by Marin Thomas
From his vantage point on the hill the old homestead left a lot to be desired. The shabby two-story white clapboard—most of the paint had peeled off over the years—listed to the left as if the steady Idaho winds were trying to shove it off its foundation. The shutters had faded from glossy black to dull charcoal, and one shutter was missing from a second-story window. Olson hadn’t put any money into upkeep. Not unusual. Most ranchers and horse breeders sunk their profits into their operations.
Next Matt eyed the horse barn—in slightly better condition than the house—and the empty paddocks. Dread settled like a hot road apple in the pit of his stomach. Had the widow sold off the prized stallion?
Guess he’d better find out. Matt returned to the house and stomped up the porch steps. The door opened unexpectedly and he had to yank his arm back to prevent his knuckles from rapping the widow’s forehead.
“Need more proof Ben’s dead, Mr. Cartwright?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul odor—him.
Was her testy demeanor the result of her husband’s death or just her normal pleasing personality? First things first. He removed his hat. “My condolences on the loss of your husband.”
His apology sucked the hissy-fit out of her. Her brown eyes softened to the color of well-oiled saddle leather as she murmured, “Thank you.”
When they’d spoken earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to her face. She seemed too damned young to be a widow—clear skin, nondescriptive features and a cap of blondish bouncy curls that bobbed in every direction when she moved her head. She was average height—somewhere between five-five and five-six with curvy hips and plenty of eye-catching bosom. Not that he had any interest in her figure.
He shored up his defenses. He’d learned the hard way that the opposite sex usually possessed an agenda. He’d been burned once by a needy female and refused to walk that road again. And Amy Olson, her brown eyes brimming with bleakness, was the epitome of a woman in need.
“I’m hoping we can reach an agreement regarding your husband’s debt.”
“You must be joking.”
Molars clamped together he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. The oxygen shot straight to his brain, clearing his head. “The way I see it, you have two choices, ma’am.” He doubted she’d accept either one, but what the hell. “You pay me thirty thousand dollars or I leave my mares here and retrieve them at the end of the summer. Take your pick.”
Eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings, she protested. “I don’t have the means to care for your horses.”
“Fine. I’ll take a check.”
She swept her arm across her body. “Does it look like I have thirty grand lying around, Mr. Cartwright?”
Score one for the widow.
“Might I suggest you sell off a few assets to free up the money?”
Her fingers latched on to her throat and he wasn’t sure if she’d intended to halt the gasp that escaped her mouth or to choke herself to death. “I’ve got nothing left save the house and the land and that’s not for sale.”
Damn it all. Why didn’t Amy Olson just brand the words Help Me across her forehead?
“Mama?”
Matt peeked around the door and spotted a dark-haired child holding a toddler with a mop of tangled blond curls. The curly-headed kid grinned around the thumb in her mouth, and a gush of drool spilled down her chin.
“Rose, honey, go upstairs.”
The widow hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He guessed her wariness indicated no other men occupied the premises. Right then the baby whimpered, and held chubby arms out to her mother. Tending to a grumpy kid trumped dealing with him.
“I’m going to unload my horses and leave them in the corral. We’ll settle things in the morning.” He’d made it as far as the bottom porch step when her words lassoed him.
“Nothing left to settle, Mr. Cartwright. Might as well be on your way.”
“I’m not leaving the area until you pay off your husband’s debt or grant me stud service.” At her gasp, he clarified, “Stud service for my mares.”
His ears winced when the door slammed shut.
“HE’S STILL OUT THERE, MAMA,” Rose’s same words echoed two hours later as the little girl stood sentry again at the kitchen window while Amy fixed supper. Following a snack of Cheerios, Lily had succumbed to another nap in the playpen, allowing Amy a rare moment of peace and quiet.
The baby had caught a cold, and the little princess was fussier than usual. If Lily ended up with another ear infection, which she was prone to, Amy would have to take her daughter to the medical clinic in Rockton. She had no idea where she’d get the money to pay for the office visit. Ben’s death had been a nasty monetary wake-up call.
