moment, she needed a place to
sleep for the night. "Just what kind of a low- down ornery scoundrel would
evict
a poor widow from her home without one word of warnin'?"
she
grumbled. At the snuffled snort, she glanced over at the pig who
sat
next to her in the front bucket seat. The beady eyes over
the soft pink snout held not one ounce of sympathy. In
fact,
they looked almost reproachful. "Okay, so maybe there had been a few words of warnin',"
Shirlene conceded. She reached down and grabbed her
Hermès
Birkin handbag off the floor and scrounged around until
she
found the Snickers candy bar. Since she had gained a few
pounds over the last nine months, she probably shouldn't.
But willpower had never been one of her strong suits. "But for the love of Pete, how can that new bank owner
expect me to know about managing money when Lyle," she
glanced up, "God rest his soul, took care of all the
financial details? I never had to worry about late fees
and
overdraft charges . . . and eviction notices." Her green
eyes narrowed as she peeled off the candy wrapper and
took a
big bite. " Eviction . Even the word sounds like it comes
straight from Satan himself." A high- pitched squeal resounded through the interior of
the
Navigator, and Shirlene pinched off a piece of candy bar
and
held it out to the pig, who exuberantly attacked the
chocolate as if he hadn't just downed two of Josephine's
bean burritos and a bag of extra-crispy Tater Tots. Being
the other white meat, Sherman was a devout vegetarian. "You realize, don't you, that Colt and Hope would skin me
alive if they found out what I've been feeding you,
especially after the fiasco with the margaritas." She
shook
her head. "As if I were responsible for you helping
yourself, or for the drunken rampage you went on
afterwards.
Considering it took two days for you to sober up, I'm
surprised they allowed me to watch you while they're in
California." At the thought of her brother, Shirlene took another bite
of
chocolate. If she thought Colt would be unhappy about her
feeding Hope's pig Tater Tots and candy, it would be
nothing
compared to how upset he would be when he found out she
had
blown through the money her late husband had left her
like a
tornado through the panhandle. Especially after she had
insisted she could handle her finances all by herself.
She
just hadn't realized how bad her compulsive spending had
become, and her depression over Lyle's death had only
made
it worse. But shopping trips to Austin and Dallas hadn't
made her feel any better. All they had done was fill her
home with a bunch of pretty but useless things—
things
she couldn't even get into her sprawling estate to see. Which explained what she was doing back on Grover Road. Her old trailer was the only place in Bramble, Texas
where
she could spend the night without the nosy townsfolk fi
nding out and tattling to her brother. And one night was
all
she needed. First thing in the morning, she was going to
pay
a little visit to the new bank president and set him
straight. By nightfall, she would be right back where she
belonged— in a big mansion with a pitcher of
margaritas. But until then . . . She opened the door and stepped out. A blast of
ninetydegree
wind slapped her in the face, and she teetered on her
four-
inch Manolo Blahniks before she grabbed onto the side
mirror
and caught her balance. Pushing the thick strands of
blond
hair out of her face, she staggered around the front of
the
SUV to let Sherman out. The pig didn't like being out in
the
wind any more than she did. He took his time climbing
down,
then huddled against her legs as she walked around the
piles
of rusted junk. A few feet from the front door, the Navigator lights
clicked
off, leaving her and Sherman in thick darkness. Shirlene
had
never much cared for the dark— or the eerie sound
of
tree branches creaking in the wind. She glanced around at the sinister shadows. "This night
isn't fit for man nor beast." Sherman grunted his
agreement
as they climbed up the sloping front steps that looked as
if
they were seconds away from becoming nothing more than
kindling. Wanting out of the ferocious wind as quickly as possible,
Shirlene reached for the battered doorknob. It took
numerous
twists and a couple of stunned seconds before she
realized
it was locked. And no one locked their doors in Bramble
except the librarian, Ms. Murphy, and only because she
lived
next door to Elmer Tate, who had trouble remembering
where
his house was after seven or more shots of Jack Daniel's.
Of
course, no one had been out to the trailer in years so
maybe
Lyle had locked it against looters. The thought made
Shirlene smile. Her late husband had been so sure she
would
want to hang on to her childhood home. So sure that one
day
the bad memories would be replaced with good ones. Pushing down the sadness that threatened, Shirlene
searched
for the key that Lyle had given her on their first
anniversary— along with a diamond and ruby
bracelet.
At the time, the jewelry had been much more appreciated.
But
now, with the darkness and wind pressing against her, she
took the time to be grateful for the gift. "Thank you, honey," she whispered up at the moonless sky.
"You always did know what I needed, even before I needed
it." She unlocked the door, but it still refused to
open—
almost as if something held it from the inside. Leaning
her
five-foot-ten-inch frame against the cheap plywood,
Shirlene
shoved. The door cracked open just wide enough to see a
figure in white float past before it slammed shut. The
keys
slipped from Shirlene's fingers and clunked on the steps,
followed by her purse, as a chill tiptoed down her spine.
