Saving the Cowboy’s Christmas (Rowdy Ranch #12)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

F or a few seconds Lani lost her balance as the world shifted under her feet. Rance wrote a book? Impossible. He wouldn’t be able to sit still long enough.

He had to be pranking her. Yeah, that was it. “I can’t imagine where you’re going with this nutty conversation but count me out.” She headed for her parents’ truck.

He hurried after her, his long strides catching her easily. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do not.”

“Wait here. I’ll fetch it.”

Her pesky curiosity got the better of her. Might as well find out what constituted a book in his mind. She turned around and sure enough, here he came carrying a rectangular package wrapped in festive paper topped with an elaborate velvet bow.

If he’d tied that bow then she was Elmer Fudd. But the box was more than two inches thick. If it contained a manuscript, it wasn’t just a few pages. What the hell was he up to?

Stopping in front of her, he paused to catch his breath, his gaze fixed on that elaborate red bow.

An uneasy feeling grew in the pit of her stomach. She could be wrong, but she was picking up an emotion she’d never associated with Rance McLintock. Was he anxious?

He glanced up, a crease between his dark brows. “I realize these days manuscripts are submitted digitally, but you’ve said the publisher you work for still takes hard copy.” He swallowed.

Oh, no. He really had written a book. And he was giving it to her. In Christmas wrapping paper with a horse and sleigh motif, no less.

Gone was his jaunty self-confidence. She’d worked with enough first-time authors to appreciate the courage he’d summoned to get through this moment. She’d have to be made of stone not to empathize.

The warm squishy feeling in her chest was just that — empathy. Nothing more. “What kind of book is it?” Maybe it would be non-fiction and she could pass it on to a colleague.

“Fiction.” He cleared his throat. “A contemporary Western.”

“Oh.” Right up her alley. Considering his mom wrote historical Westerns, which he’d been reading all his life, his similar-but-different choice made sense.

“This is the first in a series. There will be a mystery in each book.” His voice steadied. “The hero’s a former deputy who left law enforcement and bought a bar. He has an Irish granny.”

“I see.” No wonder he’d wanted Granny to stay with him. Research.

“The heroine’s family is Italian and she’s the elected sheriff of this small town where the bar’s located. She discovers that the bar owner makes a good undercover agent.” He was into it, now, a glow of excitement chasing away the last of his anxiety. “Their relationship is something like that old TV show with Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd.”

“ Moonlighting ?”

“That’s the one. Just substitute a small Western town for LA.”

“So Moonlighting , only with cowboys.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Dammit, he’d come up with a viable story concept. She was already writing the blurb in her head, imagining the marketing campaign, seeing potential cover treatments.

But this was Rance, the guy she’d vowed to stay away from. Far, far away. Anyway, she still didn’t know if he could write. He was the son of an NYT bestseller, but so were all the McLintock kids and nobody else in that bunch had written a book. Oksana, Lucky’s wife, was the only other author in the family.

Meeting his gaze, she pretended the sizzle in her veins was professional enthusiasm. “Does your mom know about this?”

“Not yet. Nobody does except Granny. And now you.”

“You’ve written an entire book while living in the midst of this close-knit family and nobody knows? Or even suspects?”

“Why would they? When I told you, you didn’t believe me.”

“Yes, but I’m only a casual visitor. I don’t know you as well as they do.”

“I can play my cards close to the vest.”

“Maybe. To a point, but still.”

“It’s not as tough as you think. I live alone and have a fair amount of unobserved free time. I give the impression that I spend most of it playing pool.”

“That’s logical since you’re so good at it.”

“And shooting pool is also great for working through a tricky plot problem.”

Every word out of his mouth strengthened the possibility that he was the real deal. He talked like a writer, a serious writer with a goal and a plan.

But handing the manuscript to her was ridiculous. He was the son of a bestseller. “I appreciate your gesture in offering it to me, but I work for a very small publisher. You need to follow Oksana’s lead and get your mom involved. You could end up in a bidding war like she did.”

“How do you know? You haven’t read the book.”

“No, but?—”

“I think it’s decent or I wouldn’t be giving it to you. You’re also the only person I trust to give me an honest opinion. Everybody else likes me too much.”

That made her laugh. It was so Rance. “Then nobody’s laid eyes on it, not even Granny?”

“She’s seen snippets, the parts where I needed to check my fictional granny’s dialogue, but all along I wanted you to be my first reader.”

“All along? When did you start this?”

“Last February, after you went back to New Jersey.”

“Please don’t say you wrote it for me.”

“No, but you were the catalyst. This story’s been fermenting for a while. I always knew I’d write it someday. Then I met you and everything fell into place. I’d write the book in secret and hand it to you. You’d tell me whether it’s any good.”

“But if I think it’s publishable, then you should have your mom?—”

“I won’t ride on her coattails.”

His stock just went way up. She held his gaze, captured by the gleam of self-respect in his brown eyes. “I get that.”

“Will you take it?” He held out the package.

She hesitated. “Yes.” She picked it up, gripping it tight with both hands as her gloved fingers slipped on the wrapping paper.

“Thank you.” His deep sigh of relief told her how much he’d counted on this.

“It’s heavy.”

“Ninety-nine thousand five hundred and sixty-two words.”

She smiled. “I would’ve guessed ninety-nine thousand five hundred and sixty-three.”

“In my final pass I cut a word on the last page.”

She peered at him. “Seriously?”

“No.” He laughed. “I have no idea how many words it is. I kept editing right up to the last minute before I had to print it out. It’s slightly under a hundred thousand. I think.”

“I feel like I just got the handoff in a spy movie. I assume I’m sworn to secrecy?”

“If you can manage it.”

“It’ll be tricky. I’ll need to read when no one’s around. And someone’s always around.”

“But not on this sleigh ride.”

“That was your plan?”

“No, ma’am. My plan’s been banjaxed, as Kieran would say. I’d intended for you to ride shotgun while I drove the sleigh.”

“What about the book?”

“I was gonna find a good place to stop and pull it out from under the blanket.”

“What made you think I’d agree to go with you?”

“I would’ve said you could do some of the driving.”

She glanced at Thor standing patiently, harnessed up and ready to rumble. “That sounds like fun.”

“But now I’m thinking you’d be more comfortable sitting in the sleigh.”

“While reading your book.”

“It’s a thought. Not that you couldn’t drive the sleigh at some point. If you want to.”

“I do.” She was also itching to open the package. But she couldn’t do it here and the longer they debated the subject the more likely someone would show up and blow their cover. “Ninety-nine thousand words is a lot. I can’t possibly?—”

“You’d get far enough to make an evaluation.”

“True.” Excitement ramped up her heart rate. She lived for this. Every manuscript was a voyage into uncharted territory. No one had been there before her. In this case, literally no one.

On top of that, the unlikely author was a drop-dead gorgeous cowboy. She’d fought her attraction to him for months. If it turned out he could write….

“Shall we go?”

She sucked in a breath. “Yes.”