One Fine Cowboy by Joanne KennedyOne Fine Cowboy by Joanne Kennedy

One Fine Cowboy

byJoanne Kennedy

Mass Market Paperback | September 1, 2010

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He's got a way with horses? and with women? Nate Shawcross is perfectly content to spend his days training wild horses, but after his ambitious ex-girlfriend distributes brochures behind his back, horse lovers from all over the country are arriving at the ranch expecting a three-week workshop. When a beautiful greenhorn unexpectedly shows up for a seminar from the famous "Horse Whisperer" of Wyoming, all Nate wants to do is send her packing-until an impending foreclosure makes him willing to do anything to save his horses.Graduate student and East Coast animal rights activist Charlie Banks is skeptical that a rough and tumble cowboy can teach her anything about animal behavior, but as she watches Nate work, the horse isn't the only one who succumbs to the handsome cowboy's "whispering." Could it be that after all this time Nate has finally found the one woman who can tame his wild heart?Praise for One Fine Cowboy : "An entertaining and humorous romance." - Booklist starred review "Refreshing and fun from the first page to the last. Beautifully done!" - Fresh Fiction "Tender, yet spicy? Joanne Kennedy writes a darn good romance." -Wendy's Minding Spot "Joanne Kennedy delivers the perfect recipe for romance in OneFine Cowboy? an engaging story that will pull you in from the start. She writes characters with depth and brimming with emotion. This one is not to be missed." -Bellas Novellas
Joanne Kennedy's lifelong fascination with Wyoming's unique blend of past and present inspires her to write contemporary Western romances with traditional ranch settings. In 2010 she was nominated for a RITA award for One Fine Cowboy. At various times, Joanne has dabbled in horse training, chicken farming, and bridezilla wrangling at a...
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Title:One Fine CowboyFormat:Mass Market PaperbackDimensions:416 pages, 6.88 × 4.19 × 1.24 inPublished:September 1, 2010Publisher:SourcebooksLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:1402236700

ISBN - 13:9781402236709

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Reviews

Rated 3 out of 5 by from One fine cowboy A bit slow for me, but still good reading
Date published: 2014-11-10
Rated 5 out of 5 by from One fine cowboy Excellent story. My favourite novel of hers so far! It was hard to put it down! Can't wait for the next!!
Date published: 2013-10-05