Frozen in place, she stared at the door with its fist-
sized
imprint put there by Colt during his belligerent teenage
years and tried to figure out what she'd seen. Or what
she
thought she'd seen. If she'd had her nightly margaritas, she could've blamed
it
on Jose Cuervo. But since being evicted from her home,
the
only thing swirling around in her stomach was Josephine's
chicken fried steak— something that could give you
indigestion but not hallucinations. Which meant one of
two
things: Someone had moved into the trailer without her
knowing it . . . or her childhood home was haunted. And
since very few things happened in Bramble without
Shirlene
hearing about it, she was leaning toward the latter. Her heart started to thump like the Bramble High drum
corps.
There might not be a person on the face of God's green
earth
that she feared, but the macabre was a different matter.
Be
it ghosts, demons, or the boogie man, the thought of
something she couldn't flirt into submission scared the
bejesus out of her. But before she could retrieve her
purse
and keys and get the hell out of there, Sherman lost
patience with the weather and his chicken-livered
pig-sitter. With a frustrated grunt, he lowered his head
and
plowed into the door. Plywood splintered as the door flew open. With a
triumphant
toss of his head, Sherman trotted in. Shirlene, on the
other
hand, moved a tad bit slower. The room was dark but
familiar. For a second, she could almost smell her
mother's
Avon perfume and cigarettes. She reached for the switch on the wall and released a
sigh
of relief when the eye-squinting overhead light came on.
The
living room was smaller than she remembered, especially
with
the fold-out couch opened up, the couch with the same
paper-thin mattress Colt had slept on every night. In
fact,
with the rumpled sheets and blankets, it looked as if her
brother had just climbed out of it. "Hello?" she said, hopeful that a living, breathing human
being would step out of one of the two bedrooms and
cordially explain their presence in her trailer. Sherman
had
no such illusions. Hopping up on the low mattress, he
proceeded to root around in the blankets until he'd made
himself a comfortable nest. With one exasperated look
from
those beady eyes, he flopped down. "Oh, no," Shirlene whispered. "I'm not staying here
after—" The wind whistled in through an open window, fluttering
the
dingy sheet that served as a curtain and slamming the
door
closed. At the loud bang, Shirlene almost peed her
designer
jeans. But it only took a second for the proof of her
foolishness to have her chuckling with relief. "Silly goose," she breathed. "It was just the wind." She
walked over and pushed her phantom ghostly sheet aside as
she slammed the window closed. When she glanced over at
Sherman, it almost looked as if he rolled his little
piggy
eyes. "Okay, so I'm getting as nutty as the Widow Jones,"
she said, as she walked back and opened the door so she
could collect her purse and keys. "Pretty soon I'll own
twenty-five cats and wear my bathrobe and slippers to
Sunday
services. But I'll still be the only one who feeds you
chocolate and tequila, so I wouldn't be acting too snooty
if
I was you." The pig snuffled, then dropped his head down to the
blankets
and closed his eyes. Shirlene didn't usually go to sleep
until well after Letterman . But with no television in
sight, she resigned herself to an early night. As she closed the door, she glanced down at the worn
carpeting to fi nd the Barbie doll Colt had given her on
her
sixth birthday. Picking it up, she stared at the wild
blond
hair and naked body— the type of body she had
dreamed
of possessing. But the dream of perky breasts and skinny
hips died at thirteen when Shirlene started to develop
more
curves than an Indy raceway. Carrying the doll with her, she flipped out the lights,
slipped off her high heels, and climbed onto the fold-out
couch. No doubt there was still a mattress in each of the
bedrooms, but after her fright, she had no desire to
sleep
alone. Even if it meant she had to share a bed with a
hog. "Scoot over, Piglet." She gave him a shove, and he gave
her
a mere two inches more before snuffling back to sleep.
Rolling to her back, she stared up at the ceiling while
she
stroked Barbie's short, uneven hair. For the life of her,
she couldn't remember cutting the doll's hair. Just one
more
piece of her childhood she'd chosen to forget. The night was hot and dry and the mattress so thin that
the
metal frame pressed into her back. How Colt had managed
to
sleep on it was beyond her. Her brother had sacrificed so
much growing up so she would have what other kids
had—
like her own room. Which was why she wasn't about to let
him
sacrifice any more. Not when he had a new wife and baby
girl
to worry about. No, this time, Shirlene would fix her own
mess. Come hell or high water— or nasty bank
owners. Despite the bad mattress, it didn't take her long to fall
asleep. It wasn't surprising that she dreamed of Grover
Road. She was nine years old again and playing in the broken-
down
Chevy in the front yard. The day was hot and, even with
the
windows open, sweat glued her bright copper hair to her
temples and to the back of her neck. Regardless of the
heat,
she refused to climb out of the rusty car. There were too
many places she wanted to travel to, too many things she
wanted to see. It would've been much more fun if Hope and
Colt had been traveling with her. But Hope had moved into
town, and Colt spent most of his days at Tinker Jones's
garage. So Shirlene was all alone, except for her mama,
who
was passed out cold on her bed inside the trailer. Of course, that was the one nice thing about Grover
Road— you were never alone for long. A man suddenly
appeared in front of the hood ornament of the old Chevy,
a
man with a friendly smile and eyes as green as
Shirlene's.
