Spotlight & Giveaway: The Cowboy Contract by Paula Altenburg

Today, HJ is pleased to share with you Paula Altenburg’s new release: The Cowboy Contract

When a high-end, off-the-grid, Wild West themed ghost town needs a country singer for an elite international client, Burning Scrub has two months to turn a reluctant country star into a cowboy with a hit record.

Winner of a national vocal competition Beau Jones hates country music and the recording contract hanging over his head. But his family needs the prize money. His agent books him into a remote Montana ranch for two months to polish his brand, teach him how to cowboy up and record a country record whether Beau agrees or not. When Beau wakes up in a frontier jail, watched by a beautiful jailer, he resolves to be the worst cowboy this town has ever seen.

Internal medicine doctor Belle Forsythe is tasked with keeping Beau out of trouble. She has no interest in celebrities or country music. She has a five-year contract, which will pay off her medical school debt. Until then she’s determined to keep her twenty-first-century doctoring skills current and research nineteenth-century medical practices.

Belle’s resolved to her fate until Beau. He’s an advertisement for trouble and she can’t wait.

Enjoy an exclusive excerpt from The Cowboy Contract 

Chapter One
Beau

“Winning that contest was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

Beau Jones knew he sounded ungrateful. He knew he was whining. He also knew this whole mess was his own doing. He’d signed up for the contest. But if he had to play one more country music concert, he was going to go out of his mind.

He’d been a struggling rock musician until Leon Schmidt heard him sing and decided his rough, gravelly voice was better suited to country. Unfortunately for Beau, a panel of judges, the entire United States of America, and an enthusiastic international audience had agreed with his pragmatic, mercenary, and largely unsympathetic agent.

Leon was the kind of guy who could pass as an enforcer for the mob. A red-veined, bulbous nose had been broken at least once, more likely two or three times. It keeled to the left. He had a nick out of one ear that anyone with a spark of intelligence could tell had been sliced by a knife. A barrel chest, and extraordinarily long arms with thick, meaty hands attached to ankle-sized wrists, enhanced the whole boxer-gone-bad image he liked to exploit. A cold-eyed, soulless stare also worked in his favor.

Sometimes it worked in Beau’s favor, too. More often, it didn’t. He’d signed with Leon in the heat of the moment. He didn’t regret it, exactly, because Leon was fair, if not honest, and a whole lot more decent than his massive-arched brow ridge implied. But Leon had his own ideas about where Beau’s career was headed, and Beau didn’t like them. Not one little bit.

The two men were sitting in Leon’s New York City office, closer to the Bronx than Manhattan, in a neighborhood not yet run down but on the cusp of neglect. The building might be considered discreet in polite circles. Its brick exterior was unassuming, but inside, it was secure. Beau’d had to ring a bell in the phone-booth-sized foyer, forcing Leon to run down three flights of stairs to let him inside.

The stairs quavered under Leon’s weight but remained steadfast, if somewhat resigned. The skinny stairwell carried a dried-out, funky smell Beau equated with his ancient, equally dried-out Southern great-grandmother who drank watered-down gin from a jug and whose long-dead husband Beau had been named for.

Leon’s surprisingly spacious third-floor corner office consisted of a single room with a decent view of the abutting building and the one across the street, a mahogany desk, and two easy chairs. How he’d gotten that monster-sized desk up those stairs, Beau couldn’t say. There had to be a rear entrance. Or maybe he’d had to assemble it, like something from one of those fancy Swedish furniture stores.

Either way, since the office had no filing cabinets, no receptionist, and no comforts other than the desk and chairs to make it even remotely a fun place to work, Beau assumed Leon only used the space to meet clients.

“Are you performing for money or art?” Leon asked, going straight for the throat. “Because I’ll tell you right now, art don’t pay shit.”

Beau knew Leon was right. It didn’t mean he had to like it. Or agree with him out loud.

“I wanted to play my own music for that audition.” He’d hired Leon two days before the audition—he was that sure of himself—then allowed himself to be persuaded to change his style, even though he knew he’d sold himself out.

“Country music is huge,” Leon had said. “And do you have any idea how much country lies between New York and California?”

Beau did now. He’d breezed through the audition, got picked by a country judge, been coached in all things country, then gone on to win the season by a landslide. Unfortunately, the terms of his contract with the network stated he had to perform at every hillbilly hoedown known to mankind to keep his image on brand. God, how he hated country.

He did, however, like money. A few years of singing in subways made a man learn to appreciate money real fast.

Leon leaned forward to plant elbows and clasped hands on his brand-new, fancy desk. “I understand you’ve had a rigorous schedule, so here’s the deal. I’ve discussed it with the network, and they’ve agreed to give you some time off. But you’ve got to use it to polish your country roots.”

