The Legend of Jane
Jessica Clare
The Legend of Jane
Jessica Clare
INTERMIX
New York
Titles by Jessica Clare
All I Want for Christmas Is a Cowboy
The Cowboy and His Baby
Roughneck Billionaires
Dirty Money
Dirty Scoundrel
Dirty Bastard
The Billionaire Boys Club
Stranded with a Billionaire
Beauty and the Billionaire
The Wrong Billionaire’s Bed
Once Upon a Billionaire
Romancing the Billionaire
One Night with a Billionaire
His Royal Princess
Beauty and the Billionaire: The Wedding
Billionaires and Bridesmaids
The Billionaire and the Virgin
The Taming of the Billionaire
The Billionaire Takes a Bride
The Billionaire’s Favorite Mistake
Billionaire on the Loose
The Bluebonnet Novels
The Girl’s Guide to (Man) Hunting
The Care and Feeding of an Alpha Male
The Expert’s Guide to Driving a Man Wild
The Virgin’s Guide to Misbehaving
The Billionaire of Bluebonnet
INTERMIX
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019
Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Clare
Excerpt from A Cowboy Under the Mistletoe copyright © 2019 by Jessica Clare
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
ISBN: 9780593097977
“The Legend of Jane” was previously published in the anthology Hot Summer Nights.
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / July 2013
InterMix eBook edition / July 2019
Cover art by Sasha Bell/Getty Images
Cover design by Judith Murello
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Titles by Jessica Clare
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
The weirdest calls always came late at night.
Hank had learned to dread those two A.M. phone calls, because they would inevitably lead to something strange. But that was to be expected when you worked the night shift.
“Bluebonnet PD,” Hank answered the phone.
“That you, Hank Sharp? You working the late night shift?”
“I am,” he said. “What can I help you with?”
“There’s a girl in my cow pasture,” Don Tatum said into the phone, and he sounded both tired and baffled. “With a video camera. And she’s talking to herself. I think she’s a cow tipper.”
A cow tipper? Of all the crazy, ridiculous things. “One of the high school kids?” Hank asked. They were usually the culprits, too stupid or drunk—or both—to realize that cows slept lying down, and cow tipping was just a myth.
“Nope. Older.” He paused a minute. “Definitely a cow tipper. She just ran up and tried to push one from behind. You want me to get my shotgun?”
“No, Don,” Hank said, getting the keys to his squad car off the hook in the tiny Bluebonnet Police Department. “You stay inside. I’ll take care of this.”
“All righty,” Don said mildly, sounding more perplexed than annoyed. “You might want to make it fast, Hank, before she gets herself kicked in the face.”
“On my way,” Hank said, and hung up the phone. He left the office and climbed into his patrol car. He could have driven out to Tatum’s small farm with his eyes closed, but he observed every stop sign and streetlight along the way regardless. It wouldn’t do for a police officer to break the law, after all.
And Hank came from a long line of police officers. The rules had pretty much been driven into his brain from childhood.
He slowed his patrol car along the farm road, looking for a parked vehicle. There was not a single building along this stretch of road, which meant that if he found a car, it’d likely belong to his tipper. Sure enough, his high beams lit upon an out-of-state license plate. Florida. He pulled up behind the car and made note of the license plate number, then grabbed his flashlight to give the car a quick inspection.
No one home. Definitely his cow tipper. Hank clicked the flashlight off and headed for the barbed wire fence. He examined it and the hot pink scrap of material stuck to the fence. His cow tipper didn’t know much about barbed wire, it seemed. Bending the wire down, Hank squeezed between the lines and entered the field.
Though Tatum owned several acres, it wasn’t hard for Hank to find the girl. All he had to do was look for the cows. Sure enough, they were all clustered in one of the north fields close to the house, and they were lowing as if something bothered them.
“Stupid cows,” he heard a voice growl in the distance. “Go to sleep already! I’m not going to sing you a lullaby!”
Hank glanced in that direction and saw a pinpoint of red light. That would be the camera, all right. What kind of fool woman was out there in the middle of the night trying to tip cows and film it? With his fingers hitched to his belt, he strolled forward to confront the tipper.
And paused when she began to speak again.
There was plenty of moonlight thanks to the full moon, and he was able to make out the shape of a rather tall someone in the field. She was leaning in front of the camera and speaking. He didn’t see a light on it except for that red one, so he wasn’t exactly sure what she was taping.
“Okay,” she told the camera on the tripod, her hands on her knees. “We’re going to wait about fifteen minutes and look for another sleeping cow. Then, it’s tipping time. You wouldn’t think that cows would be so freaking difficult, but these are the least tired cows I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s two in the morning. You’d think they’d be ready for a little nap at least.”
