Catch Me a Cowboy


By Katie Lane

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Shirlene Dalton has it all: a dream marriage to a man who spoils her rotten and the most outrageous mansion Bramble, Texas, has ever seen. But when her husband unexpectedly dies, Shirlene finds herself right back where she started-in a rundown trailer on the wrong side of the tracks. Never the type to let a little bad luck and a whole heap of heartache get her down, Shirlene is ready to prove to the local gossips she can make it on her own . . . until she ends up living next door to the most tempting cowboy in town.

Billy Wilkes has a score to settle and a plan to wipe Bramble right off the map. But when his sexy, redheaded neighbor figures out what he’s up to, his good ol’ boy charm won’t be enough to save him. With the town on his tail, Billy will have to come clean quick-or kiss Shirlene goodbye.


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Table of Contents

A Preview of Going Cowboy Crazy

A Preview of Make Mine a Bad Boy

Copyright Page

Chapter One

WHOEVER CAME UP WITH THE SAYING, "You can never go home again" was loonier than a snakebit coyote. You can go home. You just shouldn't.


This became crystal clear to Shirlene Grace Dalton as she stared out of the windshield of her Navigator at the beat-up trailer she'd been born and raised in. Not that her mama had done much raising. Abby Lomax preferred raising a bottle to raising her two children. And even though her mama had been dry for over eleven years, it was hard to hang on to forgiveness when memories swept through Shirlene's mind like the west Texas wind buffeting her childhood home.

But Shirlene had never been one to live in the past—a philosophy that had gotten her through the trials and tribulations of the last year. She believed in living in the present. And at the present moment, she needed a place to sleep for the night.

"Just what kind of a low-down ornery scoundrel would evict a poor widow from her home without one word of warnin'?" she grumbled.

At the snuffled snort, she glanced over at the pig who sat next to her in the front bucket seat. The beady eyes over the soft pink snout held not one ounce of sympathy. In fact, they looked almost reproachful.

"Okay, so maybe there had been a few words of warnin'," Shirlene conceded. She reached down and grabbed her Hermès Birkin handbag off the floor and scrounged around until she found the Snickers candy bar. Since she had gained a few pounds over the last nine months, she probably shouldn't. But willpower had never been one of her strong suits.

"But for the love of Pete, how can that new bank owner expect me to know about managing money when Lyle," she glanced up, "God rest his soul, took care of all the financial details? I never had to worry about late fees and overdraft charges… and eviction notices." Her green eyes narrowed as she peeled off the candy wrapper and took a big bite. "Eviction. Even the word sounds like it comes straight from Satan himself."

A high-pitched squeal resounded through the interior of the Navigator, and Shirlene pinched off a piece of candy bar and held it out to the pig, who exuberantly attacked the chocolate as if he hadn't just downed two of Josephine's bean burritos and a bag of extra-crispy Tater Tots. Being the other white meat, Sherman was a devout vegetarian.

"You realize, don't you, that Colt and Hope would skin me alive if they found out what I've been feeding you, especially after the fiasco with the margaritas." She shook her head. "As if I were responsible for you helping yourself, or for the drunken rampage you went on afterwards. Considering it took two days for you to sober up, I'm surprised they allowed me to watch you while they're in California."

At the thought of her brother, Shirlene took another bite of chocolate. If she thought Colt would be unhappy about her feeding Hope's pig Tater Tots and candy, it would be nothing compared to how upset he would be when he found out she had blown through the money her late husband had left her like a tornado through the panhandle. Especially after she had insisted she could handle her finances all by herself. She just hadn't realized how bad her compulsive spending had become, and her depression over Lyle's death had only made it worse. But shopping trips to Austin and Dallas hadn't made her feel any better. All they had done was fill her home with a bunch of pretty but useless things—things she couldn't even get into her sprawling estate to see.

Which explained what she was doing back on Grover Road.

Her old trailer was the only place in Bramble, Texas where she could spend the night without the nosy townsfolk finding out and tattling to her brother. And one night was all she needed. First thing in the morning, she was going to pay a little visit to the new bank president and set him straight. By nightfall, she would be right back where she belonged—in a big mansion with a pitcher of margaritas.

But until then…

She opened the door and stepped out. A blast of ninety-degree wind slapped her in the face, and she teetered on her four-inch Manolo Blahniks before she grabbed onto the side mirror and caught her balance. Pushing the thick strands of blond hair out of her face, she staggered around the front of the SUV to let Sherman out. The pig didn't like being out in the wind any more than she did. He took his time climbing down, then huddled against her legs as she walked around the piles of rusted junk.

