Why I Wrote a Contemporary Western Romance by Victoria Chatham

 

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The elements of writing a book can take many forms, but most authors have to do at least some research. For Loving That Cowboy, I had to do a lot. It all started when an editor I'd pitched the idea to at a conference told me I was too English to write a contemporary Western romance. I can't say I was surprised, but I was disappointed. I put the idea aside and concentrated instead on Regency romance. Write what you know, right? I had been immersed in that genre since reading my first Georgette Heyer when I was thirteen years old. I loved the history, the style, and the wit of the Regency era, but that editor's comment still niggled. I had a story, characters, plot, and all the usual stuff. What I didn't have was any knowledge of ranching and rodeos. 

My endlessly patient DDH took me to rodeos, the small out-of-town rodeos where you can be close to the action, as well as the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth - the Calgary Stampede. I took photographs from every angle and talked to whoever I could, from the rodeo clowns and pick-up riders to stock contractors, one of whom invited me to visit his ranch. While I was thrilled, my DDH was less so but came along for the ride anyway. Approaching the ranch, we came across a bull loose in the middle of the road. There was no room to drive around it, so we sat there until it decided to move on. We duly arrived at the ranch house and reported said bull, only to have the rancher's wife ask, "Only the one?" From that, I gathered it was a fairly regular occurrence. 

While there, I was able to see bucking bulls and broncs up close and personal and talk to a couple of Australian bull riders, one of whom showed me how to wrap the rigging, just in case I ever fancied getting on a bull that is. Not a chance. I also needed the skinny on a regular cowboy's working day, and for that, I found Steve. Now, anyone who understands anything about the Western way of life will understand the inherent politeness cowboys have. This one blushed red when I asked if I could take him out for a steak dinner in return for his time, as I had a long list of questions. In the end, we compromised and went for pizza.

While waiting for our orders to be served, Steve started reading my list. Then he started to chuckle, which turned into a belly laugh. The question that amused him so much? What kind of underwear do cowboys wear? When he'd finished laughing and wiped away his tears, he asked why I wanted to know that.

"Look it, Steve," I said. "If my heroine is going to slip her fingers beneath the waistband of his blue jeans, what is she going to connect with? Hot skin or red flannel long johns?"

Turns out, it depends on the time of year and personal preference. And Steve? That's on par with what a Scotsman wears under his kilt. So you can judge for yourselves how I did, here's Chapter 1 of Loving That Cowboy. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One

 

Trisha Watts closed her eyes, muttering a prayer to the gods of the airways for a safe landing. The plane banked and levelled into its flight path. The change in pressure made her ears pop, and even yawning and swallowing in quick succession did little to alleviate the pain. Even the oblivion of being in a coma for eight weeks would be preferable to this unexpected result of her accident. Her stomach lurched, and she held herself tightly.

Her last-minute booking secured her a seat towards the tail-end of the plane, but it didn’t matter where she sat. Her nerves now jangled from take-off to landing on any flight. The plane approached the runway in what seemed interminable degrees. With barely a bump to indicate when it landed, it touched down and raced along the tarmac. The sound of the reverse engines reverberated through her head until she wanted to scream.

Everyone rushed to deplane, but not wanting to be part of the crush, she calmed herself as she unbuckled her seat belt and simply waited her turn. As soon as she had room to move, Trisha stood up, stepped into the aisle and reached up to the overhead compartment for her carry-on.

“Let me get that for you.”

A man’s large, long-fingered hand brushed past hers.

“Thanks, I can manage.” She flashed a glance at the owner of the hand.

“I’m sure you can.” His disarming smile showed even white teeth, the result she suspected of healthy living or a very good dentist. “But my momma raised me to always help a lady.”

“Then your momma would be very proud of you.” Trisha stepped back. Her helper’s large frame completely overwhelmed her own five foot seven inches.

