Last First Kiss (21 page)

“Annie.”

She closed her eyes, hearing Sawyer’s deep voice behind her. Grandma knew he was there? Maverick knew and hadn’t so much as wagged a tail.

She was tricked into confessing her love for Sawyer, and worse, she’d told his grandma, not him.

“I do. Okay.” She threw up her hands. “I love you, Sawyer. There. I said it. Happy?”

“No. I’m not happy,” he said quietly. “Because you are leaving.”

She cried now, in public, on the steps in front of his crazy grandma. “You are the best man I’ve ever known. Will ever know. You fix all my broken pieces, and what you put back together feels better than the way things were before. Stronger. Sturdier. A little worn, but hey, that’s the fashion. You . . . you repurpose me.”

“But you want to move to the city, start again.”

“Because I’m afraid—afraid of staying here, and having the town hate me. Never being welcome because of my last name. Imagine family reunions, picnics, everyone ostracizing me, and worse, Atticus. I can’t do that to a sensitive little boy.”

“But this is your home,” he said softly.

“No, you are my home,” she answered, wiping her eyes. “But I love you too much to ask you to sign on to something that’s going to be too hard.”

“See, what did I say?” Grandma Kane sounded smug. I’ve always known Carsons are damn fools. This land is for working people, and that’s what love is—it’s hard work.”

Annie whirled around. “I want to make him happy, more than anything, but the family, the feud . . .”

Grandma regarded her steadily. “This town listens to me. If I say we are accepting the kooky Carsons, it’s as good as done.”

“You . . . you’d do that?”

“If you don’t sell the land.”

“That’s the deal. You want my farm? And in return you’ll give me Sawyer and peace.”

“Grandma—” Sawyer stepped forward. “That’s not okay.”

“What?” the old woman snapped. “Why does everyone suspect me of dealing so dirty?”

“Because you are The Don of Brightwater,” Annie answered testily. “Besides, you were my blogging stalker.”

“What?” Sawyer looked between them.

“I wanted to test your mettle,” Grandma said unapologetically. “See what you were made of.”

“You wanted to get to know me? You could have invited me over for a cup of coffee.”

“So what say you? Don’t sell the farm and you get Sawyer and my blessing.”

“What about me? I’m standing right here,” Sawyer said tightly.

“I’m handling this, boy,” Grandma snapped.

“He’s not a boy.” Annie stepped forward. “He’s a man. He’s my man. And I don’t need your permission to be with him.” Here she was, staring down the heart of the matter, and all she could see was Sawyer. The rest was details. “If you want to set the whole Kane family on me, I’ll take it. I was wrong to care about all that. And as for Atticus, what he really needs more than anything in his life is love. And he’ll see that, between me and Sawyer. Real love. I’ve been scared of all the wrong things.”

A hand gripped her arm and she turned, staring into Sawyer’s face, his expression tight with restrained emotion. “Are you saying—”

“Ruby doesn’t get to win,” she whispered, placing a hand on his cheek. “Not on Five Diamonds or continuing to harass you. Quincy Bankcroft offered me a position as editor in chief of the
Brightwater Bugle
, and I’ll accept it. We’re going to complement it with online lifestyle stories. A good idea, seeing as most everyone and their grandma out here uses a computer.”

Grandma Kane at least had the good sense to look abashed.

Sawyer cupped her chin in his hands. “You mean it.” His eyes shown. “You will stay in Brightwater? Give us a shot?”

“There’s no shot.” Annie covered his hands with hers. “I’m an all-in kind of girl, remember? I don’t wade. I jump.”

He kissed her hard then and it felt like falling, and strangely enough, falling felt exactly like flying.

Grandma laughed. “Go on then, get.”

“What’s so funny?” Sawyer asked.

Grandma chortled. “You two.”

“You act like everything is going to your wishes,” Annie said.

“Because it is,” she responded haughtily.

Annie shook her head. “I’m not giving you Five Diamonds.”

“Maybe not me, but you forget, I care about family, not soldiers. You marry Sawyer and you become a Kane. Then the Kanes get Five Diamonds no matter what,” she said with a cackle.

“Grandma,” Sawyer said, warning in his voice.

“I’ve got this handled.” Annie released Sawyer and walked toward the old woman, still snickering at her cleverness.

