Taken by the Cowboy (30 page)

He shifted into reverse
to back out of the parking spot. “I’m sure we could help each other
out. You strike me as the competitive type. How early do you like
to get up on a Saturday morning?”

“Very early,” she
replied, “unless there’s a reckless consumption of moonshine the
night before, which shouldn’t happen too often, I hope.”

“I’ll try not to be a
bad influence.” He hit the gas and headed toward the exit.

“I’m also thinking
about writing a book,” she added.

He drove under the
museum archway, pulled out onto the street, and shifted into second
gear. “Really?” He looked her square in the eye. “That sounds
amazing. What kind of book?”

“A romance novel,” she
replied. “Maybe a time travel.”

Jake put on his
sunglasses and grinned at her. “What would you call it?”

She slipped off one of
her red stilettos and massaged her calf and arch while she thought
about it. “Taken by the Cowboy,” she said at last, “and I shouldn’t
have to do much research at all.”

He chuckled softly.
“That sounds like something I might like to read. Just make sure
you work in those red stilettos somehow, because they’re really
hot.” He shifted into second gear and sped up the street. “Now
let’s go to the costume shop and see if we can rustle up a pair of
handcuffs and a leather gun belt.”

“And a hat,” Jessica
added as she leaned close and laid her hand on his gorgeous
muscular thigh, “because there’s just something about a man in a
Stetson.”

They turned a corner,
and he shifted smoothly into third.

-THE END-

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By Julianne MacLean

writing under the
pseudonym E.V. Mitchell

Excerpt - Copyright
2011 Julianne MacLean

All rights reserved

Preface

A lot goes through your
mind when you’re dying. What they say about life flashing before
your eyes is true. You remember things from your childhood and
adolescence – specific images, vivid and real, like brilliant
sparks of light exploding in your brain.

Somehow you’re able to
comprehend the whole of your life in that single instant of
reflection, as if it were a panoramic view. You have no choice but
to look at your decisions and accomplishments – or lack of them –
and decide for yourself if you did all that you could do.

And you panic just a
little, wishing for one more chance at all the beautiful moments
you didn’t appreciate, or for one more day with the person you
didn’t love quite enough.

You also wonder in
those frantic, fleeting seconds, as your spirit shoots through a
dark tunnel, if heaven exists on the other side, and if so, what
you will find there.

What will it look like?
What color will it be?

Then you see a light –
a brilliant, dazzling light – more calming and loving than any
words can possibly describe, and everything finally makes sense to
you. You are no longer afraid, and you know what lies ahead.

Chapter One

In this remarkable,
complex world of ours, there are certain people who appear to lead
charmed lives. They are blessed with natural beauty, have
successful and fulfilling careers. They drive expensive cars, live
in upscale neighborhoods, and are happily married to gorgeous and
brilliant spouses.

I was once one of those
people. Or at least that’s how I was perceived.

Not that I hadn’t
endured my share of hardships. My childhood had been far from
idyllic. My relationship with my father was strained at best, and
there were certain pivotal events that I preferred to forget
altogether – events that involved my mother, which I don’t really
wish to go into now, but I will explain later, I promise.

All you need to know is
that for a number of years my life was perfect, and I found more
happiness than I ever dreamed possible.

* * *

My name is Sophie. I
grew up in Camden, Maine, but moved to Augusta when I was fourteen.
I have one sister. Her name is Jen and we look nothing alike. Jen
is blonde and petite (she takes after our mother), while I am tall,
with dark auburn hair.

Jen was always a good
girl. She did well in school and graduated with honors. She went to
university on scholarship and is now a social worker in New
Hampshire, where she lives with her husband, Joe, a successful
contractor.

I, on the other hand,
was not such a model student, nor was I an easy child to raise. I
was passionate and rebellious and drove my father insane with my
adventurous spirit, especially in the teen years. While Jen was
quiet and bookish and liked to stay home on a Friday night, I was a
party girl. By the time I reached high school, I had a steady
boyfriend. His name was Kirk Duncan, and we spent most of our time
at his house because his parents were divorced and never
around.

Before you pass
judgment, let me assure you that Kirk was a decent, sensible young
man – very mature for his age – and I have no regrets about the
years we spent together. He was my first love, and I knew that no
matter where life took us, I would always love him.

We had a great deal in
common. He was a musician and played the guitar, while I liked to
sketch and write. Our artistic natures gelled beautifully, and if
we hadn’t been so young when we first met (I was only fifteen), we
might have ended up together, married and living in the suburbs
with a house full of children. But life at that age is
unpredictable. It’s not how things turned out.

When Kirk left Augusta
to attend college in Michigan and I stayed behind to finish my last
year of high school, we drifted apart. We remained friends and kept
in touch for a while, but eventually he began dating another girl,
and she was upset by the once-a-month letters we continued to write
to each other.

We both knew it was
time to cut the cord, so we did. For a long stretch I missed him –
he was such a big part of my life – but I knew it was the right
thing to do. Whenever I was tempted to call him, I resisted.

I went on to study
English and Philosophy at NYU, which is where I met Michael
Whitman.

Michael Whitman. The
name alone had a sigh attached to it…

He was handsome,
charming and witty, the most perfect man I had ever seen. Every
time he walked into a room, I lost my breath, as did every other
hot-blooded female within a fifty-yard radius.

