Page 1 of Big Rowdy Cowboy

Chapter 1

Dotty

My dream isn’t to spend my days chasing around a cow with an attitude. It’s to write stories that would otherwise go untold without my journalistic instincts. Instead, I’m working on yet another article that will have a fascinating headline like, “What’s Betsy Up to Today”.

OK, that’s a slight exaggeration…at least, the part about the headline. Still, I’m pretty sure Sylvia, my editor, only assigns me these articles because she hates me.

I’m an intern atThe Courage Chronicle, a tiny newspaper in a tiny forgotten town. Other than getting coffee and helping therealreporters, there are only a few topics I’m allowed to cover, and Betsy is one of them.

This is the reason why I’m driving around in my beat-up car, otherwise known as Rust Bucket. Rusty here doesn’t have a reverse and barely even runs unless I say a little chant and put my hands on the dashboard.

Lately, I’ve been trying positive affirmations, but so far, that hasn’t manifested me a new car or a full tank of gas so I’m thinking of giving up on those entirely.

Rusty makes a noise like her engine is coughing, and I peer down the dusty dirt road in front of me. I’m not sure which path Betsy has wandered onto.

I can’t believe I’m out here chasing a cow when the “storm of the century” hit Courage County earlier today. Most of the town is up on the mountain, helping the stranded citizens. The real reporters are there too. They’re capturing stories of bravery and heroism.

The engine makes another clunking noise, and I drop my speed down to twenty miles an hour. It’s getting dark, and I’m having trouble seeing the road. The thing about a tiny town like Courage County is that there are rarely streetlights. Especially on backroads like this one.

I think I’m on the Maple Farm, but I’m not sure. I’ve taken so many twists and turns in my quest to satisfy the burning curiosity of the town citizens regarding Betsy’s whereabouts. I see a blur of something as my asthmatic engine continues wheezing.

Quickly, I crane my neck to look behind me. I’d stop the car, except that there’s no reverse in Rust Bucket. Once I have committed to a path, I’m pretty much stuck on it unless I can find enough room to do a U-turn.

I’m so focused on the road sign behind me that I feel the impact a second too late. I slam on my brakes and watch helplessly as a cowboy crumples to his knees in front of the car before collapsing in a heap on the dirt road.

I let loose with a string of swears under my breath, shoving Rusty into park. I scramble from the vehicle, horror and shock overtaking me. I just hit a pedestrian! I mean, he wandered into the middle of the road, but will Judge Helen see it that way? I try to remember if any of the articles I’ve read about her mentioned her being tough on crime or if she has any cowboy grandsons.

“Please, don’t be dead or related to Judge Helen,” I whisper as I approach the cowboy. My heart pounds furiously. I don’t know what to do or who to call.

The problem with living in a small town is there’s no emergency number. You call the sheriff on his cell phone and pray he answers. I’m pretty sure my phone is still in my car, but the battery died several hours ago.

I drop to my knees beside the cowboy, reaching for the hat a few inches away from him. He lost it when he collapsed in front of my car. I’m not even sure what to do with the hat. I can’t put it back on his head so I set it beside me and flap my arms, shouting at him, “Excuse me. I need you to be alive.”

I peer at his face, hoping for some sign of movement. It’s then I realize I’m talking to Zac Maple. I suck in a deep breath as his eyelids flutter. Zac Maple is the resident celebrity of Courage County. He’s a country music superstar and is considered a legend in Nashville. He’s known for his hit single, “Rowdy Cowboy”.

Shit, this is even worse than I thought. “Listen, you can’t be dead.”

His eyelids flutter open, and he stares at me. That’s got to be a good thing, right? The fact that he can see me?

“I’m in heaven,” he says in that smoky crooner’s voice that’s gotten him certified gold albums.

I panic at the certainty in his voice. “No, you’re not. You’re fine. You’re Zac freaking Maple. You’re not going to let an itty-bitty car take you out, are you?”

As soon as I say the words, I imagine the headline, “Zac Maple Killed by Klutzy Wannabe Journalist”. They’ll probably put my mugshot on all the social media platforms. I’ll be famous for being the girl who killed a legend.

“You’re an angel,” he says.

I scoff at that, certain he has a concussion. “Listen, I do not have the upper body strength to drag you into the woods and bury you, so I need you to get up.”

“Things are definitely up,” he tells me.

OK, so he doesn’t know what’s going on, but at least, he’s talking. That has to be good. “Yeah, positive mindset. That’s what we need. Okay, so I’m going to help you get to your feet. Do you think you can do that?”

“I’ll do anything for you. You want songs? I can write songs!”

My heart hasn’t stopped pounding, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve injured him. I had no idea his beard was so thick and bushy up close or that his eyes were this brown. A girl could drown in that beautiful gaze.

The humidity in the late afternoon air is making my shirt stick to my back, and my hair frizz. I’m sweaty and tired from trying to tug him upright. “No songs needed. Stand up.”

---