Her Cowboy Prince (#2)

Meet the cowboy royal who will never be tamed—and the best friend sworn to protect him.

Kris Jaroka didn’t sign up for this. He and his triplet brothers were uprooted from their ranch to inherit the throne of Kiraly. His duties keep escalating, and no amount of shirking his guards can stop the gut-ache of leaving his best friend, Frankie, behind.

But his biggest challenge lies ahead.

For years, Frankie Cowan has secretly monitored the safety of Kris and his brothers. When Kris’s recklessness forces her to reveal herself as the head of palace security, her duty to protect him and his refusal to be tamed meet head on.

Bound together, their lies and hurt soon surrender to their chemistry, and Kris burns to offer her his future. But Frankie’s past isn’t fit for a cowboy, let alone a prince—proving that the person she most needs to protect him from is herself.

BEFORE

“He’s dead. All three of them are dead.”

The phone crackled in Frankie Cowan’s ear as the words knifed between her ribs. Stunned, her breath gave a little hic and she halted on the dirt track that led to her friends’ ranch on the outskirts of Sage Haven. Dead?

“Philip.” Dread shut her eyes and she almost lost her balance. “What are you talking about?”

Her boss didn’t answer. His soft crying fed her panic.

All three.

Dead.

No. The three cowboy brothers she’d spent years watching over couldn’t be—not while she’d been out of town—

The ground pitched beneath her and she buckled, landing on her knees with a hand braced in front of her. This was a mistake. They weren’t gone.

Kris isn’t gone.

“Don’t make me guess, Philip,” she said, fear harsh in her voice. “Report.”

“It collapsed.” He spoke through his tears. “The balcony. While they were banqueting. King Vinci. Prince Aron. And—and . . .” He made a noise of muffled grief, unable to finish, and she knew he meant the king’s middle brother, Prince Noel.

She sank back on her shins in relief. Philip’s call wasn’t about the brothers she’d come to know in this quiet paradise in southern Montana, but their extended family in a kingdom halfway across the world. 

The king, his son, and his brother. The royal family of Kiraly.

Except. If the royal family were dead, that meant—

Her chest squeezed so tightly her ribs threatened to snap. “No,” she breathed.

“Yes.” Philip’s own whisper was thin with pain.

“What—” She broke off as her attention settled on the brothers’ ranch ahead. Oh, boys. Did they know yet? Were they inside with their father discussing it right now? “What’s going to happen?”

The answer was obvious. Her heart raged against it.

“Prince Erik is unwell,” she made herself say, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Erik was the cowboys’ father, youngest brother to the deceased king—and sudden heir to the Kiralian throne. “Too unwell. He can’t do it.”

“Then you know the answer, Frankie.”

She knew.

It was going to destroy her life.

“Your reports show Prince Markus is a good man,” Philip said, voice wavering. “A decent man.”

Her guilt flared at Philip’s mention of her reports and she tightened her grip on the phone, pushing herself to her feet. She staggered a little as she moved off the walking track that ran between the road and the long front fence of the brothers’ property.

“Mark’s steady,” she said about the kindhearted firstborn cowboy as she braced a shoulder against one of the many trees that lined the path. “But you can’t separate them. They’re triplets, for God’s sake—they can’t survive apart. It won’t work like this.”

“They won’t be separated.”

“Then how do you—”

The answer kicked her in the chest.

He wanted Kris and Tommy to leave Montana. Leave their ranch. No way. She could imagine Mark stepping up to his duty no matter how it tore him apart. But his brothers belonged here, in this small town dwarfed by the Rockies. The only home they’d known in their twenty-five years. It had shaped them, defined them—taught them to live with humility and decency and an unflinching passion for honest work.

She’d kill to have been shaped by something so pure.

“Philip—”

“You’ve been promoted within the royal guard.” His words silenced her. “You’re now head of personal security to the new royal family.”

Her heart stopped.

She was what?

“Congratulations.” The well-wishes fell like a deadweight on her shoulders.

“No.” Of all things holy, no. “That’s your role—”

“Not anymore. I must focus my attention on training and advising Markus. He’s never even visited Kiraly.” Philip paused as if that fact was only just sinking in. He made a faint sound of distress. “I don’t know if I can handle this.”

