A Real Cowboy Never Walks Away (Wyoming Rebels Book 4)

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This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, organizations, places and events portrayed in this novel or on the cover are either products of the author’s or artist's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author or the artist. There are excerpts from other books by the author in the back of the book.

H
e shouldn't have come
.

He'd thought it would be okay to return to his Wyoming hometown to headline their annual Founder's Day Fair.

He'd thought he could handle it.

But now that he was back, he realized he'd been wrong.

Dead wrong.

Grimly, Travis Stockton rested his forearms on the steering wheel of his rented pickup truck and watched the crowds milling around in front of the small, rustic hotel he was booked at for the next week. It was pouring rain, an absolute deluge, and yet there were women, so many women and girls, screaming for his alter ego, country music superstar Travis Turner, waiting for him to arrive. The weather was complete crap, but there they were, out there on the sidewalk, wearing butt-cheek shorts, sequined tank tops, and brightly colored cowboy hats, showing every female asset that they had. At the sight of the women wanting a piece of Travis Turner, bile turned over in his gut, the deep, suffocating sensation of betrayal. He'd had enough. He was done with this kind of crap.

Done.

He scowled, scanning the sidewalk. There were dudes, hanging out, trying to look cool, with their guitars dangling from their fingers, hoping for a chance to get Travis to listen to their tunes. That had once been him, thinking that signing a deal and hearing his songs on the radio would erase the nightmare of his life.

It hadn't.

He hadn't slept through the night since he'd been five years old. It hadn't changed once he'd left this dismal town behind, no matter how much money he had, no matter how many albums he sold, no matter how many people wanted a piece of the man who an entire town had once scorned.

Travis watched grimly as his security team cleared the road in front of the hotel, expecting his arrival at any moment. There were red ropes marking his path into the hotel, and people were leaning over them, smartphones ready for selfies, as they waited for him to drive up, get out, and start signing autographs and charming people who all wanted something from him. How many of them knew the country music superstar was actually the Travis Stockton who grew up in Rogue Valley? He doubted any of them did. All they wanted was a piece of his fame or bank account.

The reason he'd come back was to make that connection. To show kids stuck in hell that they could get out. To admit he was the scourge that had been reviled by so many. His first interview in the morning was the one where he was going to claim Rogue Valley as his own, but right now, it felt like too much. He didn't want to deal with it.

He thought of getting out of the truck and having to smile at people, of having to talk to strangers, of having to dodge questions once again as to why he'd fired his lead guitarist and his agent, and cancelled fourteen days of shows without explanation, all within the last six months.

His head started to pound, and he ground his teeth. How was he supposed to get out of the truck and pretend to be nice? He was dead ass tired of this chaos on the road, but having this part of his life descend upon the shitty Wyoming town he'd called home until he was nineteen was just...wrong. Too much crap all in one place.

He couldn't do this. Not here. Not now. He couldn't get out of this truck and let the town know that the special guest of honor at their fair, Travis Turner, was actually their very own hometown scumbag, Travis Stockton, a fucked-up troublemaker who they'd known, despised, and ridiculed for the first nineteen years of his life.

He'd returned to the town that had haunted him his entire life, thinking that facing his past would somehow free him from the nightmares that still taunted him, but he'd been wrong. There was no way he could deal with that tonight.

Screw it. He didn't have an appearance until a local radio show tomorrow morning. He wasn't going in. Not tonight.

He pulled out his cell phone and texted his tour manager, Jason Walton, the only person left in his professional world that he trusted.
I'm not arriving tonight. Shut it down.

He tossed the phone on the front seat, ignoring the series of demanding chimes that started up almost immediately.

Scowling, he backed up the truck and swung a U-turn, fishtailing across the gravelly main street. Headlights came toward him, and he turned off onto a side street. He pulled his truck into the shadows and leaned back in his seat. What the hell was he going to do? His commitment to headlining the fair mattered to him on a personal level, but that circus...

He couldn't do this anymore.