She wasn't surprised to see her daddy. Even though he'd
died
in a car accident when she was a baby, she dreamed of him
often. He walked around to the open window and reached in
to
smooth back her hair. At first, his fingers were cool and
soothing. But, as with most dreams, when you least expect
it, things could take a turn for the worst. Suddenly, he
wasn't stroking her hair as much as strangling her neck.
As
his fingers tightened and she fought for breath, his face
turned from her daddy's into her husband's— not the
living Lyle, but the dead Lyle. Eyes that were deep holes
of
nothingness stared out of a lifeless face. Shirlene woke with a start. Pre-dawn filled the room with
grayish light. It sounded like the wind had died down,
although it was hard to tell over the wild thumping of
her
heart and her heavy breathing. The nightmare slowly
receded
from her mind. But what she couldn't seem to shake was
the
feeling of icy fingers on her neck. It only took a subtle
tightening for Shirlene to realize that the icy fi ngers
were no longer part of a dream. "Mine," a deep voice growled in her ear. Releasing an ear-splitting scream, Shirlene jumped from
the
bed and headed for the door. When her hand closed around
the
doorknob, she quickly glanced back to see how closely the
strangler followed. The room was empty except for a
startled
pig that looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe
she
had. But whether it was a figment of her imagination or
not,
she'd had enough of Grover Road. Without waiting for
Sherman, she threw open the door, only to come face to
face
with an image straight out of a horror movie. But it wasn't the hockey mask that held her attention as
much as the chainsaw. And having watched the The Texas
Chainsaw Massacre at least a dozen times, Shirlene knew
exactly what happened to the pretty blonde. Luckily,
Sherman
had no intention of being carved into ham hocks, and with
a
high-pitched squeal, he sailed off the mattress and
charged
the door. The short psycho killer stepped back long
enough
for pig and blonde to hightail it out. They took the front steps in one leap, Sherman landing on
all fours and Shirlene going down to one knee. But she
got
up quickly enough when the chainsaw cranked to life.
Since
her keys were still in the trailer, she bypassed her SUV
and
headed for the hole in the shrubs that separated her lot
from her neighbor's. If she had been thinking clearly,
she
would've run to a trailer that was occupied, but her
brain
had flown right out of her head the minute the ghostly
cold
hands had closed around her throat. Add a chainsaw-
wielding
midget, and her only thought was escape. Since the trailer next door was vacant at the moment,
Shirlene didn't waste any time knocking. She just swung
open
the screen door and barged right in. She closed the door
behind Sherman and fumbled with the lock. While the lock
at
her trailer worked perfectly, this one didn't work at
all.
Even locked, the flimsy door would be no match for a
chainsaw, something she didn't think about until the
front
steps creaked and a masked face peered in the kitchen
window. Terrifi ed, Shirlene glanced down at Sherman, who shot
her a
look that pretty much said every pig for himself before
he
streaked behind a dilapidated recliner. With no room left
behind the chair, Shirlene headed for the back bedroom.
Unfortunately, the bedroom door didn't have a lock
either,
and with her heart pounding in her chest, all she could
do
was listen and wait. The chainsaw sputtered to a halt. She didn't know if that
was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe the psycho was
lulling her into a false sense of security— hoping
she'd open the door to peek out so he could decapitate
her
in one slice. The image of splattered blood and her
rolling
head was fresh in her mind when someone grabbed her from
behind. Before she could do more than squeak in terror, she was
being pulled down. But it wasn't the cold blade of a
chainsaw that pressed her into the sagging mattress, but
rather a solid chest of warm hard muscles. Shirlene
barely
had time to suck in a startled breath before a pair of
firm
lips settled over hers in a deep, tongue-dipping kiss
that
curled her toes into the sheets and sizzled all thoughts
of
ghosts and psycho killers right out of her head. Of
course,
her senses came back quickly enough when the man nibbled
his
way over to her ear and whispered in a whiskey-soaked
voice. "Now I'm shore not the type of man to look a gift horse
in
the mouth." A hot palm settled over her breast, and
Shirlene
sucked in her breath. "Especially a gift that turned out
to
be more than I expected. But I'm afraid I'm a little too
tuckered out from my trip to give you the kind of ride
you
deserve, Marcy. So if you don't mind showin' yourself
out. .
. ." "Marcy?" Shirlene huffed. Suddenly indignation took the
place of fear. How could anyone in their right mind
confuse
her for Marcy Henderson? Marcy had to weigh a good twenty
pounds more than Shirlene, with breasts that she was
still
making payments on. The lips stilled against her neck, and he pulled back and
brushed the hair out of her face. As he stared down at
her,
his brown eyes appeared to spark with something that
actually resembled thought. But it must've been a trick
of
the early morning light that filtered in through the
sheet
over the window. Because when she looked again, all she
saw
was a whole lot of nothing. Bubba.
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