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       “Most people just call me Chance, since that’s my name.”

      “Fine. So, why are you here … Chance?”

      “Can I be honest with you?”

      “I don’t know. Can you be honest?”

      Damn but that question hit a little too close to home. Good thing he was the poker player in the family.

      He deflected her question with a wink and a little smirk. “I’ll plead the Fifth on that one. You know what folks say—all’s fair in love and war.”

      “Yeah, but which is this?”

      “You tell me, Cassidy.”

      “You still haven’t answered my question.”

      “Which one?”

      “Well, you’re a man, so we know you can’t be honest. So that leaves the other one. Why are you here?”

      “Ow. I lodge a protest in the name of men everywhere.” He offered her another crooked grin and a wink as he added, “I came to see you.”

      “Why?”

      Time to lay his cards on the table. “Because I want to take you to dinner.”

      * * *

      Cowgirls Don’t Cry is a Red Dirt Royalty book—These Oklahoma millionaires work hard and play harder.

       Dear Reader,

      I’m an Oklahoma red-dirt cowgirl bred, born and raised. Once you get red dirt in your blood or on your clothes, it never washes out. When I was lucky enough to share a walk through New York City and lunch with the man who would become my Mills & Boon editor, I popped off and asked, “If I write you a Mills & Boon Desire story, will you read it?” He laughed but said, “Absolutely.”

      Back in my writing cave, I went to work. I wanted to write about my home state. The people here are as fascinating and enduring as the land itself. We have cowboys, oilmen, billionaires, country music stars and smart women more than capable of wrangling their men. It took hearing a country-and-western song, sung by two Okies, to figure out the story of Cassidy Morgan and Chance Barron.

      I wrote the manuscript. My editor read it. And here it is. To say I’m excited to share Chance and Cassie’s story is an understatement. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed the telling. If you like it, please let me know.

      Happy reading,

      Silver James

      Cowgirls Don’t Cry

      Silver James

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      SILVER JAMES likes walks on the wild side and coffee. Okay. She loves coffee. Warning: her muse, Iffy, runs with scissors. A cowgirl at heart, she’s also been an army officer’s wife and mum and has worked in the legal field, fire service and law enforcement. Now retired from the real world, she lives in Oklahoma, USA and spends her days writing with the assistance of her two Newfoundland dogs, the cat who rules them all and the myriad characters living in her imagination. She loves interacting with readers on her blog, Twitter and Facebook. Find her at www.silverjames.com.

      To my dad, who taught me how to ride and all about cowboy honor, to my family for always believing in me, and to Charles, my editor, for his faith in my abilities, his enthusiasm and his patience.

      Contents

       Cover

       Back Cover Text

       Introduction

      Dear Reader

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

Five

       Six

       Seven

       Eight

       Nine

       Ten

       Eleven

       Twelve

       Thirteen

       Fourteen

       Fifteen

       Sixteen

       Seventeen

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       One

      Chance Barron always knew exactly what he wanted. At the moment, he’d set his sights on the attractive blonde sitting at the hotel bar.

      The late-March blizzard had shut down Chicago O’Hare Airport, and he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. The weather service predicted the storm would blow over by morning, and he’d be on the first flight back to Oklahoma City. In the meantime, there was a pretty little gal all alone knocking back martinis like water. She’d twisted her hair up on top of her head and secured it with something that looked like a chopstick. Her face remained angled away from him, but the graceful curve of her jaw and neck had him noticing her profile. The red jacket and black slacks showed fashion flair and, despite the snow, she sported boots with impossible heels.

      He studied her like she was evidence in a hotly contested case and debated how to phrase his opening argument. She ordered another martini and when the drink was served, he watched her long fingers play with the plastic pick and all but gulped as her full lips slid over the ripe, green olive stuffed with a cocktail onion. His groin tightened as his mind conjured up sexy images. A one-night stand wouldn’t hurt, and he’d certainly be in a better mood to deal with the old man when he got home.

      Thoughts of his father, Cyrus Barron,

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