She sounded disgruntled. His mouth twitched with amusement.
“All right,” she said to the camera again, then glanced behind her. “One of the cows is standing pretty still. I’m going to give it about two minutes to go to sleep, and then we commence tipping.” She rubbed her hands in front of the camera, and then adjusted the tripod.
Time for him to step in. Don Tatum was right. She was going to get kicked in the face. Hank clicked on his flashlight and shone it right in her face.
“Police,” he drawled. “Don’t move.”
She froze, squinting her eyes closed and throwing her hands in the air.
With the light on, he was able to get a better look at her. She was pretty, despite her face being scru
nched up. Her hair was pulled into two crazy ponytails atop her head, and her hot pink athletic tank top had a rip down the front that matched the scrap he’d pulled from the barbed wire. She also wore bright pink lipstick and lots of glittery eye makeup. She looked like she was heading to a rave instead of a cow pasture. He let his flashlight travel down her legs. She wore bright pink and green striped knee-high socks and very short black shorts and combat boots.
What the hell was she doing, exactly?
“It’s not what it looks like, Officer,” she said, keeping her hands in the air.
Hank glanced at the field, then at the crazily dressed woman before the camera. “Looks kind of like a cow tipping to me.”
One eye squinted open to regard him. “Okay, then it is exactly what it looks like.” She put a hand in front of her eyes to block the light from his flashlight. “I don’t suppose you know the proper procedure for tipping a cow?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I do know it’s against the law to trespass on private property, though, and this is definitely private property.”
He waited for her response. Most people he knew would immediately start apologizing or making excuses, anything to get out of trouble.
She sucked in a breath, and then let out a squeal, doing a happy little bounce. “Oh my god. Does this mean you’re going to arrest me? Hang on! I have to make sure I have enough juice.”
“More…juice?” His brows drew together.
She turned to her camera and yanked it off the tripod, checking the settings. “Battery life. Looks like I’m good. This’ll totally work. I can get two weeks of footage instead of just one. Awesome.” She fiddled with the camera, not even looking over at him. “If I resist arrest, will it make things look more convincing?”
“More convincing, ma’am? I didn’t say I was going to arrest you. I just want you to leave Mr. Tatum’s property.”
She looked over at him, crestfallen. “You’re not going to arrest me?”
“No.”
She gave him a shrewd look. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”
He sighed. Damn it. Of course he’d get stuck with a crazy woman. “Turn that camera off so we can have a real discussion.”
“No. Absolutely not. I need the camera.”
Now she’d gone from perplexing to downright annoying. Time to scare her a little. “We’re about to move straight into resisting arrest territory if you don’t start listening to me, ma’am.” A little white lie never hurt anyone. She wasn’t really resisting arrest—just not listening—but maybe the threat would make her pay attention.
“Perfect,” she said, setting the camera back on the tripod. She glanced at it one last time, and then turned back toward him, her hands outstretched. “Cuff me, baby.”
* * *
Definitely crazy.
To her vast disappointment and loud complaints, he’d turned off her camera and hadn’t cuffed her. He had, however, put her in the back of his vehicle and taken her down to the station to book her for defiant trespassing, since she wanted to be booked so damn bad. He’d have been just as happy sending her on her way. That was how things were done in a small town. You showed up, put a little fear into the trespassers, and sent them on their way.
This crazy woman didn’t seem to figure that out, though. She wanted to be arrested. She’d been fascinated by the process, too, asking him all kinds of questions and if he could “play” the police siren for her.
He’d refused.
Now she was sitting in Bluebonnet’s lone jail cell (which was not in use all that often), waiting on someone to come and pick her up. Hank busied himself with completing one of the computerized “smart forms” required for any processed police case. Of course, “smart form” was a figure of speech, because the damn computer was acting up. Damn thing ran slower and slower every time he turned it on. He wasn’t much good with computers. Didn’t have time to fuss with them. No one at the station did.
Hank examined the woman’s mug shot. She’d posed for it, vamping for the camera even as she held the plaque in front of her. When he’d finished snapping it, she’d asked to have it retaken so she could “pick the best one.”
He’d declined.
She’d been excited to be fingerprinted, too, and even more excited when he sat her in the jail cell.
Strange woman.
He’d noticed a logo on the back of her pink tank top—www.thelegendofjane.com. And of course, he couldn’t help but wonder about it. After wrestling with the slow office computer to get her picture and prints uploaded, he poured himself another cup of coffee, and then decided to check out the website. Immediately, his screen filled with a few flashing ads and a big, splashy logo screamed THE LEGEND OF JANE at him, followed by THE LEGEND OF JANE. A video immediately began to play.