A few feet from the front door, the Navigator lights clicked off, leaving her and Sherman in thick darkness. Shirlene had never much cared for the dark—or the eerie sound of tree branches creaking in the wind.

She glanced around at the sinister shadows. "This night isn't fit for man nor beast." Sherman grunted his agreement as they climbed up the sloping front steps that looked as if they were seconds away from becoming nothing more than kindling.

Wanting out of the ferocious wind as quickly as possible, Shirlene reached for the battered doorknob. It took numerous twists and a couple of stunned seconds before she realized it was locked. And no one locked their doors in Bramble except the librarian, Ms. Murphy, and only because she lived next door to Elmer Tate, who had trouble remembering where his house was after seven or more shots of Jack Daniel's. Of course, no one had been out to the trailer in years so maybe Lyle had locked it against looters.

The thought made Shirlene smile. Her late husband had been so sure she would want to hang on to her childhood home. So sure that one day the bad memories would be replaced with good ones.

Pushing down the sadness that threatened, Shirlene searched for the key that Lyle had given her on their first anniversary—along with a diamond and ruby bracelet. At the time, the jewelry had been much more appreciated. But now, with the darkness and wind pressing against her, she took the time to be grateful for the gift.

"Thank you, honey," she whispered up at the moonless sky. "You always did know what I needed, even before I needed it."

She unlocked the door, but it still refused to open—almost as if something held it from the inside. Leaning her five-foot-ten-inch frame against the cheap plywood, Shirlene shoved. The door cracked open just wide enough to see a figure in white float past before it slammed shut.

The keys slipped from Shirlene's fingers and clunked on the steps, followed by her purse, as a chill tiptoed down her spine. Frozen in place, she stared at the door with its fist-sized imprint put there by Colt during his belligerent teenage years and tried to figure out what she'd seen. Or what she thought she'd seen.

If she'd had her nightly margaritas, she could've blamed it on Jose Cuervo. But since being evicted from her home, the only thing swirling around in her stomach was Josephine's chicken fried steak—something that could give you indigestion but not hallucinations. Which meant one of two things: Someone had moved into the trailer without her knowing it… or her childhood home was haunted. And since very few things happened in Bramble without Shirlene hearing about it, she was leaning toward the latter.

Her heart started to thump like the Bramble High drum corps. There might not be a person on the face of God's green earth that she feared, but the macabre was a different matter. Be it ghosts, demons, or the boogie man, the thought of something she couldn't flirt into submission scared the bejesus out of her. But before she could retrieve her purse and keys and get the hell out of there, Sherman lost patience with the weather and his chicken-livered pig-sitter. With a frustrated grunt, he lowered his head and plowed into the door.

Plywood splintered as the door flew open. With a triumphant toss of his head, Sherman trotted in. Shirlene, on the other hand, moved a tad bit slower. The room was dark but familiar. For a second, she could almost smell her mother's Avon perfume and cigarettes.

She reached for the switch on the wall and released a sigh of relief when the eye-squinting overhead light came on. The living room was smaller than she remembered, especially with the fold-out couch opened up, the couch with the same paper-thin mattress Colt had slept on every night. In fact, with the rumpled sheets and blankets, it looked as if her brother had just climbed out of it.

"Hello?" she said, hopeful that a living, breathing human being would step out of one of the two bedrooms and cordially explain their presence in her trailer.

Sherman had no such illusions. Hopping up on the low mattress, he proceeded to root around in the blankets until he'd made himself a comfortable nest. With one exasperated look from those beady eyes, he flopped down.

"Oh, no," Shirlene whispered. "I'm not staying here after—"

The wind whistled in through an open window, fluttering the dingy sheet that served as a curtain and slamming the door closed. At the loud bang, Shirlene almost peed her designer jeans. But it only took a second for the proof of her foolishness to have her chuckling with relief.

"Silly goose," she breathed. "It was just the wind." She walked over and pushed her phantom ghostly sheet aside as she slammed the window closed. When she glanced over at Sherman, it almost looked as if he rolled his little piggy eyes. "Okay, so I'm getting as nutty as the Widow Jones," she said, as she walked back and opened the door so she could collect her purse and keys. "Pretty soon I'll own twenty-five cats and wear my bathrobe and slippers to Sunday services. But I'll still be the only one who feeds you chocolate and tequila, so I wouldn't be acting too snooty if I was you."

