Page 1 of Cash

CHAPTER 1

Mollie

KISS MY ASS, COWBOY

SEPTEMBER

I’mdeep in cowboy country, but I still jam on the brakes when I see an actual cowboy park his actual horse outside an actual saloon.

Have I gone back in time?

Or is the whole scene a mirage? My dashboard does say it’s 109 degrees outside.

The cloud of dust that’s followed me since Belton billows around my SUV, temporarily obscuring the view of a building markedThe Rattler.

The Hill Country dust clears. Yep, that’s definitely a horse.

And that’s definitely a guy in slim-cut jeans and a cowboy hat sliding off the saddle with an ease that makes my breath catch.

Mom’s words echo inside my head:Hartsville is a one-horse town.I didn’t know she meant that literally.

I feel a whisper of recognition as I take in the building’s façade behind the cowboy and his horse. It’s two stories, brick, with windows whose uneven panes glint in the hazy afternoon light. A faded green-and-black striped awningbears the image of a white rattlesnake, its forked tongue protruding from between its fangs.

I was six years old the last time I was in this tiny town, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. Why would I remember a bar of all places?

“Mollie? Did I lose you?”

My stomach seizes, the sound of Wheeler’s voice on the phone yanking me back inside the Range Rover. Without looking, I immediately hit the gas, then send up a silent prayer of thanks that Main Street is deserted. No one to hit, thank God.

Well, except for the cowboy and his horse, who I glimpse at in my rearview mirror. I’m less than two hundred miles southwest of Dallas, but I might as well be on another planet for how different this place feels.

I reach for the vent beside the steering wheel and aim a blast of AC at my face. “Sorry, I’m here. I just got to Hartsville and…I think I may have just had anOutlandermoment? But a Western-themed one, with a saloon and a cowboy.”

My best friend and business partner’s raspy laugh pours through the speakers. “Bring cowboy Jamie back to Dallas. Tell him city life is better.”

“No shit.” I peer out my windshield as my GPS tells me I’m approaching my destination. “Mom wasn’t joking when she said there was nothing out here.”

“Get your money and get the hell out of Dodge. Call me when you’re done, okay? I’m thinking of you.”

I smile, even as my stomach seizes again. “Thanks, friend. I can’t wait for the pop-up.”

“Same. I’m so curious to see how it goes.”

One of Dallas’s better-known boutiques is hosting a pop-up shop for our cowboy boot company this week. The boutique’s clientele is fashion-forward and well-heeled, so we’ll hopefully make a decent number of sales. Lord knows we could use the revenue.

Hanging up, I slow down in front of the last building on the left before Main Street continues down a desolate stretch of nothingness ahead. The chalk-colored dirt, dotted sparsely with trees, cacti, and brush, wavers in the mid-afternoon heat.

A brass placard beside the building’s door readsGoody Gershwin, Attorney at Law,Est. 1993.

“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS informs me.

I pull into an angled parking spot beside an enormous candy-apple-red pickup truck. It also appears to be from 1993, its windows rolled down to reveal a front bench seat upholstered in faded gray fabric. A box set of Brooks & Dunn’s greatest hits sits on the passenger side of the bench.

It’s a box set ofcassette tapes.

Maybe I really have gone back in time.

The heat hits me like a slap to the face the second I hop out of my car. It radiates off the blacktop and singes my bare legs.

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