The Heart Won't Lie Read online

  Just get up and ride...

  Much to his family’s displeasure, Michael Hartford pens popular Western paperbacks. But despite his cowboy image, he’s more Central Park West than Wild West. With a major photo shoot coming up, he’ll need to be a cowboy—not just look like one! And Michael has only a week at the Last Chance Ranch get the giddy-up in his game….

  After a girl-fight scandal, socialite-turned-housekeeper Keri Fitzpatrick is cheerily unrepentant as she waits for the dust to settle. It’s not long before she discovers Michael’s secret and a whole lot of similarities…including an irresistible temptation to play Naughty Naked Cowboy!

  But does this scrappy socialite have what it takes to ensure her would-be cowboy is both saddle sore and satisfied?

  Is there anything sexier than a hot cowboy?

  How about 4 of them!

  New York Times bestselling author

  Vicki Lewis Thompson is back in the Blaze lineup

  for 2013, and this year she’s

  offering her readers even more.…

  Sons of Chance

  Chance isn’t just the last name of these

  rugged Wyoming cowboys—it’s their motto, too!

  Saddle up with

  #751 I CROSS MY HEART

  (June)

  #755 WILD AT HEART

  (July)

  #759 THE HEART WON’T LIE

  (August)

  And the first full-length

  Sons of Chance Christmas story

  #775 COWBOYS & ANGELS

  (December)

  Take a chance…on a Chance!

  Dear Reader,

  For those of you who’ve stuck with me through all twelve books (and more to come!) in the Sons of Chance series, I have a special treat for you in this story. In addition to a smokin’ hot love affair between Western writer Michael Hartford and housekeeper Keri Fitzpatrick, you’ll celebrate Sarah Chance’s wedding to Pete Beckett. When I began the series in 2010, Sarah was grieving her late husband. Now, three years later, she’s starting a new life with Pete! Awwww.

  If you’re joining me for the first time, I promise that you won’t get lost while reading The Heart Won’t Lie. I work hard to make sure that someone who’s just discovered the series can enjoy the book without having read the previous eleven. I invite you to dive right into Michael and Keri’s story, which was fun for me because Michael’s an author, and I do know the breed. Combining the sensibilities of a writer with the hotness of a cowboy created serious sizzle!

  Also, don’t forget that this year I’ll have a Christmas-themed Sons of Chance book! Look for Cowboys & Angels toward the end of November. I predict it’ll be a white Christmas at the Last Chance Ranch, and I’d love to see you all there. In the meantime, here are Michael and Keri!

  Sizzlingly yours,

  Vicki Lewis Thompson

  Vicki Lewis

  Thompson

  The Heart Won’t Lie

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  New York Times bestselling author Vicki Lewis Thompson’s love affair with cowboys started with the Lone Ranger, continued through Maverick and took a turn south of the border with Zorro. She views cowboys as the Western version of knights in shining armor— rugged men who value honor, honesty and hard work. Fortunately for her, she lives in the Arizona desert, where broad-shouldered, lean-hipped cowboys abound. Blessed with such an abundance of inspiration, she only hopes that she can do them justice. Visit her website, www.vickilewisthompson.com.

  Books by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  544—WANTED!*

  550—AMBUSHED!*

  556—CLAIMED!*

  618—SHOULD’VE BEEN A COWBOY*

  624—COWBOY UP*

  630—COWBOYS LIKE US*

  651—MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY*

  “It’s Christmas, Cowboy!”

  687—LONG ROAD HOME*

  693—LEAD ME HOME*

  699—FEELS LIKE HOME*

  751—I CROSS MY HEART*

  755—WILD AT HEART*

  *Sons of Chance

  To get the inside scoop on Harlequin Blaze and its talented writers, be sure to check out blazeauthors.com.

  Other titles by this author available in ebook format. Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

  Harlequin Reader Service

  U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

  Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

  To Louis L’Amour, an author who claimed that,

  if necessary, he could write a story sitting in the median of a busy intersection. He’s my kind of guy!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Prologue

  August 13, 1988, from the diary of Eleanor Chance

  MY GRANDSON JACK, who turns ten this fall, can be a trial at times. I cut him some slack because he still carries the scars from being abandoned by his mother when he was a toddler. I’m not sure if that wound is ever going to heal, no matter how much love we all give him.

  Truth be told, Jack and I have a special bond because I took over raising him for a couple of years until my son Jonathon married his second wife, Sarah. I’ve stepped back now, because Sarah is terrific with Jack and the two sons who came along after that, Nick and Gabe. The Last Chance Ranch is a happier place with Sarah living here.

  But Jack is still a handful. Even so, he’ll always have a special place in my heart, and that’s partly because we both love to read, especially Westerns. Whenever the real world gets too complicated for Jack, he escapes into a book. I just introduced him to one of my favorites, Louis L’Amour, and he’s gobbling up those stories.