If only I knew then,
when I was nineteen, that he would be my future husband. I probably
wouldn’t have believed it, but there’s a lot I wouldn’t have
believed about the extraordinary events of my life. I doubt you’ll
believe them either, but I’m going to tell them to you anyway.

I’ll leave it up to you
to decide if they’re real.

Chapter Two

Michael was nothing
like Kirk or any of the boys I had known in high school. His
parents owned a corn farm in Iowa, but he looked as if he’d been
raised by aristocrats in an English country house and had just
stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.

Well-dressed and
devastatingly handsome – with dark, wavy hair, pale blue eyes, and
a muscular build – he had a way of making you feel as if you were
the most attractive, witty, charismatic person on earth. And it
wasn’t just women who worshipped him. He was a man’s man, too, with
a number of close, loyal friends. His professors respected him. He
was an A student and the class valedictorian at graduation. And
then – big surprise – he went off to Harvard Law School on
scholarship.

He was your basic
“dreamboat,” and though he spoke to me now and then on campus, like
everyone else, I mostly admired him from afar.

It wasn’t until four
years after graduation, when I was interning in the publicity
department at C.W. Fraser – a major publisher of non-fiction books
and celebrity tell-alls – that I became the envy of every single
young woman in Manhattan and beyond.

It was June 16, 1996. I
was twenty-six years old, and had helped to organize a book launch
party that Michael attended.

We saw each other from
across the room and waved. Later that night, we went out to dinner,
and when he escorted me home, I invited him inside. We stayed up
all night, just talking on the sofa, listening to music, and we
kissed when the sun came up.

It was the most
magical, romantic night of my life.

One year later, we were
married.

* * *

During our honeymoon in
Barbados, Michael confessed something to me that he’d never been
able to talk about before, not with anyone.

When he was twelve
years old, his older brother Dean had died in a tractor accident.
The vehicle slid down a muddy embankment, rolled over and landed on
top of Dean, killing him instantly. Michael was the one who found
him.

His voice shook as he
described Dean’s lifeless body, trapped beneath the heavy
tractor.

I hadn’t known about
the accident when we attended university together. I don’t think
anyone did. Michael had always seemed so strong and dynamic. It
seemed as if nothing bad could ever touch him.

As soon as I heard
this, I understood that we shared something very profound – a
common experience that left us both broken in unseen places, for I
had lost my mother when I was fourteen.

I was still angry with
her for leaving us.

Because that’s what she
did. She made a choice, and she left us.

I, too, shared these
things with Michael, and we grew even closer.

Chapter Three

When I mentioned
earlier that I had once led a charmed life, I was referring to this
stretch of time, which began on my wedding day and lasted for ten
wonderful years.

Michael and I were
crazy in love as newlyweds. He rose quickly at the law firm, and we
both knew it was only a matter of time before he became a
partner.

Things were going well
for me, too. Six months after we began dating, I was offered a
full-time, permanent position in the publicity department at C.W.
Fraser, and with Michael’s encouragement, I pursued my first love –
writing – and began submitting stories to magazines. We dined out
often and connected with all the right people. Before long, I was
leaving my job in publicity to write for the New Yorker.

Everything seemed
perfect, and it was. We made love almost every night of the week.
Sometimes Michael came home from work with a Victoria’s Secret box
containing something lacy, wrapped in pink tissue paper, and we’d
make love during Letterman.

Other times, he brought
ingredients for chocolate martinis and we’d go dancing until
midnight.

We were as close as two
people could be, and just when I thought life couldn’t get any
better, the most amazing thing happened. I found out I was
pregnant.

How effortless it all
seemed.

Looking back, I
sometimes wonder if it was all a dream. I suppose it was, because
eventually I did wake from it. In fact, I sat straight up in bed,
gasping my lungs out.

But let’s not talk
about that yet. There are still a few miracles to explore.

So let’s talk about the
baby.

Chapter Four

Here’s the thing about
motherhood. It exhausts you and thrills you. It kicks you in the
butt, and the very next second makes you feel like a superstar.
Most of all, it teaches you to be selfless.

Let me rephrase that.
It doesn’t really teach you this. It creates a new selflessness
within you, which grabs hold of your heart when you first take your
child into your arms. In that profound moment of extraordinary love
and discovery, your own needs and desires become secondary. Nothing
is as important as the well-being of your beautiful child. You
would sacrifice anything for her. Even your own life. You would do
it in a heartbeat. God wouldn’t need to ask twice.

* * *

Our beautiful baby
Megan was born on July 17, 2000. It was a difficult labor that
lasted nineteen hours before ending in an emergency C-section, but
I wouldn’t change a single second of it. If that’s what was
required to bring Megan into the world, I would have done it ten
times over.

For the next five days,
while recovering from my surgery, I spent countless hours in the
hospital holding her in my arms, fascinated by her movements and
expressions. Her sweet, chubby face and tiny pink feet enchanted
me. I was infatuated beyond comprehension by her soft black hair
and puffy eyes, her sweet knees and plump belly, and her miniature
little fingertips and nails. She was the most exquisite creature I
had ever beheld, and my heart swelled with inexpressible love every
time she squeaked or flexed her hands.

How clearly I remember
lying on my side next to her in the hospital bed with my cheek
resting on a hand, believing that I could lie there forever and
never grow bored watching her. There was such truth in the
simplicity of those moments.

Michael, too, was
captivated by our new daughter. He went to work during the days,
but spent the nights with us in our private room, sleeping in the
upholstered chair.