Recipe for a Homecoming

by Sabrina York

  She could only hope Tate would remember that bond and forgive her for overstepping and bringing the children here.

  “Henry and Alice are staying with me for a few weeks because of a...family situation.”

  “Our mom died last year and our dad is in the slammer,” Henry announced.

  Annie winced, not quite sure where he had picked up that particular term. Not from her, certainly. She wouldn’t have used those words so bluntly but couldn’t deny they were accurate.

  Tate looked nonplussed at the information. “Is that right?”

  “It’s only temporary,” she told him quickly. “Wes had a little run-in with the law and was sentenced to serve thirty days in the county jail. The children are staying with me in the caretaker’s apartment through the holidays. I hope that’s okay.”

  Tate didn’t seem to know how to respond. She had the impression it was very much not okay with him.

  “We can talk about it later.”

  Annie frowned, anxiety and nerves sending icy fingers down her spine. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  What would she do if he told her she had to find somewhere else for the children to spend Christmas? She would have to quit. She didn’t want to as she enjoyed working here. What other choice would she have, though?

  “Why don’t we, um, go inside,” she suggested. “We can talk more there.”

  “We won, right?” Alice pressed. “We hit you like six times and you only hit us twice each.”

  Her priority right now wasn’t really deciding who won a snowball fight. But then, she was not six years old. “You absolutely won.”

  “Yay! That means we each get two cookies instead of only one!”

  Annie had always planned to give them two cookies each anyway. She was a sucker for these two. The twins knew this and took full advantage.

  “Kids, why don’t you go change out of your snow stuff and hang out in your room for a few moments,” she said when they were inside the mud room. “I’ll be there soon to get your cookies.”

  The twins looked reluctant but they went straight to her apartment through her own private entrance, leaving her alone with Tate.

  Drat the man for somehow managing to seem more gorgeous in person than he looked on screen.

  She must have seen the clip of a public television documentary he had appeared in at least a dozen times, watching him help villagers dig a well in Africa.

  He had looked rugged and appealing on screen, even tired and sweaty. Seeing him now, dressed in jeans and a luxurious-looking leather coat, made her feel slightly breathless, a feeling she wasn’t happy about.

  “You obviously weren’t expecting me.”

  The understatement of the month. And they would probably see a little snow this winter here in Star Valley.

  “No. I’m sorry. Maybe I missed an email or something.”

  Earlier in the year, Wallace would text her about once a month to tell her and the housekeeper/cook Deb Garza that he would be flying in for a few days, when he was arriving, what time to pick him up and how long he would stay.

  That had been his pattern early on, anyway. Then he caught pneumonia in late spring and never seemed to bounce back. He seemed to be a little stronger the last time she spoke on the phone with him in late October and he had been planning to come during the holidays but a heart attack had claimed him out of the blue only a few weeks later.

  “We must have had a miscommunication,” Tate said with a frown. “I thought my grandmother was sending word we were coming and she must have thought I would inform you.”

  “We?” Was someone else here that she hadn’t seen yet?

  “The rest of my family. I’m the advance guard, so to speak, but they’re all showing up by the end of the week.”

  Annie gaped at him. “The rest of your family?”

  “The whole lot of us. My grandmother Irene, her sister Lillian, my mother Pamela and her husband Stanford. And my two sisters.”

  “Both of them? Even Brianna?”

  “Yes. That’s the plan. You were always good friends with Brie, weren’t you?”

  “That was a long time ago. Another lifetime. I think the summer we were eleven was probably the last time I saw her.”

  The instant she said the words, she regretted them. Both of them knew what had happened that terrible summer.

  Brianna and Tate’s father Cole Sheridan, Wallace’s son, had fallen down a steep mountainside to his death while horseback riding with his children.

  The tragedy had lasting ramifications that rippled to this day.

  “Yes. Everyone is flying in Friday. I offered to come out a early to make sure the house was ready for company. Things have been so hectic, I guess I just assumed my grandmother would have informed the staff, like my grandfather used to do.”

  “What staff?” Annie could hear the slight edge of hysteria in her voice. “There is no staff except me, Levi Moran, the ranch manager, and a ranchhand, Bill Shaw.”

  Tate frowned. “What about a housekeeper? A cook?”

  “Deb Garza used to fill both of those roles but after Wallace got sick and stopped coming to Angel’s View, she decided to retire. She moved down to Kemmerer to live with her sister. Your grandfather told me to hold off hiring anyone to replace her for now. We have a cleaning crew that comes a couple times a month to keep the dust bunnies under control but that’s it. I take care of the rest.”

