Going Cowboy Crazy Read Online Free PDF

there’s no tellin’ how long Hope will stay.”
    “Yep.” Rye Pickett spit out a long stream of tobacco juice. “That Hollywood sure has brainwashed her. Hell, she couldn’t even remember how to drink.”
    “Poor Slate,” Ms. Murphy tsked. “He’ll have his hands full convincing her to stay and settle down.”
    There were murmurs of agreement before Harley Sutter, the mayor, spoke up. “ ’Course, we could help him out with that.”
    Rossie Owens pushed back his cowboy hat. “Well, we sure could.”
    “Just a little help,” Darla piped up. “Just enough to show Hope that all her dreams can be fulfilled right here in Bramble.”
    “Just enough to let love prevail,” Sue Ellen agreed.
    “Just enough for weddin’ bells to ring,” Twyla sighed.
    “Yep.” Harley nodded as he hitched up his pants. “Just enough.”

Chapter Three
     
    F AITH WAS IN THE REDNECK MONSTER TRUCK . A truck with huge flags fluttering and snapping in the breeze, a dog’s wet nose pressed up against the back window, and the radio blaring out a song about putting a boot in someone’s ass. While the arrogant rebel, who flaunted the size of his privates and had crude flowing through his veins, hung one wrist over the steering wheel, completely unconcerned that the huge tires straddled the double yellow line.
    She rechecked her seat belt, then placed both hands back on the dashboard. “Would you stay on your side of the road,” she tried to speak over the music. When Slate shot a glance over at her, she cleared her throat. “Please.”
    One hazel eye squinted beneath the brim of the beat-up straw hat before he pulled his gaze away and continued to drive down the middle of the road. She probably should demand that he turn around and take her back to Bootlegger’s, but there was something about the way his muscular body slouched in the seat that stole the breath from her lungs and the words from her mouth. Besides, itwasn’t like the man was an ax murderer. He was a friend of Hope’s.
    Unless Hope wasn’t in Hollywood after all, but buried beneath this man’s double-wide.
    Faith glanced behind her, checking for an ax in the bed of the truck. But all she saw were empty beer cans and the dog with his sad eyes.
    “I think your Labradoodle is cold.”
    Slate’s head snapped around, and his cowboy hat shifted up with his eyebrows. “My what?” He reached over and turned down the radio.
    “Your Labradoodle.” Faith pointed at the back window.
    His gorgeous eyes popped wide. “Buster’s not a Labra—” He cut off as if he couldn’t bring himself to say the word “doodle.” “He’s a registered bird dog.”
    “Are you sure? He looks just like my friend’s dog that is a cross between a Labrador and a poodle.”
    “Poodle?” His brows knotted. “He’s no poodle. He’s a purebred hunting dog.”
    “Oh. Well, I think he’s cold.”
    “Cold?” He snorted. “It has to be at least seventy outside.”
    “Then why is he staring at me?”
    “Probably because he’s trying to figure out just who the hell the fussy woman is parading around as his Hope.”
    “Fussy? I’m not fussy.” Faith’s teeth rattled as Slate turned up a dirt road. The truck dipped and bounced over every rut and rock, jostling the empty fast-food cups and bags that littered the floor.
    “Really?” He glanced pointedly at her fingers that were white-knuckling the dash.
    Afraid to let go, she only shrugged. “I’m careful, that’s all.”
    “Careful. Fussy. Same difference. I bet you haven’t even been four-wheelin’ before.”
    “Of course, I have—” The truck bounced down in a hole, jostling her reply right out of her, and she glanced over and caught him staring down at the front of her sweater. The heavy-lidded look he sent her made her heart race and her nipples harden. To hide both, she jerked her hands off the dash and crossed her arms over her chest.
    For the next few miles, neither one spoke. It was hard to speak when your