He'd been drowning in his life for months...no years...hell, he'd been drowning his whole life. But tonight...tonight it was finally more than he could deal with. The colliding of two worlds that had both betrayed him on every level.

He couldn't be that guy anymore. He couldn't live the façade anymore. There was no way in hell he was going to that hotel tonight. The thought made him sick, sick all the way to the core of his being.

He could sneak in the back door of the hotel, but for what? His team would be in his room within moments, everyone demanding something. Sweat trickled down his brow, and he swore. No way. No fucking way. He couldn't face it tonight.

He ran his hand over his brow, trying to figure out where to go. All the other hotels in the area would be booked due to the weeklong fair. There was no chance he was going to call his tour manager and find out where his tour bus was parked. He didn't want to be in that prison on wheels.

So, where to? He could go to his brother's nearby ranch, but he hadn't slept there since he was a teenager, and he didn't want to crash there. Yeah, Chase owned it now, not Old Skip Johnson, but the thought of bunking down there brought the past back too damn close. Plus, three of his brothers, Chase, Steen, and Zane, all lived on the ranch now with their wives, and even a couple kids, which meant Travis couldn't just show up, ignore everyone, and take up his own space. Of course, he hadn't crashed there before his brothers had moved back, so it wasn't just the women keeping him out. He just didn't want to be there any more than his other five brothers, who, like him, hadn't returned to town after they'd left. The demons just got too strong when he was there.

So where did that leave him?

In the pickup.

Yeah, that felt right. He'd slept in his truck plenty of times in his life, both as a teenager and after he'd moved to Nashville to try to get a record deal. All he needed was food, coffee, and maybe a couple blankets, and he'd be good.

Relief rushed through him at the thought of avoiding all human contact for the next twelve hours. He leaned forward, peering through the rain-splattered windshield to see what was open so he could grab some grub to take with him. The town's center had changed since he'd left. Upgraded. Fancied up. Moved around.

Just down the street, off the main road, he saw white lights over a small storefront, declaring
Wildflower Café.
Light was streaming from the plate glass windows, but he could see only empty chairs by the door. Empty but open? Exactly what he wanted.

He pulled his cowboy hat low over his eyes just in case anyone was around, then he got out of the truck and stepped out into the rain. He let it pour over him, running off the brim of his hat and over his leather trench coat as he shoved his hands in his pockets. Without looking back toward the hotel, he started walking, not bothering to avoid the puddles or the mud. He'd worn his old clothes today, the cowboy boots that had actually stood ankle deep in horse manure. The jeans that had landed ass first in the mud after getting bucked off dozens of times. The coat that had kept him from getting sliced by barbed wire when he'd been riding the fences.

He hadn't worn them for years, but he'd felt like it today. Maybe he needed a reminder of who he was, of the lessons he'd learned, of where his loyalties should lie, of who he could trust...which included only his brothers, and Chase's wife, Mira. He didn't trust women, and he didn't even like most of them, but Mira was great. He even admired her. She understood loyalty, and she was tough as nails.

He didn't know Taylor or Erin, the wives of his brothers, Zane and Steen, but he hoped like hell his brothers were happy. He couldn't begin to fathom having enough faith in a woman to date her, let alone marry her, but if his brothers had found someone they could count on...yeah...he hoped they'd made the right choice. As much as he wasn't interested in going there with a woman, he would stand by his brothers. The women were his family now, family he'd protect no matter what, but he had no interest in hanging out with them over apple pie and ribs.

He'd take his pie and ribs alone in the front seat of his truck, and be damned glad about it, too.

Travis slowed down as he neared the
Wildflower Café.
He paused, glancing through the window. It was a smallish restaurant, with a deli counter and about twenty tables and booths, most of which appeared to be made of reclaimed wood from old barns. Fresh wildflowers were on every table, scrawny, bright blossoms that reminded him of riding hard through fields, trying to escape the nightmares that wouldn't leave him. The place was simple, a little rundown, and well used.

He liked it immediately, and was glad that no one else in the town appeared to feel the same way, given the fact that every seat in the place was empty. He shoved open the door, which announced his entrance with a jingle from the old-fashioned bell hanging from the hinge, and stepped inside.