Read from the Book

From Chapter 1 The cowboy boot was the most pathetic piece of footwear Charlie had ever seen. Upended on a fence post, it was dried out and sunbaked into dog-bone quality rawhide. She glanced down at the directions in the dude ranch brochure. After pavement ends, go 1.6 miles and turn right. Boot on fence post points toward ranch. The boot's drooping toe pointed straight down toward the ground. Evidently, Latigo Ranch was located somewhere in the vicinity of hell. No surprise there. Still, the boot was a welcome sight, signaling the last leg of the weird Western treasure hunt laid out in the brochure, and putting Charlie one step closer to getting done with this cowboy nonsense and going home to New Jersey where she belonged. Back to New Brunswick, with its crowded streets and endless pavement; its nonstop soundtrack of whining sirens; its Grease Trucks and commuter buses. Back to the smog-smudged brick of New Jersey and the slightly metallic, smoky scent of home. Wyoming, on the other hand, smelled disturbingly organic, like sagebrush and cowflops, and offered nothing but endless expanses of featureless prairie with a few twisted pines wringing a scant living out of the rocky ground. If this was home on the range, the deer and the antelope were evidently taking the summer off. She hadn't seen so much as a prairie dog at play since she'd crossed the Nebraska border. Cranking the steering wheel to the right, Charlie let her back end spin up a plume of dust, then winced as the Celica jerked to a halt. Yanking on the emergency break and flinging open the door, she stomped around to the front of the car to watch the right front tire hiss out its life in a deep, jagged pothole. She pulled in a long breath and let it out slow. She could handle this. Reaching under the seat, she hauled out the jack and climbed out of the car. After a fair amount of fumbling around, she managed to set the jack handle and start cranking, ignoring the itch that prickled between her shoulder blades as the sun leached sweat from her skin. The car rose, then rose some more. Then it shifted sideways, groaned like a tipping cow, and slammed back onto the ground, its wounded tire splayed at a hideously unnatural angle. This was no ordinary flat tire. Charlie knelt in the dust, staring at the crippled car. What now? She was in the middle of nowhere with a screwdriver, a roll of duct tape, and a 1978 Celica hatchback that looked as if euthanasia would be the only humane solution. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets to push back the tears. She wasn't scared. She really wasn't. That couldn't be her heart pounding. Couldn't be. It was... it was... Hoofbeats. Hoofbeats, drumming the road behind her. She turned to see a Stetson-topped silhouette approaching, dark against the setting sun. Lurching to her feet, she fell back against the car as a horse and rider skidded to a stop six feet away, gravel pinging off the car's rear bumper. The sun kept the horseman's features in shadow, but Charlie could see he was long-boned and rangy, with pale eyes glimmering under a battered gray hat. She could almost hear the eerie whistle of a spaghetti Western soundtrack emanating from the rocky landscape behind him. She'd have been scared except one corner of his thin lips kept twitching, threatening to break into a smile as he looked her up and down. It had to be her outfit. Saddle Up Western Wear called it "Dude Couture," but she was starting to think "Dude Torture" would be more appropriate. The boots were so high-heeled and pointy-toed she could barely drive in them, let alone walk, and she was tempted to follow local tradition and upend them on a fence post for buzzard bait. Then there was the elaborately fringed jacket and the look-at-me-I'm-a-cowgirl shirt with its oversized silver buttons. She cursed the perky Saddle Up salesgirl for the fourteenth time that day and straightened up, squaring her shoulders. "Whoa," the rider said, shifting his weight as the horse danced in place. "Easy there, Honey." "I'm not your honey." She tossed her head and her dark hair flared up like a firecracker, then settled back into its customary spiky shag. The horse pranced backward a few steps, then stilled, twitching with restless energy. "I know. Easy, Honey," the rider repeated, patting the horse's neck. "Tupelo Honey. That's her name," he explained. "Oh." Charlie looked up at the animal's rolling eyes and flaring nostrils and blushed for the first time in fifteen years. "I thought you meant me." "Nope. The horse. So you might want to calm down. You're making her nervous, and she's liable to toss me again." Honey pitched her head up, prancing nervously in place as he eased back on the reins. "It's her first time." "Her first time," Charlie repeated blankly. "First time in the open under saddle," he said. "Doing just fine, too." He bent down to fondle the horse's mane. "Doing just dandy," he crooned softly. Charlie watched him rotate his fingers in tiny circles, rubbing the horse's copper-colored pelt. Honey's longlashed eyes drifted shut as she heaved a hard sigh and loosened her muscles, cocking one hind leg. "Niiiice," the rider purred. Charlie felt like she'd interrupted an intimate encounter. "Sorry." Dammit, she was blushing again. "I'm trying to get to Latigo Ranch. My car broke down." She gestured toward the crippled Celica. "Latigo? You're already there," he said. He swung one arm in a slow half-circle to encompass the surrounding landscape. "This is it. You a friend of Sandi's or something?" "A customer," she said. Sandi Givens was listed as "your hostess" in the glossy dude ranch brochure that lay on the Celica's front seat. He straightened in the saddle and widened his eyes. "You came all this way for Mary Kay?" "Mary Kay?" Charlie shook her head. "No way. They do animal testing. I came out here to do some research on horse whispering." She attempted a smile. "I'm a grad student. Psychology." The rider bunched the reins in his fist and backed the horse a step or two. The horse moved cautiously, one foot at a time, nodding her head and laying back her ears. "Well, Sandi could sure use a shrink, but she's not home. And don't let her tell you she knows anything about horses. Whispering or otherwise." Charlie shrugged. "Well, duh. She's just the hostess." "Hostess of what?" "The dude ranch. I'm going to a Nate Shawcross clinic." The cowboy narrowed his eyes. With his battered hat and the two-day growth of stubble on his chin, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Clint Eastwood. That eerie, fluttering whistle pierced her subconscious again. "Nate Shawcross doesn't do clinics," he said. "Yes, he does. I have a reservation." She set her fists on her hips and squared her shoulders. "Is there some kind of problem?" "Kind of." He leaned forward and pointed a thumb at his own chest. "Because I'm Nate Shawcross, and I don't know a damned thing about any clinic." Charlie stood stunned, her mouth hanging open.