Always in the middle of trouble, be it during roundup or at Jacobsville county dances, Harley Fowler emerges unscathed. Until he meets whirlwind, top-notch investigator Alice Jones, who is trying to solve a murder involving the one family Harley doesn't want to talk about—his own. Suddenly he's in the midst of mayhem—and all he can think about is protecting Alice. But the stubborn woman is unappreciative of his efforts. What's a confirmed maverick to do? Is seduction the solution?
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About the Author
Diana Palmer is renowned as one of North America’s top ten romance writers. When she published her first novel in 1979, fans immediately fell in love with her sensual, charming romances. A die-hard romantic who married her husband five days after they met, Diana says that she wrote her first book at age thirteen—and has been hooked ever since. Diana’s hobbies include gardening, knitting, quilting, anthropology, astronomy and music.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Harley Fowler was staring so hard at his list of chores that he walked right into a young brunette as he headed into the hardware store in Jacobsville, Texas. He looked up, shocked, when she fell back against the open door, glaring at him.
"I've heard of men getting buried in their work, but this is too much," she told him with a speaking look. She smoothed over her short black hair, feeling for a bump where she'd collided with the door. Deep blue eyes glared up into his pale blue ones. She noticed that he had light brown hair and was wearing a baseball cap that seemed to suit him. He was sexy-looking.
"I'm not buried in my work," he said curtly. "I'm trying to get back to work, and shopping chores are keeping me from it."
"Which doesn't explain why you're assaulting women with doors. Does it?" she mused.
His eyes flared. "I didn't assault you with a door. You walked into me."
"I did not. You were staring at that piece of paper so hard that you wouldn't have seen a freight train coming." She peered over his arm at the list. "Pruning shears? Two new rakes?" She pursed her lips, but smiling blue eyes stared at him. "You're obviously somebody's gardener," she said, noting his muddy shoes and baseball cap.
His eyebrows met. "I am not a gardener," he said indignantly. "I'm a cowboy."
"You are not!"
"Excuse me?"
"You don't have a horse, you're not wearing a cowboy hat, and you don't have on any chaps." She glanced at his feet. "You aren't even wearing cowboy boots!"
He gaped at her. "Did you just escape from intense therapy?"
"I have not been in any therapy," she said haughtily. "My idiosyncrasies are so unique that they couldn't classify me even with the latest edition of the DSM-IV, much less attempt to pyschoanalize me!"
She was referring to a classic volume of psychology that was used to diagnose those with mental challenges. He obviously had no idea what she was talking about.
"So, can you sing, then?"
He looked hunted. "Why would I want to sing?"
"Cowboys sing. I read it in a book."
"You can read?" he asked in mock surprise.
"Why would you think I couldn't?" she asked.
He nodded toward the sign on the hardware store's door that clearly said, in large letters, PULL. She was trying to push it.
She let go of the door and shifted her feet. "I saw that," she said defensively. "I just wanted to know if you were paying attention." She cocked her head at him. "Do you have a rope?"
"Why?" he asked. "You planning to hang yourself?"
She sighed with exaggerated patience. "Cowboys carry ropes."
"What for?"
"So they can rope cattle!"
"Don't find many head of cattle wandering around in hardware stores," he murmured, looking more confident now.
"What if you did?" she persisted. "How would you get a cow out of the store?"
"Bull. We run purebred Santa Gertrudis bulls on Mr. Parks's ranch," he corrected.
"And you don't have any cows?" She made a face. "You don't raise calves, then." She nodded.
His face flamed. "We do so raise calves. We do have cows. We just don't carry them into hardware stores and turn them loose!"
"Well, excuse me!" she said in mock apology. "I never said you did."
"Cowboy hats and ropes and cows," he muttered. He opened the door. "You going in or standing out here? I have work to do."
"Doing what? Knocking unsuspecting women in the head with doors?" she asked pleasantly.
His impatient eyes went over her neat slacks and wool jacket, to the bag she was holding. "I said, are you going into the store?" he asked with forced patience, holding the door open.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," she replied, moving closer. "I need some tape measures and Super Glue and matches and chalk and push pins and colored string and sticky tape."
"Don't tell me," he drawled. "You're a contractor."
"Oh, she's something a little less conventional than that, Harley," Police Chief Cash Grier said as he came up the steps to the store. "How's it going, Jones?" he asked.