“I don’t have country roots.”

They could dress him up in these tacky shirts and boots, give him a leather string tie, and slap a Stetson on his head to make him look the part. He could fake a very faint, lame-ass drawl—aw, shucks—to sort of sound it. His Southern great-grannie gave him slight credence. But he’d been born and raised in upstate New York to blue-collar parents, and thanks to Google, there’d be no hiding that.

“Exactly.” Leon looked too satisfied for Beau’s comfort. “Cowboys aren’t born; they’re made. Wilf Carter came from some dinky little village on the east coast of Canada where they grow apples.”

“Wilf who?” Beau asked, bewildered.

What did some apple-growing Canadian have to do with his roots?

“Jesus, Beau.” Leon rubbed his thick forehead in despair. “Do your research. He’s Montana Slim. Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame? It’s like you don’t want to help yourself. You don’t even know one of the greatest country music legends of all time. This is why you’re being given a two-month hiatus.” His eyes hardened. “You’ve been looking a mite peaked, too.”

Beau blinked. “Did you just say mite?”

“Helping you brush up on the parley, pardner.”

Kill me now.

Beau decided to focus on the silver lining in what he’d just heard. “Thanks for getting me the hiatus. I need the break. What with me being so peaked, and all.”

If Leon caught the sarcasm he didn’t let on. “Not so fast, New Jersey Slim. It’s a working hiatus.”

“Now I’m confused. How can having to work be called a hiatus?”

“Let me explain it to you. The network has agreed that you can spend two months on a working ranch in Montana, where you’re going to earn your spurs as a cowboy.”

“The hell I am,” Beau said.

Leon couldn’t be serious.

But Leon was. He rummaged in a drawer, then slapped a dog-eared book on the desk. He slid it across the pristine mahogany surface toward Beau. Beau peered at the title. The Cowboy Way, by David McCumber.

“Here’s your instruction manual,” Leon said. “The plane ticket’s booked and I emailed it to you. You’ll fly into Butte, Montana, where a cowpoke named Adam Caldwell will pick you up. There are NDAs in place, but don’t be surprised if the ranch goes that extra mile to guarantee privacy. No need to be alarmed. The press release is already prepared—the stress of sudden fame and recurrent mental health issues require you to take some me time so you can replenish your artistic well. Thank Jesus for the mental health awareness movement.” He lifted his eyes to the water-stained ceiling and crossed himself.

This conversation couldn’t be happening.

Beau shifted tactics. “I don’t have any mental health issues. Are you seriously trying to leverage off a legitimate illness to further your own interests?”

“I’m furthering yours. Maybe mine, too,” Leon conceded, unrepentant. “Didn’t you just say you were about to lose your mind?”

“I didn’t mean that literally.”

“Too bad. If you want the time off, two months are all they’ll give you, and a stint on a working ranch is the only way you’ll get them. You signed their contract, remember?”

“You’re my agent. You’re supposed to look out for these landmines.”

“I guess my definition of a landmine is different than yours. Mostly because I’m not a big sissy. Look on the bright side, Beau. You’ve been putting on a few pounds from eating in all those expensive restaurants on the road. You’re about to get a two-month workout for free. It’ll save you hours in a gym with a personal trainer shouting at you. Just think of all the lady-loving you’ll get once you’re toned.”

He’d lost any desire for lady-loving right after discovering his wife—now ex—was loving another man on the side.

“What are you going to be doing for the two months I’m gone?” he asked, suspicious.

As far as he could tell, based on the amount of love and attention he’d been receiving, he was Leon’s only client. The only one bringing in any real money, at least.

“I’m headed to an island in the Caribbean for a month so I can regain my mojo. After that, I’m off to see Italy and France. Frankly, you’re exhausting, and I need a vacation.”

“I hate you,” Beau said.

Leon’s smile warmed his cold eyes but didn’t touch his black soul. “In two months, you’ll thank me. Your flight leaves at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow. And to show there’s no hard feelings, I’ll even give you a lift to the airport. In fact”—his evil smile widened—“I insist.”

Beau

Beau stepped onto the sidewalk in front of Leon’s office and found that a small crowd had formed. A young girl, maybe thirteen, wearing a cropped white T-shirt with no bra to support breasts the size of small grapefruit, thrust a felt marker under his nose.

“Beau! Can I have your autograph?”

He loved his fans, and he couldn’t turn a little girl down, no matter how ill-advised she was dressed. “I’d be happy to. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Candi. With an i.”

He took the marker and looked in vain for something to sign. Damn it. He knew where this was going.

A Yellow cab, cut off by a black Lincoln sedan wedged out of its lane by a fan dodging through traffic, blared its horn in irritation. The Lincoln’s driver responded with a flip of his finger. If only Beau had the same freedom.

