Page 6 of Breaking the Cowboy's Rules

That would be totally out of character.

Samara huffed out a laugh and pulled into the circular drive. A wide staircase led up to massive, and beautifully detailed wood doors.

With the rodeo in town next weekend would they even have room?

Before she could change her mind, a young man in a uniform—his nametag read Joseph—opened her door and welcomed her to the Graff.

“Are you with the wedding party, ma’am?”

The ma’am was cute. Sort of. But shouldn’t she be offended to be called ma’am? Did that make her thirty-one seem old? Or was everyone in Montana a ma’am once they left high school?

“Definitely not,” she answered, realizing by his expectant stare that she should say something.

“Checking in?”

“I hope so.”

“I’ll bring your luggage.”

Joseph was looking over the car, his stare avid. She’d gotten a lot of those appreciative looks at the gas stations, rest stops, and convenience stores.

“Thank you,” she said handing him the keys and indicating the small hand-crafted weekender bag she’d mindlessly packed a few—no doubt inappropriate—clothing items for her escape.

She walked up the stairs, summoning the same confidence she did when she entered into a deposition or negotiation.

To be greeted by such warm smiles was disorienting. Yes, there was a room, but it was a suite. Samara blinked. Was there another type of room? But considering Bob’s apologetic look when he named an astronomically small price, there must be, and the price for the suite here must be one considered rather expensive, so she kept her mouth shut.

And then he asked for her name.

Of course.

She thought for a moment. She’d never been anonymous. Ever. People always knew who she was. Her acquaintance had been coveted. Strategized. Name-dropped. Men and women. She’d never even had to play nice. Appeal.

But here she could be anyone.

“Nico Steel,” she said, shortening one of her middle names and seizing on her grandmother’s maternal name.

Nico Steel had never been in the news.

Nico Steel was not part of a family that had destroyed tens of thousands—if not more—of lives.

“Welcome to Marietta, Miss Steel. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

*

“A game,” bothBowen and Beck repeated.

“What else?” Bodhi challenged. “You think the old man is pulling our chain?”

Bodhi took the second round of three beers Jason had plunked down loudly, popped off the tops, and handed them out. “Drink up,” he advised, eyeing his cousins, feeling his spirits lift as his plan solidified. “If he’s playing a game, let’s play.”

Bowen finally picked up his beer but still didn’t take a drink. “Not sure he’s playing. We need a plan, not a game.”

“We’re Ballantynes. We make a game of everything. Hell.” Bodhi took another deep pull. “Granddad taught us how to compete practically out of the maternal wombs.”

It was harder to hear with the bar filling up, the music kicked up louder, and the pool games were in full swing. One of those bridesmaids was going to get up the nerve to approach one of them soon. No thanks. None of them would work for what he had in mind.

“He’s not selling,” Beck said.

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