The pig snuffled, then dropped his head down to the blankets and closed his eyes. Shirlene didn't usually go to sleep until well after Letterman. But with no television in sight, she resigned herself to an early night.

As she closed the door, she glanced down at the worn carpeting to find the Barbie doll Colt had given her on her sixth birthday. Picking it up, she stared at the wild blond hair and naked body—the type of body she had dreamed of possessing. But the dream of perky breasts and skinny hips died at thirteen when Shirlene started to develop more curves than an Indy raceway.

Carrying the doll with her, she flipped out the lights, slipped off her high heels, and climbed onto the fold-out couch. No doubt there was still a mattress in each of the bedrooms, but after her fright, she had no desire to sleep alone. Even if it meant she had to share a bed with a hog.

"Scoot over, Piglet." She gave him a shove, and he gave her a mere two inches more before snuffling back to sleep. Rolling to her back, she stared up at the ceiling while she stroked Barbie's short, uneven hair. For the life of her, she couldn't remember cutting the doll's hair. Just one more piece of her childhood she'd chosen to forget.

The night was hot and dry and the mattress so thin that the metal frame pressed into her back. How Colt had managed to sleep on it was beyond her. Her brother had sacrificed so much growing up so she would have what other kids had—like her own room. Which was why she wasn't about to let him sacrifice any more. Not when he had a new wife and baby girl to worry about. No, this time, Shirlene would fix her own mess. Come hell or high water—or nasty bank owners.

Despite the bad mattress, it didn't take her long to fall asleep. It wasn't surprising that she dreamed of Grover Road.

She was nine years old again and playing in the broken-down Chevy in the front yard. The day was hot and, even with the windows open, sweat glued her bright copper hair to her temples and to the back of her neck. Regardless of the heat, she refused to climb out of the rusty car. There were too many places she wanted to travel to, too many things she wanted to see. It would've been much more fun if Hope and Colt had been traveling with her. But Hope had moved into town, and Colt spent most of his days at Tinker Jones's garage. So Shirlene was all alone, except for her mama, who was passed out cold on her bed inside the trailer.

Of course, that was the one nice thing about Grover Road—you were never alone for long. A man suddenly appeared in front of the hood ornament of the old Chevy, a man with a friendly smile and eyes as green as Shirlene's. She wasn't surprised to see her daddy. Even though he'd died in a car accident when she was a baby, she dreamed of him often. He walked around to the open window and reached in to smooth back her hair. At first, his fingers were cool and soothing. But, as with most dreams, when you least expect it, things could take a turn for the worst. Suddenly, he wasn't stroking her hair as much as strangling her neck. As his fingers tightened and she fought for breath, his face turned from her daddy's into her husband's—not the living Lyle, but the dead Lyle. Eyes that were deep holes of nothingness stared out of a lifeless face.

Shirlene woke with a start. Pre-dawn filled the room with grayish light. It sounded like the wind had died down, although it was hard to tell over the wild thumping of her heart and her heavy breathing. The nightmare slowly receded from her mind. But what she couldn't seem to shake was the feeling of icy fingers on her neck. It only took a subtle tightening for Shirlene to realize that the icy fingers were no longer part of a dream.

"Mine," a deep voice growled in her ear.

Releasing an ear-splitting scream, Shirlene jumped from the bed and headed for the door. When her hand closed around the doorknob, she quickly glanced back to see how closely the strangler followed. The room was empty except for a startled pig that looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Maybe she had. But whether it was a figment of her imagination or not, she'd had enough of Grover Road. Without waiting for Sherman, she threw open the door, only to come face to face with an image straight out of a horror movie.

But it wasn't the hockey mask that held her attention as much as the chainsaw. And having watched the The Texas Chainsaw Massacre at least a dozen times, Shirlene knew exactly what happened to the pretty blonde. Luckily, Sherman had no intention of being carved into ham hocks, and with a high-pitched squeal, he sailed off the mattress and charged the door. The short psycho killer stepped back long enough for pig and blonde to hightail it out.

They took the front steps in one leap, Sherman landing on all fours and Shirlene going down to one knee. But she got up quickly enough when the chainsaw cranked to life. Since her keys were still in the trailer, she bypassed her SUV and headed for the hole in the shrubs that separated her lot from her neighbor's. If she had been thinking clearly, she would've run to a trailer that was occupied, but her brain had flown right out of her head the minute the ghostly cold hands had closed around her throat. Add a chainsaw-wielding midget, and her only thought was escape.