Annie froze at the bottom step. “You’re right. What I have will be Sawyer’s, but you forget, what is Sawyer’s will also be mine.” She looked around at Hidden Rock Ranch. “Home sweet home. I’ve always liked this place.”

The laughter dried in Grandma’s throat. “Now you see here, missy.”

Sawyer started laughing. “She’s got you there, Grandma. And little grandbabies will be running around someday with both our blood. Who knows, maybe they’ll inherit everything.”

Annie walked back toward him. “I always have wanted more children. And I have the perfect name for our first one. Carson. Little Carson Kane.”

“At least I’ve got other grandsons. I’ll get them fixed up right.” Grandma walked back toward the house shaking her head.

Sawyer smiled at her, and the joke swelled her heart, because as she said it she knew this was real. She’d have more children with him, build a life. And this time when they both started laughing, it was real, and it was good. So very good.

“I need to call my dad and tell him I’m refusing the offer. He’s going to freak out, but I don’t know what to do,” she said, taking his hand.

He gave her a reassuring squeeze. “I can come live at Five Diamonds.”

“But you have your cabin. You love it. I love it too.” She looked out at the mountains. “I have to believe again.”

“In what?”

“Magic. Let’s go back to the farm. I’m going to call my sister. She’ll help me break the news.”

A
S
A
NNIE
PUT
down the phone, Sawyer frowned, unable to read her face. “What’s happened?”

“A miracle,” Annie whispered. “My sister, Claire, is going to buy Five Diamonds from Dad—offer enough so he can get his place in Mexico.”

His stomach twisted even as his chest swelled. “Come again?”

“She said after she was here that she reconsidered her priorities. Once she heard I wanted to stay in Brightwater, she said we could still make our plan work, the one where we are neighbors.”

“But her job in San Francisco . . . ”

“She’ll keep doing it for now. But she’ll come out every chance she gets. She wants to remodel the main house and get to work hiring a contractor. I can live here for now with Atticus, and then soon . . . ”

He liked how she flushed. “Yeah. I want my home to be yours too.”

“I like the sound of that.”

He enfolded her in his arms and breathed deep. “Annie Girl.”

“So we are doing this, me and you, for real?”

He kissed her slow. “Forever.”

Epilogue

A
TTICUS THREW A
stick for Maverick and the dog ran long, leaping to catch it in his mouth.

“Score!” Atticus threw his hands up in victory before chasing after him. He had been allowed to select a puppy from the litter before the rest were adopted into neighborhood homes, and he’d chose the runt, naming it Orion after the first constellation Sawyer taught him.

Maverick turned and tackled Atticus, licking him from chin to forehead. Annie froze, heart in her mouth, but her son only shrieked with laughter, hooking his arms around the big dog with glee. Orion yipped and jumped on Atticus’s stomach.

The sun dropped behind Mount Oh-Be-Joyful and the peak reflected the fire that grew in Annie’s heart, the warm crackle of a hearth. She realized she hummed under her breath.

Sawyer left the telescope he’d set up, walked over, helping her to her feet. He led her in a few dance steps while she kept up the tune.

“You bet I could never get you to dance.” She curved her mouth into a coy smile. “Looks like you owe me.”

“This is true.” He grinned in that easy way that made her melt. “Name your price.”

She tapped her chin. “I demand a kiss, Sheriff.”

“Guess I better pay up.” Sawyer stepped back and pulled her to the quilt.

“Mmmm, good idea.” She snuggled against his broad chest, craving the body heat radiating through his flannel button-down. “Don’t want you getting in trouble with the law.”

“Yeah, better not mess with those guys.”

“Well,” she whispered against his ear. “I’d kind of sort of planned to mess with one of them.”

“Got to say”—he leaned close and traced his index finger under her chin, brushing the sensitive skin beneath her jaw—“it’s not a chore being in your debt.” His kiss tasted of warm apples and cinnamon sugar with enough spice to send her bare toes curling into the dewy grass.

“Don’t you think it’s kind of funny?” She held him as tight as he held her. “To think all this time my happy ending was waiting here, at home, with you?”

He shook his head. “Our story isn’t going to end, Annie Girl. When those mountains out there become nothing but empty spaces, and this world stops spinning, it won’t matter, because we’ll be somewhere else, somewhere better, forever burning bright.”