Mischief sparked in his smoky-grey eyes. He held the carry-on’s handle for a moment more as if aware his assistance irritated her. “This looks pretty beat up. You travel a lot?”

“Only when I have to.” Given a choice, she preferred a cozy room and a good book to a packed airplane.

He grunted a little as he lifted the carry-on from the compartment. “You carrying the kitchen sink in here?”

“It’s my camera kit.”

“Must be some camera.”

“I’m a photo-journalist, and that case contains several pieces of very valuable equipment. Please be careful with it.”

She reached for the handle, but he continued to hold it. With amusement in his eyes and a teasing smile on his face, he made sure his fingers grazed hers before finally relinquishing his grip. His touch raised goose bumps on her skin, from pleasure or apprehension she couldn’t immediately determine.

“Thank you.” She turned on her heel to join the end of the shuffling line of passengers.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.”

The hot breath of his whisper lingered on her neck. Intuition told her he’d intended it to. She bit back a hasty comment, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled her composure. Despite his attempt to help her, she thought his momma may not have approved of his teasing.

At the exit, she thanked the cabin staff flanking the doorway and breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped onto the jetway. Relief fled when her would-be helper quickly caught up with her.

“Goin’ my way?” he asked as he settled a wide-brimmed cowboy hat on his head.

Trisha shook her head. Heaven help him if that was his only pick-up line.

Striding along the jetway to get ahead of him, she stopped when he overtook her. He winked at her, but before she could vent her frustration with him, he walked away. People coming up behind her grumbled that she was in their way, and she started forward again. Now trailing the large figure by several yards, she kept her distance, hoping he’d accepted that she wasn’t interested in him or his banter.

Annoyed with herself for not being able to take her eyes off his broad shoulders and slim hips, she continued to lag behind. His plaid shirt and denim jeans looked clean and fresh after the long flight, while her clothes were crumpled and creased. Even his boots, though worn at the heel, were clean. He looked every inch a cowboy and so very appealing, but none knew better than she how deceiving looks could be.

Trisha tried not to think about him, but then he passed her while she waited at the luggage carousel. This time he didn’t offer to help.

“Welcome to Calgary, ma’am. Hope you enjoy your stay in our city.” He tipped his hat to her and sauntered off.

“Hope there’s a sunset for you to ride into, cowboy,” she muttered as she grabbed her suitcase and made her own way out into the concourse.

Momentarily disoriented, Trisha stopped to get her bearings. The crowd flowed around her and moved on. She watched families greet each other with open arms. Cab drivers held name cards and waited patiently for their fares. Friends greeted each other with a handshake or a slap on the back, but of her friend Samantha Moore, who had promised to not be late, there was no sign.

Trisha sighed. She’d learnt soon after they’d first met that ‘on time’ and ‘Samantha’ could not be mentioned in the same breath. She’d be late for her own funeral, and how she managed to run a successful modelling agency was beyond Trisha’s comprehension. She reached into her canvas shoulder bag for her cell phone but looked up when someone called her name.

A petite figure sporting spiky white-blonde short hair rushed towards her. Elbows flying, ducking and dodging bodies much bigger than her own, she resembled a demented pixie.

“Hi, you must be Trisha Watts, I’m Dee.” She grabbed the baggage cart and held up a battered photo of Trisha as if it was proof she’d met the right person. “Samantha’s been held up, she’s trying to get a new model under contract, but the girl definitely has her own ideas. Has some outrageous demands, and Samantha’s almost tearing her hair out over it. She said to take you straight to her apartment, and she’ll join you as soon as the ink is dry. Come on, this way.”

Dee’s rapid-fire chatter continued non-stop as she led the way to the waiting car. Trisha could barely get a word in edgewise and gave up in disgust. How like Samantha to have hired a doppelganger.