Since the trailer next door was vacant at the moment, Shirlene didn't waste any time knocking. She just swung open the screen door and barged right in. She closed the door behind Sherman and fumbled with the lock. While the lock at her trailer worked perfectly, this one didn't work at all. Even locked, the flimsy door would be no match for a chainsaw, something she didn't think about until the front steps creaked and a masked face peered in the kitchen window.

Terrified, Shirlene glanced down at Sherman, who shot her a look that pretty much said every pig for himself before he streaked behind a dilapidated recliner. With no room left behind the chair, Shirlene headed for the back bedroom. Unfortunately, the bedroom door didn't have a lock either, and with her heart pounding in her chest, all she could do was listen and wait.

The chainsaw sputtered to a halt. She didn't know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe the psycho was lulling her into a false sense of security—hoping she'd open the door to peek out so he could decapitate her in one slice. The image of splattered blood and her rolling head was fresh in her mind when someone grabbed her from behind.

Before she could do more than squeak in terror, she was being pulled down. But it wasn't the cold blade of a chainsaw that pressed her into the sagging mattress, but rather a solid chest of warm hard muscles. Shirlene barely had time to suck in a startled breath before a pair of firm lips settled over hers in a deep, tongue-dipping kiss that curled her toes into the sheets and sizzled all thoughts of ghosts and psycho killers right out of her head. Of course, her senses came back quickly enough when the man nibbled his way over to her ear and whispered in a whiskey-soaked voice.

"Now I'm shore not the type of man to look a gift horse in the mouth." A hot palm settled over her breast, and Shirlene sucked in her breath. "Especially a gift that turned out to be more than I expected. But I'm afraid I'm a little too tuckered out from my trip to give you the kind of ride you deserve, Marcy. So if you don't mind showin' yourself out…."

"Marcy?" Shirlene huffed. Suddenly indignation took the place of fear. How could anyone in their right mind confuse her for Marcy Henderson? Marcy had to weigh a good twenty pounds more than Shirlene, with breasts that she was still making payments on.

The lips stilled against her neck, and he pulled back and brushed the hair out of her face. As he stared down at her, his brown eyes appeared to spark with something that actually resembled thought. But it must've been a trick of the early morning light that filtered in through the sheet over the window. Because when she looked again, all she saw was a whole lot of nothing.


Chapter Two

IF SOMEONE HAD TOLD Shirlene that one day she would find herself in bed with Bubba Wilkes, the biggest redneck to ever come out of east Texas, she would've laughed them clean out of town. But she wasn't laughing now, especially when the country hick dipped his lips for another taste. Without fear muddling her mind, his skillet-fried kisses turned into lukewarm milk toast. When he finally came up for air, it took a real effort not to wipe off her mouth.

An idiotic smile split his face. "If I had known you had such a hankerin' for me, Ms. Dalton, I'da been back much sooner."

"I think there's been a mistake, honey," she stated with as much civility as she could muster.

"Not in my book, Honey Buns." His gaze drifted down to her breasts, nuzzled against his chest. "And all I'll need is a couple minutes to prove it."

"I hate to decline such a fine offer," she said between gritted teeth, "but the only reason I'm here is because I was being chased by a psychotic killer."

His forehead crinkled before a light went on. As usual it was the wrong light.

"Now there's no need to come up with whoppers like that one, Ms. Dalton. If you wanted a tour of Wilkesville, all you needed to do is ask."

Shirlene rolled her eyes. Good Lord, it had been so long since his last visit, she'd forgotten what an arrogant hillbilly the man was. A hillbilly who had wiggled his way into the hearts of every man, woman, and child in Bramble. Which was the only reason Shirlene didn't knee him in the family nuggets and be done with it—that and the fact that there was a chainsaw-wielding killer on the loose.

She flashed him a dimpled smile. "Yes, well, I'll have to take that tour another time. Right now, I need you to—"

"You sure about that?" he cut her off. "Because some offers only come once in a lifetime."

"I guess that's a chance I'll have to take." She glanced back at the door. "So do you have a gun?" It was a stupid question, considering that most Texans owned a gun—or two.

"Yes, ma'am." He pressed his hips closer. "Would you like to see it?"

She stared back at him in disbelief. "Do you really get women with these lines?"

"What lines?"

Good Gravy, and she thought dealing with a psycho had been tough.

"Look." She patted his cheek in an attempt to knock a little sense in him. "All I need—"

The front door banged open.