Right on the horizon, where night and day met, a shooting star blazed, the glittering trail of dust illuminating the dark. “You make me believe in magic again,” she said.

“I believe in us.” Sawyer’s steadfast gaze held infinite promise.

Keep reading for a sneak peek of Lia Riley’s next fantastic

Brightwater novel

RIGHT WRONG GUY

Sometimes two wrongs can make a right. . .

Bad-boy wrangler Archer Kane lives fast and loose. Words like “responsibility” and “commitment” send him running in the opposite direction—until a wild Vegas weekend puts him on a collision course with Eden Bankcroft-Kew, a New York heiress running away from her blackmailing fiancé . . . on the morning of their wedding.

Eden has never understood the big attraction of cowboys. Give her a guy in a tailored suit any day of the week. That is, until all she can think about is Mr. Rugged Handsome, six feet of sinfully sexy country charm with a pair of green eyes that keep her tossing and turning.

Archer might be the wrong guy for a woman like her, but she’s also wrong to think he’ll walk away without fighting for her heart. And maybe, just maybe, two wrongs can make a right.

Available August 2015

An Excerpt from

RIGHT WRONG GUY

A
RCHER
K
ANE
PLUC
KED
a dangly gold nipple tassel off his cheek and sat in the king-sized bed, scrubbing his face. The trick lay in not disturbing the two women snoring on either side of him. Overturned furniture, empty shot glasses and champagne flutes littered the hotel room while a red thong dangled from the flat screen. He inched his fingers to grab the Stetson resting atop the tangled comforter. Vegas trips were about fillies and fun--mission accomplished.

Right?

“What the—” A dove dive-bombed him, swooped to his left, and perched on the room service cart to peck at a peanut from what appeared to be the remnants of a large hot fudge sundae. Who knew how a bird got in here, but at least the ice cream explained why his chest hair was sticky, and farther below, chocolate-covered fingerprints framed his six-pack. Just to be on the safe side, he tugged the sheet lower for a status check. Looked like he’d had one helluva night. Too bad he couldn’t remember a damn thing. He should be high-fiving himself, but instead, he just felt dog-tired. This Vegas trip hadn’t been like the others and waking in strange women’s hotel rooms didn’t hold the same old thrill.

He emerged from beneath the covers and crawled to the bottom of the bed, head pounding like a bass drum. As he stood, the prior evening returned in splintered fragments. Blondie, on the right, cuddling his empty pillow, was Crystal Balls aka The Stripping Magician. The marquee from her show advertised, “She has nothing up her sleeve.” Dark-hair on the left had been the assistant . . .
Destiny? Dallas? Daisy?

Something with a D.

How in Houdini they’d all ended up in bed together was where the facts got fuzzy.

A feather-trimmed sequined gown crumpled by the mini bar and an old man ventriloquist’s dummy appeared to track his furtive movements from the corner. Archer stepped over a shattered champagne bottle and crept toward the bathroom. Next mission? A thorough shower followed by the strongest coffee on the strip.

Coffee. Yes. Soon. Plus a short stack of buttermilk pancakes, a Denver omelet and enough bacon to require the sacrifice of a dozen hogs. Starving didn’t come close to describing the hollow feeling in his gut, as if he’d run a sub-four-hour marathon, scaled Everest and then wrestled a two-ton longhorn. His reflection stared back from the bathroom mirror, circles under his green eyes and thick morning scruff. For the last year a discontented funk had risen within him. How many times had he insisted he was too young to be tied down to a serious committed relationship, job . . . or anything? Well, at twenty-seven he might not be geriatric, but he was getting too old for this bed-hopping shit.

“What the hell are you doing?” he muttered to himself.

Mr. Brightwater wasn’t looking his best. His cousin, Kit, had given him that nickname after he’d graced the cover of a “Boys of Brightwater” town calendar last year to support the local Lions Club. He’d been February and posed holding a red cardboard heart over his johnson to avoid an X-rating, although, as his big brother Sawyer had dryly noted, “Not like most women around here haven’t already seen it.”

In fairness, Brightwater, California, didn’t host a large population. For a healthy man who liked the ladies, it didn’t take long to make the rounds at
The Dirty Shame
, the local watering hole. Trips to Vegas meant variety, a chance to spice things up. Although a threesome with Crystal and Diamond—
Deborah? Deena? Dazzle?
—was akin to swallowing a whole habanero.

