Excerpt of Written in the Cards by Lauren Linwood

"Ben stepped up on the wooden planks that ran along the
outside of the saloon and stopped. Standing next to the
swinging doors was the copper-haired beauty from earlier.
She spoke to a cowboy and then waved him off, sending him
into the bar with a laugh.

Without thinking, he rushed over to her. “What on earth are
you doing standing in front of a saloon? Do you realize how
rough and rowdy –”

“Oh, there you are.” Her hazel eyes twinkled, as she looked
at him from head to toe. “My, you certainly clean up well.”

Ben stood dumbfounded at the beautiful stranger assessing
him like a buyer would a Longhorn steer.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’d left the
stockyards by the time I headed back your way. I checked the
bathhouse, but you hadn’t been there yet. I went to the
biggest mercantile, but they said I’d just missed you.”

She shook her head. “I figured sooner or later you’d make
your way to this street, so I thought I’d simply wait for
you to turn up.”

She smiled at him as if waiting for a strange man in front
of a cow-town bar was the most natural thing on earth for a
pretty woman to do.

“You are some crazy lady,” he blurted out.

The woman chuckled, deep and throaty. Ben swallowed at the
way the sound made him tingle. “You have no idea, sir. My
aunt Harriet thinks I went off the rails years ago. But
that’s another story. I’m here to hear yours.”

He frowned. “Beg pardon?”

“Oh, I’m making a mess of this, aren’t I? Usually I display
better manners.”
She held out a gloved hand to him. “I’m Maggie Rutherford,
formerly from New York City. And you just came off the
cattle drive. The Chisholm Trail, I presume?”

He nodded, unsure of where their conversation headed.

“Perfect!” she declared. “You are exactly the man I’d like
to interview.”
“Interview?” He viewed her with suspicion. “Why me?”

She laid a hand on his sleeve. Electricity crackled between
them. She pulled her hand away, a puzzled look on her face.

“I, sir, am a dime novelist. Have you read any Lud Madison
books?”

“Yes,” he said, still wondering about the brief contact
between them. “Madison’s actually my favorite of the dime
novel authors.”

Her hazel eyes sparkled. “You are talking to Lud Madison in
the flesh. And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking
with?”

Ben sputtered his name. This heavenly creature wrote dime
novels?

Maggie smiled, and his heart did a flip-flop. “I see I’ve
given you a bit of a start. It’s true, though. I am Lud
Madison. I simply write under a pen name because there are
those who deem it unlikely that a woman could write such
adventurous tales of the West. I not only write my novels,
but I illustrate them.” Pride was evident in her voice.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’m doing research for my next novel, and I need to talk
with someone who’s familiar with cattle drives. You caught
my eye, Mr. Morgan. I feel you have a story to tell, and I’d
love to incorporate some of it into my next book. I am happy
to pay you for your time.”

Ben had no intention of sharing any of his life’s story with
Maggie Rutherford, no matter how interesting the fiery
redhead seemed.

“I’m sorry, ma’am –”

“Please, call me Maggie.”

“What I mean to say is –”

“You don’t have to tell me, Mr. Morgan. I’ve waylaid you
from your mission. You intended to have a drink and unwind
after long weeks on the trail. Well, I know with your fancy
new clothes and those rather expensive boots, plus the bath
and haircut, you probably have very little of your trail pay
left.”

She turned and started to push open one of the swinging
doors.

He grabbed her elbow, ignoring the heat in the contact. “You
can’t go in there! It’s not respectable.”

Maggie’s brows rose. “You need a bottle of whiskey, sir,
something you sorely can’t afford at this point. I aim to
remedy that situation. We’ll sit. You’ll have your drinks.
I’ll ask you some questions about being a cowboy on a cattle
drive, and I’ll even pay for a night’s rest at a decent
hotel.”

She tugged and pulled away from him, entering the bar full
steam ahead.
A bemused Ben followed her inside. Under his breath, he
muttered, “The little spitfire sure has gumption.”
"