“You can.” She offered him the confidence she lacked as she turned to press her shoulder blades against the tree trunk. “But you’ll need support, and that means replacing head of personal security with someone more experienced than me. Which, and you should be nodding along here, is basically everyone.”

It had been four years since she’d traveled to Montana to prove herself capable of security. To get her foot in the door—not end up running the show. Had he lost his mind?

“Give me something small,” she said. “Guard duty in the tourist precinct. Night shift at the gate.” People like her didn’t get put in charge. “I haven’t worked in the palace before. Promote someone else.”

“No.”

His snap of authority made her cold.

“You alone know these untrained princes, Frankie. You’ve spent time with them. You know the security they need. How they’ll respond to it—how to prevent trouble. I’ll train you, of course, but the job is yours and you won’t disappoint me.”

“But—”

“I’m sure your close friendship with Kristof will be advantageous.”

Hardly. Her panic rose at the thought of Kris learning the truth. None of the brothers knew she was from Kiraly. That she’d deceived them. Monitored them. Reported their routines, plans and personalities back to Philip. They didn’t realize she knew that beneath their cowboy swagger, their hard-muscled bodies coursed with royal blood.

She swallowed down a dry throat and said, “But we can’t stay friends.”

Not once Kris became an active Prince of Kiraly.

“Things will change.” Philip’s voice betrayed his exhaustion. “You’ll return here immediately. I’m organizing a private plane. You have two hours to get to the airport.”

“Cut me a break. I just got back to town,” she said as her alarm swelled. “From a job you sent me on.”

“Yes. I assumed that was why I’ve been unable to reach you.”

She froze. She closed her eyes against a wave of dismay. “How long ago did it happen?”

“Yesterday.” Loss hung in his long pause. “Erik has already informed us of his intention to abdicate. Markus will bring the official letter. The boys are coming, Frankie. Together. They leave Montana tomorrow morning.”

Thudding her head back against the trunk, she squinted at the spring sky. Spinning. The world was spinning so fast it was going to haul her guts up. “This is insane.”

“I’ve thought that myself.”

It was the thread of outrage in his unsteady response that finally wove her back to the start of their conversation. Horror met her there. “Philip,” she said. “Which balcony?”

“Second floor, west wing.”

“But . . . that was new, wasn’t it? Part of the renovations?”

“Yes.”

Her blood chilled as she breathed, “That shouldn’t have collapsed.”

“No, it shouldn’t have,” he answered just as softly.

“Shit.” She pushed away from the tree, but didn’t know whether to continue to the ranch or double back into town. This was too much. “What the hell happened?”

“If only I knew.” Grief made him sound older than his sixty-five years. “I don’t have the resilience to find out. I can’t bear it. The authorities have already declared it a tragic accident—the result of construction shortcuts taken to meet the tight schedule and remain within budget. In a sense, I want that to be true, but . . . could you look into it?”

Dazed, she lowered the phone, shaking her head. Could she?

The ranch in the distance had become the closest thing to a home she’d ever known. The log and stone homestead, the surrounding meadows and mountains, and the three young men who’d ushered her into their midst. Identical, yet as comparable as three glasses of amber alcohol—each packing a wildly different experience. Mark was a reliable farmhouse ale, Kris a searing Fireball whiskey, and Tommy—well, he was a lone ranger’s drink—undeterminable, but with a potency that could strip the enamel off unwary teeth.

Frankie had scarcely admitted it to herself, but recently, she’d toyed with the idea of staying for good. Leaving Philip’s employ and living out her life in Sage Haven—allowing herself to accept the dream it offered.

Now that dream was impossible. Due to a tragic architectural failing or something more sinister, she couldn’t begin to guess. But having her first real shot at happiness go crashing down along with the balcony?

That pissed her off enough that she wanted to know who to blame.

Balling her free hand, she raised the phone to her ear. “We’ll keep this quiet,” she said, and set off along the track toward Sage Haven. “Mourn it as an accident and hope that’s exactly what it was.”

And if it wasn’t?

Protectiveness hit her bloodstream, pumping purpose through her body. If it wasn’t, then the murder of a royal family should be all the motivation she needed to track down the person responsible. But honestly—no one would escape punishment for messing up the lives of her boys.

