Ride With Me: A Possessive Cowboy Romance

That was one fight I never regretted, no matter how much it cost out of my share of a trust fund I would never partake in.

I had been at the end of my shift and enjoying a cold beer and a smoke out back when I heard it. A guy had been smack talking his woman. It had quickly progressed to him laying hands to her, roughing her up and more than just a little.

I had come to the lady's defense. I didn't know her. Just doing the right thing. Hurting a woman was the lowest act a man could do. I didn't stand for it.

I'd beat him down until he was in no shape to hit anyone. Then I tipped my hat and left the lady in the parking lot with cab fare to get her home. Nothing more, nothing less. But by the next morning, the lady had been singing a different tune. She'd said my attack was unprovoked, even saying that her bruises came from getting in the way of the scuffle.

That was the part the pissed me off. Her saying I had actually caused some of the marks he'd put on her. Accidentally, of course. Even a scam artist wouldn’t go so far as to say I hit a woman. Nobody on Earth would buy that.

I had a reputation, but not that kind of reputation.

From gratitude to gold digging in just a few hours.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Hell, even if I knew in advance what would happen, I would have done it anyway. The feeling of pounding in the face of a no good woman beater was worth it, and then some.

But still, the lady could have told the truth instead of trying to take advantage.

That's what always happened. As soon as they'd found out who I was, who my family was, the gold diggers started swinging their pick axes. Nothing made me more disgusted than someone who was after my family's money.

Nobody robbed the Delancey's. It was a point of pride, even for me, the black sheep who'd turned my back on it. All seven billion of it.

Oh yeah, I’d walked away from all that dough without a backward glance.

I didn't want a cent of it for myself. I was a firm believer in living off what you made with your hands. Of course, I was also a firm believer in working as little as possible.

That's why Jake Delancey, youngest son of the richest family in the state of Tennessee, was a bartender.

I smiled to myself.

Sometimes I wasn't even that. I’d been bar back more than once. I didn't really care one way or the other.

But, oooeeee, it sure pissed off my father. And that was what I was after really, wasn't it? Punishing him for what he’d done to me.

What he’d believed. What they'd all believed.

And now for some mysteries damned reason I was doing the one thing I said I wouldn’t do. Not ever. I was going back.

I took the winding road through the expensive suburbs of Brentwood out to where the houses started to thin out and farms and ranches took over. As I crested a hill I could see it; Delancey Stables.

Home sweet home.

I nearly snorted. As if I’d called it home for more than a weekend since I’d been shipped off to military school at the tender age of twelve. I’d barely been back in all that time. But now I’d been summoned by my eldest brother Jackson. Not that I wasn't tempted to ignore such a high handed demand.

Just like I’d ignored all the other missives I’d gotten over the years.

This time it was different though.

This time, our Dad was sick. I wanted to be there, even if was just to argue with the old man. It would probably perk him up to yell at me a couple times.

I was practically penicillin.

Not to mention I was tired.

It was starting to feel like I’d run out of places to go. I wanted to come home, if only to remind myself why the hell I ran in the first place. And it would make the servants and my brother Daniel happy to see me at Christmas. Maybe my sweet little cousin would be there. Phee was like a sister to me, and the only Delancey I actually kept in touch with at all.

My big brother Jackson and my father could piss up a rope for all I cared.

And yet here I was.

Home for the holidays.

What a joke.

Chapter Two

Elle

The plate was coated in butter. That had to be the reason it slipped. I stared as it tumbled toward the floor in slow motion, smashing into a thousand pieces.

"Damnit all to hell!"

I was bent over, picking up the shards of broken china. I was stacking clean plates between lunch and dinner. The plates were still scorching hot, which is why I’d dropped one in the first place.