And brains or no brains, she clung to Bubba like he was a bathtub in a tornado. But instead of the whine of a chainsaw, Kenny Gene's voice drifted in. Which was almost as terrifying, when she realized one of the biggest gossips in Bramble was about to find her in bed with Bubba Wilkes.

"Hey, Bubba," Kenny Gene yelled. "You in here, buddy?"

Remembering the kind of hell her best friends, Faith and Hope, had been put through at the hands of the crazy, matchmaking townsfolk, Shirlene sent Bubba one look of warning before she dove beneath the covers. Not that the man would know a look of warning, but she really didn't have much choice. Especially when Kenny Gene didn't believe in the sanctity of a closed door.

Throwing it open, he walked right in.

"There you are!" Kenny sounded like he had just found his long-lost hound dog. The floorboards creaked as he stepped into the room. "Rossie Owens said you showed up at Bootlegger's last night. And I was damned sorry I let Twyla talk me in to stayin' home to watch that exterminator show—although watchin' that skinny, weird dude flush out them roaches was pretty fascinatin'."

"Hey, Kenny," Bubba drawled. "How you been?"

"Fair to middlin'. I had a bad case of the runs last week, but I feel fit as a fiddle now. 'Course things in town have been a little scary since Lyle passed away and Dalton Oil changed hands. But that C-Corp seems like a good enough outfit, so people are probably worryin' about losin' their jobs over nothin'—" He stopped in mid-sentence, and Shirlene's breath hitched in her chest.

"Hey, who's that sleepin' next to you? By the size of that bee-hind I'd say it was Ernie Clines. You two plannin' on gettin' an early start on fishin'? You mind me taggin' along?"

A squeak of disbelief slipped out of her mouth, and she clamped a hand over it. First Marcy Henderson and now Ernie Clines. Her butt was not that big. She might have a little junk in the trunk, but it was nothing close to Marcy and Ernie's bubble butts. Still, she made a mental note to cut back on the chocolate.

"You're always more than welcome to come along, Kenny," Bubba replied in his thick drawl. "Except I'm not goin' fishin' with Ernie."

"You ain't? Huntin'?"


There was a long stretch of silence before Kenny spoke. "Then why is Ernie sleepin' over? You ain't one of them fellers that—"

Before Kenny could finish and the smirk even began to settle on Shirlene's face, she was pulled, blanket and all, into Bubba's arms.

His deep voice rumbled against her ear. "As much as I like my fishin' buddies, I prefer my bed partners to be of the female variety." His hand slipped down and patted Shirlene's butt. "Even if those females have a little extra paddin'."

Her humor evaporated as Kenny crowed like a proud papa. "Why, you sly dog, you. In town for less than a day, and you already got yourself a woman—a pretty blonde by the looks of that hair." The floor creaked as he backed out of the room. "Well, I'll just leave you to it then, Bubba." But before Kenny left, he added, "You want me to let Slate know you're here so he can bring by your truck?"

"I'd shore appreciate it," Bubba said.

"Call me if you change your mind about that fishin'."

The front door banged closed, and Shirlene pushed the blanket back and glared at Bubba.

"You can let me go now."

The dark brows over his deep-set eyes lifted. "You shore you haven't changed your mind about Wilkesville?"

"Get. Your. Hand. Off. My. Butt."

A grin tipped up the corners of his wide mouth. "Yes, ma'am," he said, although those warm digits didn't seem to be in any hurry to comply. It took Sherman's earsplitting squeals of pain to get him to release her.

"What the hell?" Bubba sat straight up, almost dumping her to the floor.

In her desire to get Kenny out of the trailer without recognizing her, Shirlene had forgotten all about Sherman—and the psycho killer. Although Kenny had more than likely scared the killer away. Still, she wasn't taking any chances.

"Where's your gun?" she said as she jumped up from the bed. When he continued to sit there with a stunned look on his face, she yelled, "Your gun, Wilkes!"

He rolled to his feet, giving her a glimpse of Wilkesville as he slipped into a pair of Wranglers. If Shirlene hadn't been so worried about Sherman getting carved into Sunday dinner, she might've been impressed by the lean muscled streets and the half-mast flagpole in the center of town. Instead, she didn't even wait for him to cover that fine butt before she hurried out the door.

Fortunately, she didn't find Sherman sliced into a hundred pounds of bacon. But she did find his head caught in the springs of the overturned recliner.

"Oh, Piglet." She hurried over and sat down next to him, trying to soothe him until she could figure out how to get him loose.