  Tate sighed. “That’s going to be a problem, then. I have four days to get the house ready for Christmas and no idea how the hell I’m supposed to pull that off.”

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  A Rancher’s Touch

  by Allison Leigh

  Chapter One

  You get what you pay for.

  Ros Pastore stared at the small building situated at the end of the one-lane road.

  It was a single story with one part of the roof pitched and the other flat, and a brick chimney sticking up from the back like a stubby thumb. The siding was an indeterminate shade of blech, the original color long since faded away.

  The front window took up most of the facade but the glass pane was covered by dozens of flyers, none of which looked remotely recent. Above the scarred wood door next to the window was a giant, hand-painted sign, not charming, or homespun, in any sort of way.

  Poocheez.

  The only moderately attractive element about the place was the tree growing in front of it, but even that wasn’t perfect because its roots had caused the walkway leading to the front door to buckle and crack.

  Her head swam and she swayed slightly.

  Was it horror over the reality of her actions? Or was it simply that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before when she’d packed up everything she still owned and left Cheyenne once and for all?

  You get what you pay for.

  How many times had her father drilled those words into her head?

  A hundred?

  A million?

  Ironically,
her father, Martin Pastore, was now getting what he’d paid for, too. A sentence of seven years in the state penitentiary for multiple counts of fraud.

  It could have been worse. Thanks to his lifelong legal career and the favors he’d racked up, he’d managed to avoid prosecution at the federal level in his plea deal. He’d still lost everything he’d built over the last thirty-five years. Money. Reputation. The law practice he’d founded that she’d made the center of her life since even before she’d gone to law school.

  The truth was that it should have been worse.

  Maybe that was to be her penance. Knowing that her father had gotten off too lightly for the crimes he’d committed.

  Right under her nose.

  She closed her eyes against the sight of the ugly little building. But that just left her to the mercy of the thoughts that had been squatting inside her head for the better part of the past year.

  The real truth?

  She deserved to lose everything she’d worked for just as much as her father deserved his prison sentence.

  The jagged teeth of the key she’d picked up from the real estate office in Weaver dug into her fingers.

  She exhaled, opened her eyes wide and faced the building.

  Faced the future.

  She’d bought it outright with the last bit of savings she had left. Not just this building located at the end of No Name Road. But the business it housed.

  Rosalind Pastore, no-longer attorney-at-law. Dog-grooming business owner instead.

  She’d wanted different. Needed different.

  So she’d chosen different.

  A different career. And particularly a different place, away from Cheyenne where conversations ground to a halt whenever she entered the room.

  “Can’t get much more different than this place,” she muttered to herself.

  She looked back up the narrow road. It was 2.2 miles to the highway. Once there, if she turned one way, it was about fifteen miles to Weaver. If she turned the other way, it was about the same distance to Braden.

  Her mother lived in Braden.

  Probably why she’d chosen to work with a real estate agent in Weaver.

  One more thing for her to feel guilty about. She’d moved closer to Braden.

  But not that close.

  She pinched her eyes, annoyed with herself.

  She felt herself sinking in the pity pool again. But the whole reason she was here was to keep from drowning in it.

  She yanked the smallest of her suitcases out of her trunk and carried it toward the grimy-looking door. Up close, it looked even worse. Even the doorknob looked covered in filth.

  But if she got rid of the multitude of faded flyers in the window, scrubbed everything up and maybe painted some fresh wood stain on the door, it would surely look more inviting. That could be one of the first things she focused on.

  A welcoming entrance.

  She could almost hear the laughter of her former associates.

  Ros Pastore. Worried about being welcoming.

  Annoyance burbled at the edges of her nerves and she shoved the key into the lock and turned.

  The key snapped off. Right in half.

  She stared for a moment at the stub left attached to her key ring, then bent over to look at the half left inserted in the lock. It didn’t budge when she tried to catch an edge of it with her fingernail.

  She straightened, swearing under her breath, and let her suitcase drop to the ground. The expensive hard-side suitcase popped open, spewing the contents out onto the weeds sprouting through the cracked cement.

  Her shoulders sank as she eyed the rainbow-hued mess. “Perfect. Just...freaking...perfect.”

  She kicked the side of the suitcase, which only made her toes hurt and sent her zippered makeup bag toppling onto the sidewalk as well.

  “Don’t know about perfect,” a deep voice drawled from behind her, “but I don’t think kicking that thing is going to help the situation.”

  She whirled on her sandal and looked at the man standing near her Lexus.

  She was too damn tired after the last year to be too startled by the sudden appearance of a guy in a cowboy hat leading a saddled horse down a country road.