"I'm overflowing in DBs, Grier," she replied with a grin. "Want some?"
He held up his hands. "We don't do a big business in homicides here. I'd like to keep it that way." He scowled. "You're out of your territory a bit, aren't you?"
"I am. I was asked down here by your sheriff, Hayes Carson. He actually does have a DB. I'm working the crime scene for him per his request through the Bexar County medical examiner's office, but I didn't bring enough supplies. I hope the hardware store can accommodate me. It's a long drive back to San Antonio when you're on a case."
"On a case?" Harley asked, confused.
"Yes, on a case," she said. "Unlike you, some of us are professionals who have real jobs."
"Do you know him?" Cash asked her.
She gave Harley a studied appraisal. "Not really. He came barreling up the steps and hit me with a door. He says he's a cowboy," she added in a confidential tone. "But just between us, I'm sure he's lying. He doesn't have a horse or a rope, he isn't wearing a cowboy hat or boots, he says he can't sing, and he thinks bulls roam around loose in hardware stores."
Harley stared at her with more mixed emotions than he'd felt in years.
Cash choked back a laugh. "Well, he actually is a cowboy," Cash defended him. "He's Harley Fowler, Cy Parks's foreman on his cattle ranch."
"Imagine that!" she exclaimed. "What a blow to the image of Texas if some tourist walks in and sees him dressed like that!" She indicated Harley's attire with one slender hand. "They can't call us the cowboy capital of the world if we have people working cattle in baseball caps! We'll be disgraced!"
Cash was trying not to laugh. Harley looked as if he might explode.
"Better a horseless cowboy than a contractor with an attitude like yours!" Harley shot back, with glittery eyes. "I'm amazed that anybody around here would hire you to build something for them."
She gave him a superior look. "I don't build things. But I could if I wanted to."
"She really doesn't build things," Cash said. "Harley, this is Alice Mayfield Jones," he introduced. "She's a forensic investigator for the Bexar County medical examiner's office."
"She works with dead people?" Harley exclaimed, and moved back a step.
"Dead bodies," Alice returned, glaring at his obvious distaste. "DBs. And I'm damned good at my job. Ask him," she added, nodding toward Cash.
"She does have a reputation," Cash admitted. His dark eyes twinkled. "And a nickname. Old Jab-'Em-in-the-Liver Alice."
"You've been talking to Marc Brannon," she accused.
"You did help him solve a case, back when he was still a Texas Ranger," he pointed out.
"Now they've got this new guy, transferred up from Houston," she said on a sigh. "He's real hard going. No sense of humor." She gave him a wry look. "Kind of like you used to be, in the old days when you worked out of the San Antonio district attorney's office, Grier," she recalled. "A professional loner with a bad attitude."
"Oh, I've changed." He grinned. "A wife and child can turn the worst of us inside out."
She smiled. "No kidding? If I have time, I'd love to see that little girl everybody's talking about. Is she as pretty as her mama?"
He nodded. "Oh, yes. Every bit."
Harley pulled at his collar. "Could you stop talking about children, please?" he muttered. "I'll break out in hives."
"Allergic to small things, are you?" Alice chided.
"Allergic to the whole subject of marriage," he emphasized with a meaningful stare.
Her eyebrows arched. "I'm sorry, were you hoping I was going to ask you to marry me?" she replied pleasantly. "You're not bad-looking, I guess, but I have a very high standard for prospective bridegrooms. Frankly," she added with a quick appraisal, "if you were on sale in a groom shop, I can assure you that I wouldn't purchase you."
He stared at her as if he doubted his hearing. Cash Grier had to turn away. His face was going purple.
The hardware-store door opened and a tall, black-haired, taciturn man came out it. He frowned. "Jones? What the hell are you doing down here? They asked for Longfellow!"
She glared back. "Longfellow hid in the women's restroom and refused to come out," she said haughtily. "So they sent me. And why are you interested in Sheriff Carson's case? You're a fed."
Kilraven put his finger to his lips and looked around hastily to make sure nobody was listening. "I'm a policeman, working on the city force," he said curtly.
Alice held up both hands defensively. "Sorry! It's so hard to keep up with all these secrets!"
Kilraven glanced at his boss and back at Alice. "What secrets?"
"Well, there's the horseless cowboy there—" she pointed at Harley "—and the DB over on the Little Carmichael River…"
Kilraven's silver eyes widened. "On the river? I thought it was in town. Nobody told me!"
