Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33407 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 167(@200wpm)___ 134(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Dotty
Listen, I didn't mean to hit Zac Maple, country music's golden boy, with my car. He walked right in front of me. Totally not my fault.
Equally not my fault is everyone thinking we're dating. I didn't start that rumor. He did that when he was incoherently babbling about soulmates. This rowdy cowboy is over the top and way too possessive!
Zac
My brother said that sometimes love hits you out of nowhere. He wasn’t wrong. I have the concussion to prove it.
Problem is, the little pixie who hit me wants nothing to do with me. But the whole town thinks we're dating, and I'll use every advantage I have to win my girl's heart. Because this cowboy is head over heels and completely gone for the sassy reporter.
If you love fake dating romances and possessive cowboys who are all-in from the first awkward meet cute, then it's time to fall for Zac Maple in Big Rowdy Cowboy. One click for a story so hot you’ll need an ice cube!
It’s time to meet the Maple Brothers, the sweetest cowboys in Courage County. These OTT alpha cowboys are determined to claim the curvy women who have stolen their hearts. Cuddle up with these sexy new book boyfriends from Mia Brody today!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Dotty
My dream isn’t to spend my days chasing around a cow with an attitude. It’s to write stories that would otherwise go untold without my journalistic instincts. Instead, I’m working on yet another article that will have a fascinating headline like, “What’s Betsy Up to Today”.
OK, that’s a slight exaggeration…at least, the part about the headline. Still, I’m pretty sure Sylvia, my editor, only assigns me these articles because she hates me.
I’m an intern at The Courage Chronicle, a tiny newspaper in a tiny forgotten town. Other than getting coffee and helping the real reporters, there are only a few topics I’m allowed to cover, and Betsy is one of them.
This is the reason why I’m driving around in my beat-up car, otherwise known as Rust Bucket. Rusty here doesn’t have a reverse and barely even runs unless I say a little chant and put my hands on the dashboard.
Lately, I’ve been trying positive affirmations, but so far, that hasn’t manifested me a new car or a full tank of gas so I’m thinking of giving up on those entirely.
Rusty makes a noise like her engine is coughing, and I peer down the dusty dirt road in front of me. I’m not sure which path Betsy has wandered onto.
I can’t believe I’m out here chasing a cow when the “storm of the century” hit Courage County earlier today. Most of the town is up on the mountain, helping the stranded citizens. The real reporters are there too. They’re capturing stories of bravery and heroism.
The engine makes another clunking noise, and I drop my speed down to twenty miles an hour. It’s getting dark, and I’m having trouble seeing the road. The thing about a tiny town like Courage County is that there are rarely streetlights. Especially on backroads like this one.
I think I’m on the Maple Farm, but I’m not sure. I’ve taken so many twists and turns in my quest to satisfy the burning curiosity of the town citizens regarding Betsy’s whereabouts. I see a blur of something as my asthmatic engine continues wheezing.
Quickly, I crane my neck to look behind me. I’d stop the car, except that there’s no reverse in Rust Bucket. Once I have committed to a path, I’m pretty much stuck on it unless I can find enough room to do a U-turn.
I’m so focused on the road sign behind me that I feel the impact a second too late. I slam on my brakes and watch helplessly as a cowboy crumples to his knees in front of the car before collapsing in a heap on the dirt road.
I let loose with a string of swears under my breath, shoving Rusty into park. I scramble from the vehicle, horror and shock overtaking me. I just hit a pedestrian! I mean, he wandered into the middle of the road, but will Judge Helen see it that way? I try to remember if any of the articles I’ve read about her mentioned her being tough on crime or if she has any cowboy grandsons.
“Please, don’t be dead or related to Judge Helen,” I whisper as I approach the cowboy. My heart pounds furiously. I don’t know what to do or who to call.
The problem with living in a small town is there’s no emergency number. You call the sheriff on his cell phone and pray he answers. I’m pretty sure my phone is still in my car, but the battery died several hours ago.