He reached into the shower and flicked on the tap as a warm furry body hopped across his foot. “Shit!” He vaulted back, nearly going ass over teakettle, before bracing himself on the counter. A bewildered white rabbit peered up, nose twitching.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He peered into the steam with increased suspicion. Hopefully, Crystal’s act didn’t also involve a baby crocodile or, worse, a boa constrictor. He hated snakes.

The coast was clear so he stepped inside, the hot water sending him halfway to human. There was a tiny bottle of hotel shampoo perched in the soap dish and he gave it a dubious sniff. It smelled like flowers but would do the job of rinsing away stale perfume and sex. He worked a dollop through his thick hair, shoulder muscles relaxing.

He’d always prided himself in being the kind of good-time guy who held no regrets, but lately it seemed like there was a difference between dwelling on past mistakes, and reflecting in order to avoid future ones. Did he really want to live out these shallow morning-after scenarios forever like some warped version of Groundhog Day?

The hair on the back of his neck tingled with the unmistakable sensation of being watched. He swiped suds from his eyes and turned, nearly nose to nose with the blank stare of the old man ventriloquist’s dummy.

“Fuck,” he barked, any better word lost in the shock.

“Great Uncle Sam don’t like it when menfolk cuss,” the dummy responded in a deep, Southern drawl. Other than the puppet on her hand, Dixie-Dorothy-Darby wore nothing but a suggestive smile.

“Uh . . . morning.” He plastered on his trademark grin. Time to charm his way out of here.

“No one’s ever made me come so hard.” The puppet’s mustache bobbed as he spoke, and more of last night’s drunken jigsaw snapped into place. Desdemona-Diana-Doris had gone on (and on) about her dream to become a professional ventriloquist. She’d brought out the puppet and made Old Uncle Sam dirty talk, which had been hilarious after Tequila Slammers, Snake Bites, Buttery Nipples, and 5 Deadly Venoms, plus a few bottles of champagne.

It was a whole lot less funny now.

“Hey, D, you mind giving me a sec? I’m going to finish off here.” When in doubt, refer to a woman by their first initial. Made you look affectionate instead of like an asshole.

“D?” rumbled Great Uncle Sam.

Damn. Apparently an initial wasn’t going to cut it.

Okay think . . . Dinah? No.
Two rocks glinted from her lobes—a possible namesake. “Diamond?”

Great Uncle Sam slowly shook his head. Maybe it was Archer’s imagination, but the painted eyes narrowed fractionally. “Stormy.”

And so was her expression.

Shit, not even close.

“Stormy?” he repeated blankly. “Yeah, Stormy, of course. Beautiful name, makes me think of rain and . . . and . . . rainbows . . . and . . . ”

“You called it out enough last night, the least you could do is be a gentleman and remember it in the morning!” Great Uncle Sam head-butted him. Terrific, add splitting headache to his current list of troubles.

Archer scrambled from the shower before he got his bare ass taken down by a puppet. You didn’t fight back against a woman, even if they were trying to bash your brain in with Pinocchio’s deranged elderly uncle.

“Get the hell out,” Stormy said in her own voice, which sounded a lot more Jersey Shore than gentile Georgian peach farmer. She wasn’t half bad at the whole ventriloquist gig, but now wasn’t the time to offer compliments.

He threw on his Levis commando style while Stormy eyed his package, ready to go full-scale hurricane on his junk. Scooping his red Western shirt off the floor, he made a break for the bedroom. His boots were by the door but his hat was still on the bed, specifically, on Crystal’s head. Her sleepy expression gave way to confusion as Stormy sprang from the bathroom, Great Uncle Sam leading the charge.

“What’s going on?” Crystal said just as Stormy bellowed, “I’m going to kick your ass back into whatever cowpoke hole you crawled from.”

Hat? Boots? Hat or boots?
Archer only had time to grab one. He slung his arms through the shirt, not bothering to snap the pearl clasps, and grabbed the hand-tooled boots while hurtling into the hall. Yeah, definitely getting too old for this shit.

“Lovely meeting you fine ladies,” he called over one shoulder as the dove swooped.

He bypassed the elevator bay in favor of the stairwell. Once he’d descended three floors, he paused to tug on his boots and his phone rang. Pulling it out from his back pocket, he groaned at the screen. Grandma Kane.

