Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? Read Free Page A

tinge the lights cast on her skin, she still looked much calmer than she felt. Her light-brown hair remained secure in its sophisticated knot. Only her hazel-green eyes held a hint of apprehension.
    What on earth was she doing? When she’d fallen into the arms of the tall, drawling cowboy in the bar of her Las Vegas hotel, she’d never imagined that six months later she’d be on a plane heading towards his ranch in Oregon.
    Lauren washed her hands with the sliver of airline soap and inhaled the citrus fragrance. She closed her eyes and recalled the breathless moment when she had landed in Grayson Turner’s lap. The scent of his aftershave, even when combined with the smell of the beer she accidentally tossed over him, had intoxicated her. He had held her like a precious object; his touch was at once familiar and so reassuring that she’d felt completely safe.
    Lauren winced as the soap slipped through her fingers.
    Their marriage in a tacky wedding chapel decorated with white plastic flowers, flooded with piped music and officiated over by a pastor dressed in drag still seemed surreal. But she’d kissed Grayson and promised to love him forever. That was all too real.
    Lauren’s eyes snapped open. After six months of furtive emails, she’d agreed to meet him. She wanted a divorce but Grayson obviously wasn’t prepared to go without a fight. Wearily she wondered if he’d found out her family had money. Her father always maintained that everyone had a price.
    Lauren propped open her old leather purse and withdrew the file of printed emails. Grayson’s instructions were simple. She was to meet him at the airport and he’d take her back to his ranch for the weekend. Lauren swallowed hard. A weekend in which she’d promised to allow him to convince her to remain married.
    She pictured Grayson Turner. Six foot two in his bare feet, short black hair, faded-blue-jean-coloured eyes. A 35-year-old graduate of agricultural college and a rancher by trade. He was a formidable sight to a five-foot six-inch female even if she did run her own business.
    And he wanted her badly. His emails made that clear. So clear that Lauren stopped reading them at work and kept them to drool over in the quiet of her big lonely bed.
    A cabin assistant knocked on the door and reminded Lauren they were about to land. She made her way back to her seat and gathered her belongings. She hadn’t brought much with her, only an overnight bag.
    Her throat tightened and she fingered the long strand of pearls around her neck. Her pale-pink blouse and short black A-line skirt had withstood the journey well. Both came from a garage sale and had been made fifty years ago. Would she stand out as a city girl amongst the more rural citizens of Oregon or would her retro-look make her the height of fashion? Lauren suppressed a choke of laughter. Would Grayson even recognise her after six months apart?
    She fastened her seat belt and tried to relax as the plane bumped down onto the runway. Still unable to stop thinking of the man who’d made her break all her rules, she lingered until the other passengers disembarked. Momentarily blinded by the bright glare of the Friday afternoon sunlight, she stepped onto the busy concourse.
    At the rear of the arrival hall, Grayson Turner leant against a wall, his brown Stetson tipped slightly forwards, concealing his expression and his vivid eyes. He wore blue jeans and a rust-coloured shirt, his jacket hung over his shoulder. After a deep breath, Lauren took a firm grip on her bag and walked across to him. In his tan cowboy boots he seemed at least seven-foot tall. She had to crane her neck to see him properly.
    He straightened up. ‘You came then.’ To her dismay, he sounded almost disappointed.
    ‘I said I would.’ Lauren kept her answer short. She’d learnt the benefits of brevity at her father’s knee in a male-orientated business world, which expected females to gush. At 29 she considered herself a fitting adversary