  I remember doing the same when I first discovered Louis L’Amour back in the fifties. That man could spin a yarn like nobody’s business. I was so sad to hear that he’d died this past June, but he left us a whole lot of good reading, and I’m grateful for that.

  Winters are dark and cold in Jackson Hole, and I don’t know what I’d do without my Westerns. You can bet this winter both Jack and I will be curled up in front of the fire with a book. I envy Jack having all those Louis L’Amour stories ahead of him.

  I may read them all again, myself. I should probably try one of the new authors, like that Larry McMurtry everyone’s so keen on. But it just seems as if nobody quite comes up to Louis L’Amour.

  1

  Present day

  “WHAT NAME DO you want to go by while you’re at the ranch?”

  Michael James Hartford, aka Western writer Jim Ford, thought about how to answer Jack Chance, who was currently driving him to the Last Chance Ranch. Michael had flown to Wyoming from New York City so he could learn some cowboy basics before a publicity team put him in front of a video camera in three weeks. Nobody besides Jack was supp
osed to know Michael was also Jim Ford, who wrote as if he could ride and rope but...couldn’t.

  He wondered if he should be known as Mike while he was here. A shortened name seemed better for a cowboy, but he already had his Jim Ford persona. If he adopted too many alternate names he wouldn’t remember which one he should answer to. “Michael’s fine,” he said. “Michael Hartford. That shouldn’t tip anybody off.”

  “Michael Hartford it is, then. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though. Some of the hands have read your books, but they’d never believe a greenhorn like you could possibly be the guy who writes those stories.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Michael took the blow to his ego with good humor. His lack of cowboying skills really was an embarrassing joke.

  “Besides, the picture in the back of your books shows you with a mustache. That really changes how a guy looks.”

  “I grow that mustache before I have to make any appearances or get my picture taken. Then I shave it off. I’ll have to start growing it again next week. Between that and the Stetson, I’ve fooled just about everybody except my family, and they’re not about to broadcast the fact that I’m Jim Ford.”

  “I don’t get that. You’d think they’d be proud of you.”

  Michael laughed. “They would be if I wrote deep, philosophical literature. The Hartfords are old money, loaded to the gills with culture. They don’t want to claim a pulp fiction author. That’s actually worked to my advantage. If nobody knows who Jim Ford really is, then nobody knows that he’s never been on a horse in his life.”

  “That still boggles my mind. You write as if you’re a real cowboy. I would have sworn you’d done all those things. What’s your secret?”

  “Research.” Michael felt good knowing he’d managed to get it right, despite his lack of experience. “Plus I grew up reading Louis L’Amour.”

  “Me, too. I didn’t think I’d find his equal, but you’ve hooked me real good. I wish my grandmother was still alive. She would have loved your books, too.”

  “Thank you. That’s high praise.”

  “I mean it sincerely.” Jack shook his head. “But I can’t figure you out. The way you write, I can tell you love the idea of being a cowboy. How come you never got the itch to spend time on a ranch?”

  “You hit the nail on the head. I love the idea of being a cowboy, but I’ve avoided the reality, in case it doesn’t live up to my image of it.” Or I don’t. “I’m selling a fantasy, and if I discover that fantasy doesn’t exist...”

  “Damnation. You mean this visit could burst your bubble? I don’t want that on my conscience.”

  “Hey, Jack, you’re not the one forcing me into this. The publicity department is to blame.” He blew out a breath. “No, that’s not right, either. I created this stupid situation all on my own. I chose to write about a world I don’t know firsthand, and then I accidentally became a big success at it.”

  Jack nodded. “I noticed. Your name keeps getting bigger on the cover.”

  “If my books weren’t selling so well the publisher would never pay for a video of me playing cowboy. My secret would be safe. But they made it clear I need to do this video if I expect continued support from the marketing team.”

  Smiling, Jack glanced over at him. “Cheer up, little buckaroo. It won’t be so bad.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’m going to make a damned fool of myself, and you know it.”

  “Maybe so, but I’ll be the only one who’ll know it. Your lessons will be as private as I can make them.”

  “Thank you for that.” Michael relaxed a little. “Bethany told me I could trust you.” He’d met motivational author Bethany Grace on the Opal Knightly TV talk show and they’d kept in touch. When he’d needed riding lessons on the QT he’d thought of her, because she’d grown up in Jackson Hole.

  “Bethany’s good people,” Jack said. “Did you catch her wedding to Nash Bledsoe on Opal’s show?”

  “Sure did. Nash is a friend of yours, right?”

  “Yep.” Jack checked his mirrors before pulling around a slow-moving semi. “Nash owns a little spread next door to the Last Chance.”

  “Bethany mentioned that. She inherited it, sold it to Nash and the rest reads like a romance novel.”

  Jack chuckled. “It does, at that. Poor Nash, though, having to get hitched on national TV. There was some talk of me being the best man at that shindig, but it was way better for Nash’s dad to have that honor.”