The girl pointed to her left breast—right above the perky, delicate tip of the grapefruit. “Right here.”

That was not going to happen. Fortunately, he’d learned a few tricks after the first time a fan had tried to get him to mark her up in inappropriate places. Mindful of cell phones clicking away, he took her by the shoulders, turned her around, and scrawled Candi + Beau across the shoulders of her T-shirt’s cheap, stretchy fabric. The marker bled through to her skin, which wasn’t his problem. It could have been worse.

“How about a selfie?” someone asked next.

He posed for selfies and signed more autographs. Luckily, the remainder didn’t involve clothing or skin. He should talk to Leon about putting out the word that after his hiatus, he’d only sign paper.

The crowd continued to grow. He couldn’t figure out where they all came from. He hired a security detail when he went to public events, but normally, he could walk around the city without attracting too much attention, and Leon’s office wasn’t exactly in a trendy location.

A Nikon D5 emerged from the crowd. Beau didn’t meet too many fans who owned seven-thousand-dollar cameras, meaning a journalist had to be on the other end. A sinking sensation crawled into his stomach. What would a journalist be doing on the street outside of his agent’s office?

The journalist shrugged through the tangle of arms, legs, and heads.

“Beau!” she called out. “Any truth to the rumor you’re taking time off from performing for mental health reasons?”

Leon, the liar, had already sent the press release out. Beau became very conscious of the tattered book pressed against his spine where he’d tucked it into the waistband of the American Eagle jeans his stylist made him wear because they were Blake Shelton’s favorite. Thank God it was covered by his equally Blake-beloved jacket. This was what his life had become. He couldn’t even choose his own clothes anymore.

Beau, however, had worked too long and hard to get where he was to throw it away in a moment of temper. He smiled into the camera, making it seem as if the smile was for the pretty journalist behind it. It was a particular talent of his. The camera loved him, as did his legions of female fans.

“I don’t know what rumor you might’ve heard, but I’ll give you an exclusive on the facts,” he said, offering up his best aw shucks, modest grin. “I’ll be busy writing songs for a new album.” The album didn’t exist. Not yet. But it would.

Because if Leon believed he was going to spend two months playing cowboy, Beau had a herd of buffalo to sell him.

The crowd began to spill into the street. Beau started walking, hoping to get far enough ahead of the fans that he could flag a cab down. Surely, they’d give up before he walked the whole way to his apartment. He wasn’t a Jonas brother.

Although he was the handsomest blond-haired, blue-eyed country singer to come along since Keith Urban—or so he’d been told.

People finally realized he was done signing autographs and giving exclusives and began to drop off.

After five blocks, he managed to hail a cab.

He checked his cell phone for voice messages on the drive home. There were three. Two were from his sisters, both wanting money. Etransfers took care of those. The third call was more complex. It made his palms sweat, and he didn’t want to deal with it while the cabdriver listened in, so he waited until he reached his apartment.

He’d moved into the top floor of a converted warehouse in Red Hook, an up-and-coming neighborhood in Brooklyn for artists, six months ago. The cab dropped him off at the front entrance.

An old service elevator took him to the top floor. His apartment overlooked the harbor, a feature he liked very much, and the custom leather sofa in the living room faced an exterior glass wall. He tossed the book Leon gave him onto the glass and steel coffee table, where it looked out of place next to the artfully arranged industry magazines he’d never dared pick up and read.

It was a long way from the one-bedroom walk-up in Newark he’d shared with Jen. One end contained his sound studio and equipment and was where he spent most of his time. The rest of the apartment felt like a showroom for a women’s home decorating magazine. The interior decorator Leon—the bastard—hired for him had really outdone herself, to the point where Beau was afraid to touch anything. He’d cooked in the kitchen precisely once, and eating the hotdog he’d nuked made him feel as if he’d defiled sanctified space. Ordering takeout was easier than living with the blight on his soul.

He sat down and took a few minutes to put himself in the right frame of mind for the ordeal ahead. Then, he speed-dialed his ex-wife.

“Hey, Jen,” he said, forcing himself to sound upbeat. “What’s up?”

“Beau.” She spoke his name with that little hint of breathlessness that always heated him up. “The news is all over the internet and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“What news?” he hedged, even though there could be little doubt.

“I had no idea you were struggling. Is there anything I can do to help?”

For the tiniest of seconds, he allowed himself to dream she was sincere. But Jen wasn’t the type of woman who helped other people, particularly not him—not even when they were married. She’d always looked to him to take care of her. She still did, even though she was the one who’d walked out on their marriage.