“What will you tell the princes?” Philip asked.

Finally, she was thinking fast. “Nothing. They’ve got enough to worry about.”

“But for their safety—”

“They’ll get their own guards.” No one would touch them. Not on her watch. “Two each, at all times. More if they leave the grounds.”

“Guards are already stationed throughout the palace.” Philip sounded unsure. “It’s never been protocol to shadow our royal family down every hall.”

She glanced back at the ranch and its inherent safety. “These princes don’t know that.”

There was a beat of silence. “I take it you’ve accepted the promotion?”

Had she really been given a choice? Picking up her pace, she swallowed her doubt. It was time. To go back to Kiraly—to do what she’d once dared herself to do. Prove her worth. Find her value. If she focused on that, she might be able to ignore the bleakness rippling like an oil spill inside her at the thought of returning home.

If only she’d gone back years ago. She’d achieved what she’d set out to do the moment she found the princes hidden in this mountain-ringed valley. She shouldn’t have agreed to Philip’s suggestion that she stay and keep watch on them—she shouldn’t have allowed herself to get attached.

But she hadn’t planned on volatile, sexy-as-hell Kris.

No. Not Kris. Not anymore.

Prince Kristof.

She hadn’t braced for his tameless charm, wicked grin, and fast friendship. For her untrained heart to open for him. A truth she’d never told him—just as he’d never trusted her enough to share his royal heritage. For years she’d pretended she didn’t know. She’d waited, desperate for that sign she meant more to him than the rest of the clueless people in this town—more than the women he charmed into his bed. For years, Frankie had waited to share her own identity in return.

Trust me, her heart begged whenever his blue eyes darkened with the desire he’d never quite acted on. Tell me.

Now it was too late.

If he told her today, it wouldn’t be out of trust. The situation had him cornered. It would pry the secret out of his big, rough hands with little care of what it meant to her.

Shame bled into her hurt. Her secrets would air with his, though he’d call them by a dirtier name.

Lies.

She couldn’t handle that pain. Not today. Breaking into a run, she hurled that future confrontation from her mind.

“I accept,” she answered. Because despite the unbearable strain it would cause between her and Kris, despite her fear and guilt and shortcomings, there was one thing the past four years had taught her. “I’ll protect these men with my life.”

 

***

 

Kris Jaroka should have seen it coming. 

No lie lasts forever.

He rolled his farm truck to a halt in front of Rose’s Diner and pulled the keys, twirling them around his index finger as he stepped out. A casual act to fool his gut into relaxing and his heart into slowing down, because he’d spent all morning fixating on this moment and had yet to imagine how it could end well.

Didn’t matter.

He was going to ask her anyway.

Frankie. She was back in town. When not away on an investigative case, she lived in the main street of Sage Haven, renting a hidey-hole above the worst coffee-brewer in Montana. She didn’t seem to care that her apartment wallpaper puckered and tore or that the bathroom tiles were stained with he-didn’t-want-to-know-what. As long as there was coffee and food within reach, irrespective of quality, all was good for Frankie.

He strode into the diner and nodded to the man behind the counter. A curtain blocked a staircase to the left of the register, and Kris slipped around it, taking the steps three at a time. Only two apartments were up here—the diner owner’s and Frankie’s—and naturally, hers was the one with scuff marks on the door, an apple sticker on the knob, and an old piece of paper taped beside it, reading: Not the restroom. Turn around, asshole.

Nerves thundered through him. He slid a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, taking in his last breath as the cowboy she’d believed him to be.

He knocked.

“I’m busy!” Frankie snapped from inside.

From her, that was close enough to permission to enter.

He stepped into the tiny studio apartment, which was nothing more than a cramped living space with a double bed down the far end. An empty takeout box sat open on the kitchen counter, a scrunched napkin beside it.

“Morning,” he said, kicking the door closed with his boot heel.

She didn’t look up from where she stood side-on at the foot of the bed, stuffing a jewel-bright jacket into her backpack. A small blessing, because all it took was the sight of her to nudge his lust awake like a toe prodding a dozing beast. Stirring, it focused lazily on her—then stretched wide with feral intent.

Blood hot, Kris moved in and set his keys down, leaning a hip casually against the counter.