He could let it go to voice mail. In fact, he was tempted to do just that, but the thing about Grandma was she called back until you picked up.

With a heavy sigh, and a prayer for two Tylenol tablets, he hit answer. “How’s my favorite grandma in the world?” he boomed, propping the phone between his ear and shoulder and snapping together his shirt.

“Quit with your smooth talk, boy,” Grandma snapped. “Where are you?”

“Just leaving church,” he lied smoothly.

“Better not be the Little Chapel of Love.”

“What do you—”

“Don’t feed me bullhickey. You’re in Vegas again.”

Sawyer must have squeaked. As Brightwater sheriff, he was into upright citizenship and moral standing, nobler than George Washington and his fucking cherry tree.

“Did you forget our plans this weekend?”

“Plans?” He wracked his brain but thinking hurt. So did walking down these stairs. Come to think of it, so did breathing. He needed that coffee and bacon in a hurry.

Grandma made a rude noise. “To go over the accounts for Hidden Rock. You promised to set up the new purchase order software on the computer.”

Shit. His shoulders slumped. He had offered to help. Grandma ran a large, profitable cattle ranch, but the Hidden Rock’s inventory management was archaic, and the accounting practically done by abacus. In his hurry to see if an impromptu Vegas roadtrip could overcome his funk, the meeting had slipped his mind. “Let me make it up to you—”

“Your charm has no currency here, boy.” Grandpa Kane had died before Archer was born and Grandma had never remarried. Perhaps he should introduce her to Stormy’s Great Uncle Sam. Those two were a match made in heaven. They could spend their spare time busting his balls.

He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead. “Guess I forgot.”

“Funny—guess you’re too busy using women like disposable silverware.” Grandma’s tone sounded anything but amused. “Even more funny will be when I forget to put you in my will.”

Grandma’s favorite threat was disinheriting him. Who cared? The guy voted “Biggest Partier” and “Class Flirt” his senior year at Brightwater High was also the least likely to run Hidden Rock Ranch.

The line went dead. At least she didn’t ask why he couldn’t be more like Sawyer anymore.

Whatever. Archer had it good, made great tips as a wrangler at a dude ranch. His middle brother took life seriously enough and he hadn’t seen his oldest one in years. Wilder worked as a smoke jumper in Montana. Sometimes Archer wondered what would happen if he cruised to Big Sky Country and paid him a surprise visit--maybe he had multiple sister wives or was a secret war lord.

Growing up, after their parents died in a freak house fire, they all slipped into roles. Wilder withdrew, brooding and angry, Sawyer became Mr. Nice Guy, always the teacher’s pet or offering to do chores. Archer rounded things out by going for laughs, practical jokes and causing trouble because someone had to remind everyone else not to take life so seriously. None of them were getting out alive.

Archer kept going down the flights of stairs, tucking in his shirt. Grandma’s words played on a loop in his mind. “Using women like disposable silverware.”

A good time was all he wanted. And Lord knew, those women used him right back.

It was fun, didn’t mean anything.

Meaningless.
He ground his jaw so tight his teeth hurt. Casual sex on pool tables, washing machines, countertops, and lawn chairs filled his physical needs, but these random hook ups were starting to make him feel more and more alone.

On the ground floor, he pushed open the door with extra force. There were two corridors. He turned left for no reason other than that was the hand he favored. Seemed as if he chose wisely because a side entrance was just ahead. He walked outside, wincing at the morning sun even as he took a gulp of fresh air. Well, fresh for the Vegas Strip, but a far cry from the Eastern Sierra’s clean mountain breeze. His heart stirred. He’d have his breakfast and get on the road. As much as he liked leaving Brightwater, he always missed home.

Archer reached to adjust his hat and grabbed a handful of wet hair instead. Twelve stories above, a stripping magician had found herself a mighty fine Stetson. Everyone wanted him to take more responsibility, but someone had to have the fun.

He stepped onto the street, jumping back onto the curb when a city bus turned, the side covered by a shoe ad poster and the slogan, “Can You Run Forever?”

Sure. Hell, he’d been running from accountability, stability, and boring routines his whole life.

Another thought crept in and sank its roots deep. Was he running from those things, or letting his fears of commitment and responsibility run him instead?