Dee kept up her verbal onslaught as they drove towards Calgary’s downtown core. To Trisha, one city was much like another. Too many people, too much traffic and, more often than not, too little time for her to explore anyway. In spite of her doubts, Trisha found the compact city skyline far more appealing than she’d expected it to be. An ultramodern angular building bristling with steel and glass caught her attention.

“What’s that place?” she asked.

“Our new science centre.” Dee slid the car easily into the flow of traffic heading into the city. “That’s the zoo on the left and the Bow River right here, and we’re just cutting through Chinatown. Do you like Chinese food?”

“Yes, I do. I also like Greek, Italian and Indian food too, but not necessarily in that order.” Trisha didn’t add her opinion that those foods tasted best when eaten in their countries of origin.

“Calgary’s really cosmopolitan,” Dee continued. “You’ll find all that and more here. But through Stampede, people mostly survive on breakfast fare by day and beer by night. Sometimes we even combine them.”

“Beer with breakfast?” Trisha shuddered at the thought. “You are kidding, I hope?”

“Nope, all the sausages and pancakes you could ever hope for are served up free all over the city throughout the ten days of Stampede.”

The thought of living on a combination of breakfast and beer for ten days made Trisha feel slightly nauseous. She breathed a sigh of relief when the car stopped. The engine purred like a happy cat while Dee pressed a remote control device clipped onto the visor. She hadn’t yet drawn breath as far as Trisha could tell, and the chattering continued as she unloaded the car and led the way to the elevator. Trisha followed, amazed that Samantha’s assistant was still talking.

“But you know Samantha. When I told her it wasn’t really her business, she fired me. Again. Here we are.”

Dee flung open an apartment door. Trisha followed her inside and stopped on the threshold, stunned by the stark white walls and a grey-tiled floor that shimmered like quicksilver. Sunlight poured relentlessly through the large, bare windows adding to the impression of light and space.

“Very Samantha.” Trisha trailed her hand over the back of a zebra-patterned designer sofa. She doubted it would be comfortable. A huge red velvet cushion propped at one end provided an eye-popping color contrast.

“I know.” Dee grinned at Trisha’s surprise. “Everyone has the same reaction to it. Samantha has this great interior designer. He so loved this remodel he’s featured it in loads of magazines. Your room’s down here. Has its own en-suite. Coffee machine’s in the kitchen. Or would you prefer tea? It can brew either. Oh, and wine in the fridge. Anything else you’d like?”

Trisha sat down on the end of a queen-sized bed covered in shadow-striped white linens and tried to catch up.

“Coffee, tea, wine. I think I’ve got it, thank you.” How hard could it be?

Dee wiggled her fingers as a goodbye, assured her Samantha should be with her right away and left.

Trisha didn’t even hear the door close. Peace and quiet at last, thank god, just her and her thoughts which, if she let them, pulled her down to a place she did not want to be. She rubbed a hand over her eyes. No point in dwelling on the past.

Right now, she had a contract to fulfill photographing rodeo stock and interviewing owners and riders. Where better place to do that, the editor at Equine World magazine suggested, than the Calgary Stampede? Oh, and by the way, you don’t happen to know anyone who lives there, do you?

Trisha sighed. Oh, for the days of all-expenses-paid trips. After some consideration, she’d contacted Samantha, knowing that any request she made, for accommodation or otherwise, would probably carry some caveat.

Of course, come and stay with me, Samantha had cooed. You can help me choose pictures of cowboys for the agency. There will be lots of hot cowboys.

Trisha almost smiled at the memory. Having been a photojournalist for almost a decade, she knew she had all the right credentials to help Samantha pick the most photogenic models. Yet a haze of doubt clouded her mind. She owed Samantha a favor, and a pretty big one at that. Her gut told her there would be more to it but heck, it should be a breeze. Shouldn’t it? Pick a couple of photos, for goodness’ sake, and it was done.

The image of the cowboy on the plane drifted into her mind.

“I so hope you’re not one of them,” she muttered as she lay back on the bed.

* * *

The sky could not have been bluer or the ...