It was getting worse. Harder to pretend their friendship was innocent, because desire had him craving her in every way imaginable. Ways he had yet to imagine. It was a mutual attraction he couldn’t act on. He recognized the lust in her eyes—had felt it hum and crackle between them for so long, the anticipation was daily torture—but she refused to outwardly acknowledge it and he wasn’t stupid enough to ruin their friendship by making a move she’d regret.

But it was building. A mounting surge of chemistry toward an end point, a moment that wouldn’t be denied, a truth they were going to have to face head-on.

Unless she was about to refuse his invitation.

“Welcome home, angel,” he said, the phrase bitter in his mouth. Not home for much longer.

“See, when you call me names like angel, the issue is that I can’t decide how to castrate you.” She yanked at the zip on her bag with one hand while the other ran amok in her short hair. It was the color of rust on a barbed-wire fence and just as spikey on top, with the sides and back trimmed close. “Not that I don’t want to.”

“Whichever way you decide,” he said, touching the brim of his hat, “it’ll be a big job.”

She faced him, head tilted and eyes narrowed.

He grinned.

Amusement flickered in her green eyes, but she crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?”

His grin faded as his heart pounded.

He was here to tell the truth.

Denial jammed in his throat as he removed his hat. “Firstly, to check in on my favorite girl.”

“Yeah, I don’t have time for you right now.”

He frowned. “Have you consumed recently?”

She seemed hangry; her white skin was paler than usual.

“I’ll get you something to eat downstairs,” he said.

She jabbed a finger toward an empty coffee cup and paper bag, discarded on the rumpled blankets.

“So what’s the matter?” He noted her passport sticking out of her back pocket, and was instantly distracted by the sweet curve of her ass. God above, he loved those jeans.

“It’s complicated,” she said, picking up her phone from the bed and swiping it unlocked. “And like I said, I don’t have time.”

“Need a hug?” he asked, far too casually.

She hardly ever touched him. No contact was Frankie’s unique brand of agony. Except for her sexual energy—that touched him everywhere.

“If you try to hug me, I’ll bite you.” She cast him a small, see-if-I’m-joking smile as she twisted and sat on the end of the bed. Lifting a foot, she tugged hard at the laces of her chunky boots. “I’m having an epically bad day.”

“Why?” Concern instantly rolled his shoulders back. “Did you get hurt?”

She stilled, and then slid a strange glance at him. She didn’t answer.

“Right.” He crossed the room to stand in front of her. “Let me see.”

“You can’t help.” She huffed out a breath and muttered, “It’s too late.” She set back to work on her boots, yanking the laces.

“Frankie.” His concern swelled into frustration, but he did his best to leash it. “Show me.”

“I’m not injured.” Punctuated with another hard pull of her bootlaces. “There are changes at work that are out of my control, and that hurts, okay? I’m overwhelmed and so far out of my depth, I feel like I’m already sinking.”

He stared down at her, and she glared back.

“Alright. Hang on.” Sighing, he dropped to one knee, his eyes on her feet. These laces were one short-tempered tug away from tearing clean off.

She fell still. She was a fighter by nature, but always retreated into motionlessness when he got too close. Her stillness came with a flush on her cheeks and hunger in her eyes.

Yeah.

Suppressed desire was having a fucking field day with them.

Her next breath was shaky.

Like two hands trapping a fly, his focus contracted—latched around the woman before him. It hit him, then. He’d never been like this. On his knees before her, one greedy movement away from filling the space between her parted legs. Victim to the thought, his gaze slid up her shins, skimmed over her thighs. Christ, he needed to—stop looking—needed to just—stand the hell up—pull himself together.

At the sound of her hard swallow, he grabbed his self-control by the scruff of its neck and shoved his attention down. He reached for her laces, ignoring how she jerked her hands away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” she muttered.

The pulse in his neck throbbed as he released the tension at her ankles, passing the slack down the boot. “Excuse me for saving your feet from blood loss.”

“You shouldn’t be—there.”

Still lost in desire, he asked, “Where?”

“On your knees.” She sounded breathless.

Slowly, he raised his head. It was all too easy to imagine her words as a command. One he’d willingly follow, along with every pleasure-drenched plea she made after that.