"A pig?" Bubba stood in the doorway of the bedroom, wearing nothing but his unbuttoned jeans. Distracted by the lean stomach and defined chest, it took her a moment to notice the revolver he held in one hand.

"I gotta tell you, Ms. Dalton." He rubbed his whiskered jaw. "I like my pork about as much as any man. But I don't much care for shooting defenseless animals." He nodded at the door. "Now if you was to let him loose, it might be a little more sportin'."

"I don't want you to shoot Sherman," she snapped. "I want you to shoot the maniac with the chainsaw who was trying to kill us. Now could you put that thing down and give me a hand?"

Bubba hesitated. "Does it bite?"

She glanced up. "Don't tell me that a good ol' country boy like yourself has never been around a pig before."

"We didn't have pigs," he stated as he set the gun down on the counter in the kitchen right next to a bottle of tequila that Shirlene could've used a few minutes earlier. "We had passive cows. Not some squealing overweight animal."

"Sherman is not overweight," she stated. "He's a perfect weight for his species and height."

Bubba nodded. "Sorta like you, I suppose." He knelt down next to her and brushed her hands away. "Pretty soon you'll have him so tangled up I'll be forced to keep him as a conversation piece."

"What do you mean sort of like me?" She bristled. "Are you comparing me to a pig?"

"No, ma'am," he said, but his smirk said something else entirely.

She wanted to wipe that stupid country grin off his face with her fist. And seeing as she was not a violent person, she wondered where the powerful reaction had come from. The man was nothing to her. In fact, she'd only been in his company a couple of times. But both times she'd gotten the distinct feeling that Bubba Wilkes didn't like her. And maybe that was where her animosity for the man came from—very few people disliked Shirlene and none of them were men.

After taking his good sweet time assessing the situation, Bubba gripped the coils on either side of Sherman's head in his lean hands and, with a simple flex of muscles, set the pig free. Sherman shook his head a few times before he nuzzled against Shirlene and received her sympathy scratches.

Reaching into the springs of the recliner, Bubba pulled out a half-eaten bag of Doritos. "Was this what you were lookin' for, Pig?"

Sherman leaned over and sniffed the bag before very delicately taking it out of Bubba's hand.

"See," Shirlene cooed. "He's as gentle as a lamb." At which point, Sherman proceeded to rip the bag to shreds trying to get to the last of the crumbs.

With a wary look, Bubba sat back on his heels and watched the animal scarf up the cheesy chips. "So is this maniac with a chainsaw the same psychotic killer you were telling me about? Or are they two different fellers?"


  • "Lane gives readers a rip-roaring good time while making what could feel like a farce insightful and real, just like the characters themselves."—Booklist
  • "4 1/2 Stars! [A]n emotional story that will bring the reader to laughter as well as tears and spark a desire to see more of the characters, both new and old, who live here."—RT Book Reviews
  • "Pure Texas joy! You're gonna love it, darlin'."—Joan Johnston, New York Times bestselling author of the Bitter Creek and Hawk's Way series on Going Cowboy Crazy
  • "Sexy, sassy fun!"—Susan Andersen, New York Times bestselling author of Burning Up on Going Cowboy Crazy
  • "Top Pick! Who wouldn't root for a hot cowboy with romantic charm just oozing out of his pores? Ms. Lane makes me want one of her cowboys of my very own! This one's a keeper! Don't miss it!"—
  • "Katie Lane creates handsome cowboys with hearts as big as Texas."—Lori Wilde, New York Times bestselling author of The Welcome Home Garden Club on Going Cowboy Crazy
  • "Sexy Texas cowboys are Katie Lane's gift to her readers."—R.C. Ryan, New York Times bestselling author of Montana Glory on Going Cowboy Crazy
  • "Going Cowboy Crazy is a sparkling debut filled with Texas warmth and humor."—Jane Graves, author of Tall Tales and Wedding Veils on Going Cowboy Crazy

On Sale
Apr 1, 2012
Page Count
384 pages

Katie Lane

About the Author

Katie Lane is a firm believer that love conquers all and laughter is the best medicine. Which is why you’ll find plenty of humor and happily-ever-afters in her contemporary and western contemporary romance novels. A USA Today bestselling author, she has written numerous series, including Deep in the Heart of Texas, Hunk for the Holidays, Overnight Billionaires, Tender Heart Texas, and The Brides of Bliss Texas. Katie lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, and when she’s not writing, she enjoys reading, eating chocolate (dark, please), and snuggling with her high school sweetheart and Cairn Terrior, Roo.

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