"Just a minute," a woman called from somewhere in back. "I'll be right out. Make yourself at home."

He was surprised by how young she sounded. He'd expected the gravelly voice of a storekeeper who'd been running the shop for half a century, not someone energetic, chipper, and friendly. The door jingled behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to see a couple of guys in cowboy hats and Wranglers saunter in. Competitors from the fair portion of the fair? Maybe bull riders. They'd been added this year in a major upgrade to the fair.

Shit. He was not interested in being social or having to put on his public persona right now.

Travis ducked his head and strode across the small restaurant, sliding into the last seat at the end of the deli counter, by the kitchen door, close enough to the kitchen that he could slide out that way if he needed to. How many kitchens had fueled his exit over the last few years? Too many. Suddenly, he felt tired. Too fucking tired—

The door to the kitchen swung open, and a woman poked her head out, looking past Travis to the new customers. He went still, shocked by his sudden, visceral reaction to her.

He hadn't noticed a woman in a long time. He made sure of it. But he was absolutely riveted by the woman looking past him to the front of the cafe.

She was somewhere in her twenties, achingly beautiful in a private, understated way that somehow reached inside him and pried open the steel walls that had been there for decades. Her expression carried the weight of years and hardship, but her skin was unlined, making him think that she was actually fairly close to his age. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail that looked like it had been flawless earlier in the evening, but was now barely holding on. She wasn't wearing any makeup or jewelry, her jeans were covered in flour, and her red
Wildflower Café
tee shirt looked like it had been meant for someone a few sizes bigger than she was. There was nothing remotely made up or pretentious about her. She was tired, overworked, disheveled, and yet, somehow, sexy as hell. He found himself leaning forward, waiting for her to look over at him, to say something—

She glanced over at him, and her eyes widened, as if she was startled to see him so close. Then she smiled, a knock-him-on-his-ass smile that seemed to light up the entire damned room. "Hi," she said cheerfully. "Welcome to the
Wildflower Café."

The warmth of her voice seemed to reach inside him, yanking him out of his darkness, and dragging him into a place where he could breathe again. There was no guile to her voice, no plotting, no superficiality. Just honest friendliness and camaraderie, laced with an undercurrent of weariness so deep that he suspected it was woven into the very fabric of her being. He knew what it was like to feel that weight in his gut. He knew what it was like to smile, and pretend the darkness in his soul wasn't eating away inside. He knew what it was like to hope no one would notice, and, at the same time, wishing like hell that someone would give a fuck, just once.

So he did, for her. He decided to care about the weight in her eyes, the way no one ever gave a shit about him. "Hard day?" he asked instinctively, as if his question could wipe away the burden weighing so heavily on her tired shoulders.

Her smile faded, and she blinked. Suddenly, the cheerfulness was gone, and he could see the true depth of weariness in every line of her face. He knew he was seeing her truth, not the one she put on for the world. Son of a bitch. It had been so long since he'd felt like he'd seen anyone's truth, even his own. He didn't waste time on people anymore, ever, especially not a stranger, and especially not a woman, but he had no doubt that in that moment, right then, he was seeing her soul stripped bare, with no guile, no pretense, and no fabrication. Hell, it felt good. More than good. It felt
real
, and that felt incredible.

Then she pulled her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and lifted her chin. "It's all good," she replied. "Ready for the late night crew." All traces of vulnerability and weariness were gone, but he knew they were there. He knew, because he was an expert at putting on a show, too.

She slid a menu toward him. "Take a look. Let me know what I can get you." She hesitated for a moment, as if she were going to say something else, then she grabbed a water pitcher, walked out from behind the counter, and headed over toward the other customers.

Travis swung around in his seat to watch her. Her shoulders were back, and she walked with confidence and purpose, despite the weariness he knew she was battling. She was a warrior, who asked for no sympathy or help, even though he was willing to wager she needed both. After all the people who asked for things from him, or judged him, her refusal to do either was surreal, almost a gift.