The Legend of Jane, it seemed, was a blog. A video blog. Made by his crazy woman. In the video, she was chatting to the camera. She wore the same glittery eye makeup and the same ridiculous outfit, her hair pulled in identical pigtails. It seemed to be some sort of costume for her.
“This week, we’re in the woods of East Texas in search of the infamous Bigfoot! There’s a farm here where they claim to have seen Bigfoot multiple times on a regular basis, and they state that he swings by to steal their chicken eggs. How can we resist? I asked, and they’ve allowed the Legend of Jane to stop by and film. Let’s go say hello, shall we?”
Bigfoot? What the heck? He paused the video and looked at the prior week. A haunting at an old Louisiana plantation. He flipped back a bit further. Jersey Devil hunting. Another date was her and a friend eating Pop Rocks and enormous quantities of soda and laughing hysterically.
That did it. Jane was insane. And she wanted to tip cows just to get more fodder for her blog? Is that what she’d been up to? He shook his head and went back to booking the charges. And as he did, he glanced down at her driver’s license. Luanne Allard.
It seemed his legendary “Jane” was more of a Luanne.
* * *
Right around dawn, before the day shift showed up, Emily Allard-Smith arrived at the police station, dressed in sweats and with her dark blonde hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore no makeup, which was surprising to Hank, given that she was normally dolled up.
He knew Emily, of course. The entire town did. She’d bought the old Peppermint House and was trying to set it up as a bed-and-breakfast. And she was convinced the place was haunted. She’d called the cops multiple times for every rattle that the old place made. The other cops were convinced that nice Emily Allard-Smith was just scared to live alone in that big house.
But Hank was starting to wonder if the ghost thing was just her crazy sister at work.
She grimaced at him, seemingly embarrassed to be at the station. “Hi, Hank. I heard you have my sister here?”
He stared at her thoughtfully. “I don’t know if you noticed, Emily, but your sister’s a loon.”
“Be nice. She’s not crazy.”
“You sure about that?”
Emily sighed and placed a container of breakfast muffins on the counter. That was another reason that everyone at the station kept showing up at the Peppermint House. Emily was a damn fine cook, and generous. “I brought you some blueberry muffins. Was Luanne much of a chore?”
“Did you girls grow up in the city?”
Emily nodded, perplexed. “Why?”
“Your sister thinks cow tipping’s real.”
“Oh no.” Emily clenched a hand. “She didn’t.”
“She did.”
“It’s that stupid blog. She’s convinced it’ll—” She stopped abruptly, then shook her head. “Never mind. I’m here to bail her out.”
“No bail, ma’am. Just a citation.” At Emily’s surprise, he shrugged. “She wanted to spend the night in jail. I obliged her and left her in the holding cell.”
And here Emily said her sister wasn’t crazy. Love was blind, because that Luanne gal was nuttier than a pecan pie.
* * *
Luanne drummed her fingers on the cold metal bench she sat on.
All right. So jail? Not that much fun. Not that she’d expected it to be fun. But it would have been worth the trip if she’d gotten some decent footage for her blog. She could have turned a jail visit into a really fun series of videos and milked it for weeks.
Unfortunately, Officer Hotness had confiscated her camera and hadn’t wanted to play along. Spoilsport.
She supposed she couldn’t fault the man. She was trespassing. She had been saying crazy things. But put the camera on her, and she thought of nothing but the footage.
Heck, she knew cow tippings weren’t real. The thing was, her audience didn’t know that she was well aware of it, and so it made good, easy footage for her blog. And that was the trick. As long as she kept entertaining them with her wacky stunts, they’d keep coming to her website. And traffic to her website meant money in her pocket.
A key rattled in the door, and Luanne jumped to her feet. Officer Hotness was the first one through the door, his tall, broad form so big that he practically had to stoop to enter the cell.
She noticed things like height on a man. Luanne figured that at six foot tall in flats, it narrowed the dating pool down for her quite a bit. When someone came along that was just the right height, her ovaries tended to perk up and pay attention.
And those ovaries screamed at her every time Officer Hotness came through the door.
He wasn’t the most good-looking man she’d ever seen. His features were a little too blunt and unsmiling to make him handsome. But he was incredibly tall and had big shoulders, and had an ass that wouldn’t quit in that uniform.
Hotness, indeed.
Officer Hotness gave her a disapproving look as he entered the cell, and he was quickly followed by her sister, Emily. Luanne smiled brightly, ignoring her sister’s chagrined expression. “Hey, Em! Glad you could bail me out.”
“No bail,” Officer Hotness said, and handed her a paper. “A ticket. Be mindful of other people’s property in the future, Ms. Allard. I don’t want to see you in here again.”