  Michael was beginning to get a bead on Jack’s personality so he made a calculated guess. “You didn’t want to do it, did you?”

  “Hell, no. Not after I found out I had to wear makeup.” Jack grimaced.

  “It’s not so bad, little buckaroo.”

  “Maybe not for a city slicker like yourself, but real cowboys don’t wear makeup.”

  “What about your friend Nash? I guarantee he had on makeup during that wedding.”

  “Only because otherwise he wouldn’t get to marry Bethany. Bethany was beholden to Opal for letting her out of her TV contract, and Opal was determined to stage that wedding on TV.”

  “What a guy won’t do for love.” As he said it, Michael realized he had no personal experience to go by, and that was a damned shame.

  “Ain’t it the truth. My wife, Josie, has got me wrapped around her little finger. Between her and my kid, Archie, I’m like a bull with a ring in its nose. They can lead me anywhere.”

  Michael grinned. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “No, really. They’ve got me hog-tied. How about you? Is there some citified lady calling the shots in your life?”

  “Nope.”

  “Too busy?”

  “Kind of, but that’s not really the problem. The high-society women I meet don’t interest me, but I can’t date the ones I meet as Jim Ford because they think I’m a cowboy, which I’m not.” He didn’t like being caught between worlds, not belonging in either one, but he hadn’t figured out what to do about it. He envied a guy like Jack, who knew who he was and where he fit in.

  Jack tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “But you will be a cowboy.”

  Michael felt a jolt of pleasure at the possibility. But he had to be realistic. “In a week? Not likely.”

  “Are you doubting my ability?”

  “No, I’m doubting mine.”

  “Well, cut that out right now. First and foremost, a cowboy faces every challenge with an air of quiet confidence.”

  “Of course he does, especially if he’s a hero in one of my books.” Michael looked over at Jack and expected they’d share a laugh over that. Instead, Jack seemed totally serious. “Wait, you’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No, I’m not. Being a cowboy is a state of mind. You can start working on your attitude before you ever put your booted foot in a stirrup.”

  “I see.” Michael was fascinated. For years he’d assumed that the larger-than-life cowboys in his books didn’t exist in reality. But Jack Chance was proving that assumption had been dead wrong.

  * * *

  AFTER A YEAR working as the housekeeper at the Last Chance’s main house, Keri Fitzpatrick, former Baltimore socialite, could wield a mean mop. She’d learned the basics from her boss, Sarah Chance, and the cook, Mary Lou Simms. Following their instructions, Keri could clean windows like nobody’s business and polish bathroom fixtures until they sparkled like fine silver.

  But she’d challenge anybody, even a professional armed with power equipment, to eliminate some mysterious smell left by eight adolescent boys. They’d been part of the Last Chance’s summer program for disadvantaged youths, and they’d moved out early that morning. She’d been cleaning nonstop ever since except for a short lunch break with Mary Lou.

  The second floor, where the boys had slept in two rooms fitted with bun
k beds, was warm, and she dripped with sweat. Putting her hair in a ponytail to get it off her neck hadn’t helped cool her off much. She’d opted for jeans instead of shorts because she’d anticipated getting on her hands and knees for this job.

  Sure enough, she’d had to clean some gunk off the baseboards. God knew what it was. She’d dealt with this last August right after being hired, but she was sure the previous year’s batch of kids hadn’t left a stink this bad. She’d noticed a slight odor yesterday, but had thought it would leave with the kids. Instead, it was worse.

  Glancing at her watch, she gasped. The wealthy tenderfoot from New York City was due any minute. She’d been told very little about him, but Jack had said the guy was used to the best.

  Keri had been raised in luxury, too. Although she didn’t live that way now, she knew exactly how to prepare guest quarters for a wealthy man. She’d spit-shined his room, which was at the other end of the hall, right across from her room. The crockery vase of wildflowers she’d placed on his dresser gave off a delicate aroma.

  The poor things couldn’t begin to compete with the stench coming from the boys’ rooms. She’d already tested the situation, and the entire top floor, including the tenderfoot’s room, smelled like a garbage dump. Opening all the windows hadn’t made a dent in the foul odor.

  Desperate to find the source, she went through everything again—closets, drawers, even under the bunk beds. Finally she found a kitchen matchbox crammed so far under one of the bunks that she’d missed it when she’d swept and mopped. Using a broom, she nudged it free and nearly gagged. She’d found her culprit.

  She shouldn’t have looked, but after all this effort, she wanted to know what was in that box. As she slid open the matchbox, the smell got worse. She stared at a very fragrant, and very dead, mouse. It rested on a carefully folded tissue, and a second tissue covered the lower part of its body, so only the head was exposed.

  Guessing what had happened wasn’t hard. She’d been around the boys enough to understand how their minds worked. They’d found the dead mouse, decided it deserved a decent burial and put it in the matchbox. Then they’d forgotten all about it.