"I just did," Alice said. "But it's really a secret. I'm not supposed to tell anybody."
"I'm local law enforcement," Kilraven insisted. "You can tell me. Who is he?"
Alice gave him a bland look and propped a hand on her hip. "I only looked at him for two minutes before I realized I needed to get more investigative supplies. He's male and dead. He's got no ID, he's naked, and even his mother wouldn't recognize his face."
"Dental records…" Kilraven began.
"For those, you need identifiable teeth," Alice replie...
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Most Helpful Customer Reviews
21 of 22 people found the following review helpful:
1.0 out of 5 stars
The Bad, the Awful, and the Worst,
By Jaz'elle Lynn "Book Diva" (New York, Ny) - See all my reviews
This review is from: The Maverick (Silhouette Desire) (Mass Market Paperback)
I just cant say enough bad things about this book. But the most overwhelmingly bad thing that I can say...is that I just didnt care. How dare Ms Palmer do this to Harley Foweler....her everybooks everyman. There was no passion, no conflict, nothing put two people who it felt...were transplanted from somewhere else and landed straight into the middle of Diana Palmers Day-mare.
We as, fans have been on Ms Palmer for a while about character development, and formulaic storylines...but this book is a travesty. It was actually worse then winter roses and law man! It was like,...in an effort to pacify her disgruntled fans...she watched a few episodes of Bones, Dr. G medical examiner, and Greys Anatomy, and created a character in "Alice" that felt as awkward as she was transparent. Ms. Palmer made the fatal mistake of confusing quirky, with cooky. And Alice wasnt really interesting enough to be either. As a person who works in the legal field, and understands the complexity of evidence gathering, and crime scene pathology...IT JUST DIDNT WORK! So, maybe I should appologize to ms palmer for haranguing her constantly on this site for only writing about emotionally/ physically damaged women, who have low incomes, low self esteems, are plain jane's all the way, and have nothing more interesting rattling in their heads then their obsession with the abusive male character. This atleast is an area she seems comfortable with, and writes a "credible" story about. She seems more at home writing about women who are historians, have anthropology degrees,or 19 year old virgin waifs who have no direction but just need "the lovin' of a big strong man to make her into a real woman" ( I'm gagging as I write this by the way)To me...this book failed on so many levels, and again...Harley, for what he was worth deserved a better story then this. And we as readers deserve better too.
16 of 18 people found the following review helpful:
1.0 out of 5 stars
Don't bother wasting your time,
By NY Romance Reader (New York) - See all my reviews
This review is from: The Maverick (Silhouette Desire) (Mass Market Paperback)
I first want to say that I am a Diana Palmer fan. I have read several of her books throughout the years & I really love her Long, Tall Texan series. If her story comes out in hardcover, I always buy it as a hardcover during the first week the book is released.
This paperback, however, was a complete waste of my time. The dialogue was trite and the characterization of the hero & heroine was one dimensional. Harley and Alice are two main characters that should have remained as side characters. Their romance was utterly unbelievable as they declared their love after knowing each other only a few weeks. Where was the conflict between the hero and heroine that is a signature trait for a Diana Palmer book? This story seemed to be some kind transitional bridge that sets up Kilraven's story. How can you have a murder that is a significant arc of the storyline and not be given a resolution to this crime? It would have been better if the murder in this story was introduced in Kilraven's story and Ms. Palmer had forgone writing The Maverick. My rating of one star is generous by far.
10 of 12 people found the following review helpful:
3.0 out of 5 stars
Not Her Best.....,
By C.M. Hogan (Massachusetts) - See all my reviews
This review is from: The Maverick (Silhouette Desire) (Mass Market Paperback)
I believe I own copies of all but two of Diana Palmer's books, so you can consider me a fan of her work. That being said, the story of cowboy Harley Fowler and crime scene investigator Alice Jones is not one of her best and probably should have been done as part of an anthology or as a novella lead-in to the Kilraven books.
Anyone who reads Ms. Palmer has come to expect a light, enjoyable read and to run into a few old characters along the way. However, even I have to say that I am getting a little tired of the formulaic "experienced older guy meets young virgin and gives up his bachelor ways for true love". I'm beginning to think that Jacobsville is the home of some sort of cult that you can only belong to if you are a rancher, a former mercenary, a lawman, a virgin or a former virgin deflowered by a rancher, lawman or mercenary.
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