Wild Cowboy Ways (Lucky Penny Ranch #1)(77)

Irene screamed into the phone. “If this is the law, you can go to hell. We ain’t runnin’ moonshine, either, and we done closed up the whorehouse.”

He could hear Lizzy yelling in the background. “Granny, who is that? Is it Nadine? Is Allie with her?”

“Who is Nadine and what are you talkin’ about? It’s the law. They’re over at the Lucky Penny. I bet that damn Walter has told them that we used to run a whorehouse here,” Irene said.

Lizzy’s frazzled voice finally asked, “Nadine, is Allie with you?”

“This is Blake, Lizzy. Allie is over here.”

“She’s drunk, Blake. Bring her home. Don’t let her drive. That old truck of hers doesn’t even have air bags and the tires are bald.”

“She’s out cold and moving her will probably make her start upchucking so why don’t we let her sleep it off over here,” Blake said. “I promise I won’t let her drive and I’ve got a damn fine recipe for a hangover that I’ll give her when she wakes up.”

“Please don’t tell anyone that she’s a drunk. I’m marryin’ a preacher, you know,” Lizzy said.

“Wouldn’t dream of saying a word,” Blake said. “I’ll drive her home when she’s sobered up tomorrow morning.”

“She’s trying to ruin me,” Lizzy got out before Irene wrestled the phone from her.

“Walter, is that you? I told you not to call this number. What in the hell are you thinkin’? Is the law over there?” Irene’s shrill voice blasted through his ears.

“Give me that phone, Granny,” Lizzy demanded.

The loud bang in his ears said that Irene hung up a second time.

He tiptoed to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich, carried it to the living room, and turned on the television. The weatherman said that they’d have thunderstorms through the night and most of the day on Monday. He watched two episodes of Family Feud and a couple of reruns of NCIS, but his mind kept running in circles and Allie Logan was right in the middle of all of it.

Shooter went to the door and whined so he let him out for his evening run and checked the truck one more time. The front end was smashed up, but it didn’t look like it would leak if it rained. Just in case there was something important in the cab, he took a look. The only thing in there was a candy wrapper on the floor, the lid to the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which was still lying on the ground with golden liquid in it, and Allie’s purse.

He slung her purse over his shoulder and picked up the lid, recapped the liquor bottle, and carried both into the house. “No need to waste good Jack.”

Shooter finished his business and dashed into the house, almost tripping Blake on his way to the kitchen.

“You don’t have to break my leg. I wouldn’t forget your midnight snack.”

Shooter sat up on his hind legs and begged.

“Okay, you rascal.” Blake laughed. “You get two pieces of bologna for that trick. But when you’re too fat to run this spring, it won’t be my fault.”



Allie’s eyes popped open and then snapped shut again as she grabbed her head and rolled up into a ball. Her mouth was dry and tasted like a dirty bathroom smelled. She tried to swallow but gagged instead. Clamping a hand over her mouth, she tried to get up and rush to the bathroom, but knew she wouldn’t make it. She grabbed the trash can beside her bed and dry-heaved until her sides ached, but nothing came up.

She’d never had the flu like this before and she damn sure did not have time for it now. She had to paint Blake’s bedroom and then texture the ceiling in the hall and living room. She set the trash can back on the floor and fell back on her bed.

Shooter bounded across the floor and onto the mattress, started at her chin and slurped all the way to her forehead, his dog food breath causing her to gag again. How in the devil did Blake’s dog get in her house and to her bedroom?

She pushed him away and opened her eyes slowly, shielding them with her hand against the light pouring in the window. Then a streak of lightning lit up the sky, followed quickly by a boom of thunder that made Shooter drop and shove his head under the covers.

“God, that’s loud.” She moved her hands to her ears. “Oh. My. God. I’m in Blake’s bed. How did I get here and what have I done?”

“Truth or a pretty princess story?” Blake asked.

Her chest tightened at how sexy he was, standing there like a mythical god with pajama pants riding low on his hips, a wife beater shirt stretched out across his muscular chest, and barefoot. She told herself that men did not have sexy feet but when she looked back at his, they really were. His hair was tousled like he’d gotten out of bed after a night of wild sex. Oh, God, did they have sex?

“Truth?” She pulled herself up and propped her back against the pillows.

“Don’t even want a little bit of the pretty story?” he asked. “I worked one up for you about a princess who was poisoned by her wicked sister who was going to marry a preacher.” He grinned.

The laugh made it past her chest and partially out of her mouth before it stopped and she grabbed her head again. “Just the truth.”

“You got drunker than a rabid skunk, drove your truck over here, and evidently you didn’t want to walk across the yard so you parked right up next to the porch, and passed out cold in my arms. So I put you to bed, and now it’s time to get rid of the hangover.” He poured honey from a cute little bear-shaped bottle into a spoon and said, “Open your mouth.”