“I can’t do this anymore, baby,” she’d said, tears in her big baby-doll eyes. “It’s time we both accept that you aren’t going to make it in music.”

She’d left him for a used car salesman in New Jersey, then a week later, filed for divorce. The divorce, ironically, became final three months before he landed the spot on TV.

Beau gave her credit for being partially right. He hadn’t made it in rock and roll. He’d made it in country. He felt like a failure for giving up on his dream.

Jennifer, however, saw the dollar signs she’d missed out on and wasn’t about to let a pesky divorce stand in her way. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe she truly cared. She didn’t love him anymore. She loved what he could do for her. He just wanted to think she might actually care for a few seconds and give that sinking feeling he always got right before disaster struck a chance to settle down.

“How did you get this number?” he asked.

“Beau.” She managed to sound hurt as well as chastising. He could imagine the tears welling up in those beautiful baby-blue eyes. “Your mother gave it to me.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Of course she had. She and his sisters loved Jennifer. She’d been part of the family since he first began dating her when they were seventeen. They’d broken up and got back together so often neither one of them could keep track. They’d even dated other people in between. But he’d kept going back to her because she was beautiful, and fragile, and he’d felt so damned protective toward her. Marriage had been a mistake. He couldn’t even remember whose idea that was.

There was a simple life lesson buried in all of this that he’d been slow in learning but finally gotten—if a pretty girl had a problem, chances were good she was the problem, and Jen wallowed in problems like a hog in mud on a hot day. He was so done with beautiful, fragile women who needed protecting.

It wasn’t long before she couldn’t handle the silence. “I need to know you’re okay,” she said.

She then launched into a discourse on the good old days, which hadn’t been all that great, so he tuned her out while he waited for her to get around to the real reason she’d called.

“Can we meet?” she finally asked.

He couldn’t contain his horror. “Hell, no. Just tell me how much money you want.”

She gasped, letting him know what an asshole he was. “Do you think I called you for money?”

Yes. That was the only reason anyone from the old days ever contacted him. His ex-wife was no exception.

“I can’t meet you right now. I’m busy.” He caught sight of Leon’s book, all dog-eared and tattered. Not a chance. He didn’t know where he’d go instead of Montana, but thanks to Leon and his press release, staying at home was out of the question. “I’ll be out of town for a few months.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment in him was evident—and all too familiar. “Maybe I should borrow a little money from you, just in case I run short while you’re away. We can sit down and talk about our future once you get back.”

He was tempted to ask if their future included her car salesman but decided it didn’t matter. He had to put an end to these calls and any hope she might have for yet another reconciliation. They’d established this pattern in high school, and he was done. They weren’t healthy together and no amount of money would ever fix that.

He named a sum that was pretty much what he’d just given his sisters combined. She’d gotten a raw deal as far as alimony was concerned, because when they split up, there’d been nothing to give her. He still wasn’t rich. Not by a long shot. But he was well on his way and, compared to where they’d been when they were married, he couldn’t blame her for feeling as if she’d earned a cut.

“It’s a gift, not a loan. Invest it in yourself. Take that beautician’s course you used to talk about.” He felt guilty that they’d never been able to afford it. “But you have to promise not to call me again,” he said, hoping she’d understand that he meant it.

“I love you, Beau.”

Sure you do.

He was familiar. Better than nothing. And now he had money. He disconnected the call, then made a direct deposit into their old joint bank account that he’d transferred into her name when they split up.

After that, he was left with nothing to do for the rest of the day, since he could no longer leave his apartment thanks to Leon’s press release. He could work on his music, but he’d had it with country. He sang rock and roll, damn it. That was what he wanted to write, too. Suddenly, two months away from the fans and the press didn’t seem like such a bad deal—except for the ranch gig in Montana. That part still sucked.

Rebellion settled in. He didn’t have to stay at the ranch. Just show up long enough for that suspicious bastard Leon to check on him and know he’d arrived. Then he’d quit. He’d take cash so Leon couldn’t track him, and he’d do some exploring. See America. While he wasn’t a nature lover—he liked the convenience of cities too much—he could stay in hotels and spend some of his money on himself for a change. Maybe get some of those new songs written. Reevaluate his professional goals.

He might even see about hiring himself a new agent.

Excerpt. ©Paula Altenburg. Posted by arrangement with the publisher. All rights reserved.
 
 

Giveaway: Winner will receive one ebook copy of THE COWBOY CONTRACT plus one additional ebook of the winner’s choice from Tule Publishing.

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Meet the Author:

USA Today Bestselling Author Paula Altenburg lives in rural Nova Scotia, Canada with her husband and two sons. A former aviation and aerospace professional, Paula now writes contemporary romance and fantasy with romantic elements. You can connect with her at www.paulaaltenburg.com.

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