She sucked in air and raised a hand, scratching her flushed cheek as she fixed her attention out the window.

After he’d loosened the laces and knotted them, then fastened the buckles that clasped over the top, he dared to place his palms over her feet. Greed and panic fueled this reckless contact. For too long he’d let his feelings hide in the shadows of friendship. Today was all they had—the brink of their future.

“Frankie,” he said, looking up. “I’m going to ask you something.”

Something that was supposed to be about moving to Kiraly with him, but was probably going to come out, Can we stop pretending now?

She met his stare in a flash, mouth tightening before she said, “You finished?” Shifting her boots out from under his hands, she stood.

He shot to his feet in front of her, achingly close, a short swoop away from her quick-tempered lips. Attraction glinted in his blood, bright and bliss-tipped. If she said yes, her tight grey tank would peel off in seconds, but he’d take his time with her skinny-leg jeans, and those punk boots would put him back between her knees . . . God, please let her say yes.

“Some space, please,” she said sharply.

His whole body was tense. Locked and howling for contact. “Is that what you really want?”

Startled, she scanned his face.

“Serious question,” he said, voice low. “Would you rather a steady friendship or honesty?”

Alarm widened her eyes.

He practically growled, “Frankie—”

“I can’t do this,” she said, stepping away.

“Please.” He grabbed her arm, his grip loose and breakable, but—there.

She halted before half-turning back, her throat moving as she swallowed. “You’re touching me.”

No shit. His heart thundered. It was either the worst or best time in their entire friendship to push her like this, but he brushed his thumb along her forearm and said on a rough murmur, “I’ve always wanted to touch you.”

“Oh, God,” she muttered under her breath, looking away.

“I know you feel it,” he challenged, because he had nothing to lose. Not today. “And I’ve felt it every—”

“I can’t, Kris.” She cut him off, nudging out of his hold. After swiping up her backpack and slinging it over her shoulder, she slid her phone into her pocket and moved toward the door.

He stared after her. Panic landed hard in the chest. “Where are you going?”

She looped her other arm through the backpack. “I have another job.”

“Already?”

“Yeah, it’s come as a shock to me, too.” She didn’t meet his eye as she scanned her apartment, one hand moving to touch the passport in her back pocket.

“Wait.” This wasn’t part of the plan. They were supposed to order food and chat about her latest case before he shared the way his life had just shattered and the future they could rebuild together. “We need to talk.”

“You might, but I need to go,” she said, voice thickening as she turned away. “Time’s up.”

Then he’d take time she didn’t have. He strode across the apartment, feeling her eyes on him as he passed her. Reaching the door, he pressed a palm to the surface and took a rallying breath.

He faced her. “I should have told you years ago—”

“Then you wasted years of opportunities,” she said, “because my flight leaves in forty minutes.”

“To hell with your flight.” It came out as a snarl as she walked up to him, his alarm finding release in his fraying temper. No woman in his life had felt like Frankie—and his reckless libido ensured that was no small claim. He couldn’t do this without her. “I’ll buy you a new ticket. This can’t wait.”

“Years, did you say?” She stared at his chest, and his body tensed in a silent demand for her touch. “Clearly it can.”

“I—” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t believe this was happening. She refused to let him confess his feelings while she was running out the door, yet he had so much more to say and literally no other time to tell her. 

“Get out of my way, Kris.”

No. He couldn’t actually leave without her. “Please listen—”

“You listen to me,” she said, the last word catching in her throat. “You have to let me go.”

Body rigid in protest, he stepped aside. What else could he do? Blurt his true lineage as she marched out the door? Call his suggestion for her to move across the world with him down the stairs?

“How long will you take?” he asked, grasping at straws. He could fly back to Sage Haven to meet her after this case and explain everything. But he’d have to time it perfectly or town gossip would tell her for him and there’d be nothing worse. “When can we talk?”

He frowned at the look she cut back at him—burning with regret, wide with pain. 

She didn’t answer, but for one unbearably hot second, her gaze slipped down his body like she might command him to his knees for real. Then she turned away, features shuttering. “See you, Kris.”

She closed the door behind her. 

He waited until her footsteps faded before slamming his fist against it. As predicted, their conversation hadn’t ended well. 

And he hadn’t told her a damned thing.