Trisha’s eyes flew open. God, when would that dream stop haunting her? Her chest still felt tight with panic as she pushed herself up against the pillows and looked around. Where was she? Then she remembered. With a sigh of relief, she swung her legs off the bed, stood up and stretched the kinks out of her back as Samantha walked into the room.

“What a bitch of a day,” she complained in a voice made husky with whisky and too many late nights.

“Hello, Samantha. It’s good to see you, too.” Trisha couldn’t keep an edge of sarcasm out of her voice at the brusque greeting.

“Oh, hell.” Samantha pulled her into a rough hug. “Don’t mind me, I’m being crabby. How was your flight?”

“Took off from Heathrow, landed in Calgary. What more can I say?”

Trisha subjected herself to a thorough inspection as Samantha held her at arm’s length. “Your hair’s different since I last saw you, and when did you get so skinny?”

“It’s a girl’s prerogative to change her hairstyle and you’re a fine one to be calling me skinny,” Trisha countered. “What marvel diet are you on these days?”

“We’re not talking about me,” Samantha said. “You look like you should be in front of the camera, not behind one. Need an agent?”

Trisha’s insides flipped at the thought. “No, thank you.”

“Hmm. Pity.”

Trisha didn’t miss the speculative gleam in Samantha’s eyes and knew questions were being stored in her friend’s mental filing cabinet. At some point, she would start probing for answers that Trisha would rather not give. Just then, her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten for several hours. Samantha didn’t miss it either.

“Do you want to eat out or in?” she asked.

“Whichever’s easiest, but first, I’m having a shower.”

“Go for it.” Samantha sat on the end of the bed. “Everywhere’s going to be crazy with the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth about to start, but it’s still early enough to go shopping and get you duded up.”

Trisha stuck her head around the bathroom door. “Duded up?”

“Yep, pardner.” Samantha tried to hide her amusement behind a serious expression but failed. “From shirts and jeans to boots and a hat, you need everything cowboy. I can’t possibly take you out on the town unless you are dressed western. Please don’t tell me you’re too stuffy for that.”

Trisha snorted with unladylike laughter and closed the door.

* * *

Samantha flicked through racks packed with shirts in a variety of styles and colors. She pulled out a black, then a purple, eyelet shirt for Trisha to try on.

“Here, this purple one will bring out the green in your eyes.” She thrust the shirt at Trisha. “It has darts front and back, so should really show off your waist too.”

Running a practised glance over Trisha’s slim hips and long legs, she then selected four pairs of jeans.

“Here you are, size ridiculous in a thirty-four inch leg.” She added the jeans to the pile of shirts and pushed Trisha into a changing room. “Start trying that lot on. Here’s a pair of boots for you, and I’ll get you a hat.”

“A hat? Are you sure I need one?”

Samantha nodded her head firmly, leaving no room for argument. “I’ll go and find you a belt with a snazzy buckle too. A girl’s got to have bling.”

“What’s so great about bling,” Trisha mumbled to herself as she pulled on a pair of jeans stiff with newness, tucked the shirttail into the waistband and zipped up. She pushed the swinging doors open. “Hey Samantha, what do you think ...”

The squeak from the door hinges covered Trisha’s whispered “hell” as her footsteps faltered. Her eyes narrowed as she recognized the customer at the sales counter.

That cowboy again.

She’d judged him to be at least six foot four inches tall and would know that frame anywhere. Stepping back into the changing room, she hoped he hadn’t seen her. He’d irritated her this morning with his goofy grin and smart remarks. One half of her mind never wanted to see him again. The other half juggled with whether she should take another look at him or not.

Or not would be the sensible choice.

Or not lost.

Taking a tentative step forward, she peered around the changing room door.