  Even if he did fit the description of tall, dark and deadly.

  She lowered her chin and looked over the rims of her sunglasses at him. “Doesn’t help, but I don’t think it necessarily hurts, either.” She sent a pointed look at the sign hanging above the door. “And it isn’t as if I kicked a dog.”

  “True enough.”

  He was tall with shoulders wide as an ox. The parts of his face that weren’t covered by sunglasses or the cowboy hat pulled low on his brow were covered by a dark beard. His green shirt was plain, his blue jeans were even plainer and his boots were as dusty as the cowboy hat on his head.

  She’d been born and raised in Wyoming. Just because she’d had a privileged upbringing didn’t mean she couldn’t distinguish a man in a cowboy costume from a real cowboy.

  This one looked cowboy to the hardened core.

  “Speaking of.” She eyed the big black horse standing docile alongside him. The animal’s legs were spattered with mud. “Dog grooming’s on the menu here. Not horse grooming.”

  The man looked over the rims of his sunglasses. “If you’ve ever shampooed a dirty dog, I’ll eat my hat.”

  She’d spent two summers working at an animal shelter where she’d done nothing but shampoo and groom dirty dogs. Just because that had been more than twenty years ago didn’t mean it didn’t count.

  “Hat looks a bit dusty to me, but then again it might add a little flavor when you start chewing.”

  He offered a brief smile. “Heard ol’ Seamus sold this place sight unseen to a lawyer outta Cheyenne.” He resettled his hat another centimeter or two up his forehead and pulled his sunglasses off altogether. His eyes were dark. “Guessing she’s you.”

  She pushed her sunglasses into place again. “I’m not a lawyer.” Not anymore.

  He walked closer. “You’re not the one who bought Poocheez?”

  She looked up at the ugly sign again and tried not to sigh too loudly. “Yeah, I am the one—” heaven help her “—who did that. I’m just not a lawyer.”

  She heard the scrape of the man’s boots and from the corner of her eye saw him draw closer. He didn’t try to prevent his horse from straying to the thick grass tufting up from the narrow creek on the other side of the road.

  The man didn’t stop until he was standing right beside her in front of the door. “So what’s the problem here?”

  She was five-seven in her flat sandals. Her head barely reached his shoulder.

  This was why she’d always worn heels. To give her more of an advantage. Even though she knew it was only a psychological one.

  He smelled earthy. Like sagebrush and leather and summer sun.

  Not unpleasant. But very, very masculine.

  She took a step sideways, re-creating the personal space he’d just invaded. “Key broke in the lock.” She jiggled the knob. It neither turned nor magically spit out the broken key.

  “That the only key they gave you? There’s a door ’round back, too.”

  It was a reasonable question. It just happened to rub her overworked nerves wrong. “If they’d given me two keys do you think I’d be standing here having a discussion about it with you?”

  His dark gaze slid over her again. “Folks around these parts know how to depend on others, honey.”

  I depend on myself.

  At least she didn’t say it aloud. Her nerves were nearly shot, but she hadn’t lost all sense.

  She crossed her arms and watched him lean down to study the lock. He tried to catch a corner of the sheared-off key to work it free the way she had. Only he used a folding knife he’d pulled from his front pocket.<
br />
  It wasn’t any more effective than her fingernail method.

  Then he straightened and thumbed his hat back another inch. The fine ray of lines spreading from his eyes were an indicator that, hat or no, he spent a lot of time squinting in the sun. “Hope you’re not one of those people who’re prone to thinking everything’s a sign.”

  She jiggled the knob again, even though she knew it would do no good. It was that or kick the door, which would be equally fruitless. “Right now, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s where I’ve been going wrong.”

  “Could be worse.” He slid his sunglasses back in place. “It was supposed to rain today.”

  She looked at her twin reflections in his dark glasses. She tried to figure out whether or not there was a hint of humor in his deep voice. And why she was even curious.

  She’d never been attracted to bearded hulks. Particularly ones who tossed around words like honey to complete strangers.

  But he definitely made her edgy.

  In that “he’s a man, you’re a woman” sort of way.

  It was annoying, if for no other reason than that the past year had done nothing but prove how miserable she was with relationships. Personal. Professional.

  You name it and she’d failed at it.

  In spectacular fashion.

  “I’m Ros,” she said abruptly. “Ros Pastore. New owner of Poocheez whether I can get through the door or not. Is there something I can do for you?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Trace Powell. And it might be more like what I can do for you.”

  She clasped his hand. Briefly.

  Long enough to note the warmth. The calluses. The lack of rings. And the fact that her hand felt small and delicate inside of his.