A fresh, crisp white shirt did nothing to hide his wide shoulders and broad back. It showed off biceps a body-builder would be proud of. His clean but well-worn blue jeans fit snugly on his hips and thighs. He looked down at something the clerk placed on the counter, and she glimpsed the straight-cut line of dark brown hair across the back of his neck.

Something the clerk said made him laugh, and at the sound of it, unexpected and unwelcome warmth swirled in her belly. What was with that? It was bad enough that she hadn’t forgotten his smoky-grey eyes, screened with thick black lashes that shouldn’t be allowed on a man.

As she watched him, he straightened up and flexed his shoulders. Her gaze tracked the play of muscles beneath the cotton fabric covering them, setting every nerve in her body aquiver. He turned his head from side to side to stretch his neck, and she glimpsed the strong line of his jaw and his firm, square chin. Right then, the hope she harbored that he might be some kind of mirage vanished.

Nope, this man was a real-life heart attack on legs. Her mouth dried in an instant, puckering as if she’d sucked on a slice of lemon.

Furious with herself for her reaction at seeing him again, she let go of the breath she held. She stumbled back into the changing room and collapsed onto the narrow, slatted seat. Built more for holding clothes than a dead weight with rubber legs, she hoped it would hold her.

This morning she never wanted to see him again. This afternoon he sent her pulse into overdrive. Somewhere between then and now, the synapses in her brain must have misfired. That could be the only reason for her ridiculous about turn from a cool, collected professional to behaving like a teenager on her first crush.

She peered out of the changing room once more. The clerk busily wrapped something while the cowboy looked on. Samantha had promised her hot cowboys, but this one sizzled like water dropped on hot coals.

Body parts she’d forgotten existed made themselves known to her in an explosive surge. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she bit down hard, wincing at the pain. She would not let this happen; would not let herself be overwhelmed by a complete stranger.

“Hey, you okay in there?”

Samantha’s voice jolted her back into the here and now, bringing Trisha to her feet. She pushed her hair out of her eyes and shook the tension from her arms. Lifting her chin a notch, she shouldered her way through the swinging doors and twirled around for Samantha’s expert opinion.

“Much, much better,” Samantha announced as she held out a white hat.

After a moment’s hesitation, Trisha settled it on her head and tucked strands of her dark brown hair behind her ears. Samantha adjusted the hat slightly before nodding with satisfaction.

“Now, step into those boots.”

Trisha stared down at the silver-trimmed, tooled black leather boots Samantha had found for her. They were gorgeous. She pulled on the right boot, the supple leather wrapping around her foot like her mother’s warm hug.

“Samantha, you’re amazing,” she exclaimed as she put her left foot into the other boot. “These fit perfectly. How do I look?”

“From where I’m standing, you look pretty damn fine.”

Both women looked up at the sound of a deep baritone voice. That such a big man could move so quietly amazed Trisha.

Samantha read her witless expression in one swift glance and agreed with him, giving Trisha a chance to regain her composure.

Mr. Heart-Attack-on-Legs gave her a smoldering grey-eyed once over, and she straightened her spine. How dare he sneak up on her?

“May I?” He reached out and adjusted the collar on her shirt, then wound a wayward strand of hair around his finger before brushing it back off her shoulder.

He scarcely touched her, yet the heat and strength of his fingers seared her skin through the thin fabric. In a whirl of confusion, she sensed tenderness in that touch, nothing like the brash casualness she’d experienced from him that morning.

Against her better judgment, she tipped her head back so she could see him more clearly from beneath the brim of her hat and then wished she hadn’t. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his, and the smart reply her mind produced got lost in transit to her lips.

He aimed a slow, mind-blowing sexy smile directly at her. Her heart swelled and bumped painfully against her ribs. He tipped his hat and winked at her as he left the store.

Trisha watched him go, every breath in her body trailing after him and leaving her breathless.

Samantha, a tiny smirk of amusement twisting her lips, eyed Trisha with sly humor.

“I think that you,” she announced, “are definitely in trouble.”

Victoria Chatham

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