The first few weeks she’d been numb. Then she’d gone into survival mode with one objective—keep the farm afloat. Now even that goal was slipping away. Reality had set in and Amy had to find a job to support her and the girls. Boarding horses was no longer an option—at least not until she decided what to do with that nasty stud in the barn.
“He sure does got pretty horses.”
“Have, Rose. Not got,” Amy corrected.
“Butch says got all the time and his mama don’t, I mean, doesn’t yell at him.”
“I’m not yelling.” Amy rolled her eyes. “And Butch knows better.” The boy was their nearest neighbor’s son. He and Rose shared the same first-grade teacher.
Rose puffed against the pane until it fogged over, then drew B+R with a heart around the letters. Her daughter was in the throes of her first crush.
“Quit messing up the window and set the table, please.” Amy slathered butter on stale bread slices, then glanced over her shoulder and noticed too many dishes on the table. “Only three plates, Rose.”
Ben’s hazel eyes gazed at Amy from her daughter’s face. “What about Daddy’s friend?”
Daddy’s friend had been how she’d explained Matt Cartwright’s unexpected visit. “As soon as his horses rest up, he’ll leave.” She slapped cheese slices on the bread, set the sandwiches in the hot skillet, then wandered over to the window.
Her daughter was right. The mares were beautiful—American quarter horses. Two were buckskins, their yellowish-gold coats popping against glossy black manes, tails and lower legs. The other mare was chestnut with a burnished hide and a brownish-red mane and tail. Forcing her eyes away from the animals she studied the cowboy.
Matt.
Ben.
What was it about men with one-syllable names? Matt was easy on the eyes like Ben had been. And where had lusting after Ben gotten her? Screwed—literally. She’d best keep her eyeballs in her head and figure out a way to run Matt Cartwright off.
Damn you, Ben. Thirty thousand dollars? Her husband had insisted he’d gotten a handle on his gambling addiction. Or maybe she’d just yearned to believe him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
While she flipped the sandwiches, she mentally calculated the bills piling up. Her May mortgage payment was overdue, which ignited her fanny on fire. The land had belonged to her mother’s side of the family for four generations. Her parents had managed to pay off the farm before they’d drowned in a boating accident a few years ago. Because Ben had accumulated a substantial amount of gambling debt, she’d consented to taking out a second mortgage on the property to pay off his losses—under the condition he attend Gamblers Anonymous. He’d agreed.
Instead of repaying off the huge cash advances he’d taken out against several credit cards, her husband had purchased Son of Sunshine and had gambled away the rest. When he’d shown up at the farm with the stallion he’d lied and claimed he’d fallen off the wagon and had used his poker winnings to buy the stud.
If that wasn’t insult enough, Ben had had the nerve to up and die, leaving her with credit card debts, a sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage and a stud whose unpredictable behavior had caused her horse-boarding clients to flee, leaving her with no source of income.
She’d sold off her great
-great-grandmother’s rare 1860’s Patent Williams & Orvis Treadle Sewing Machine for $2,495.00 to clear one of the credit cards, but that hadn’t made a dent in the thousands of dollars of debt remaining. If she had the opportunity to sell the stud she would. But who in their right mind would shell out big bucks for a dangerous horse?
“He’s hungry,” Rose said.
Amy lowered the flame under the burner, then peeked over her daughter’s shoulder. The cowboy unloaded a hay bale from the pickup bed and spread it around the corral. Then he wandered over to the stock tank, peered inside and shook his head. No sense keeping fresh water in the reservoir after her boarding business had dried up. He turned on the spigot and filled the trough. “How can you tell he’s hungry?” Amy asked.
“’Cause he’s a good worker.”
Wouldn’t it be nice if all life’s questions came with such simple answers? Sandwiches done, she sliced an apple, delivered the meal to the table and poured Rose a glass of milk. “Wash your hands. I’ll be right back.”
Amy left the house and crossed the drive to where the cowboy stood with one boot propped on the lower rung of the corral, arms folded across the top, watching the mares race about, kicking up dust. “Your horses are spectacular.”
He turned his head and his eyes sucked her into a vortex of swirling blue. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s spell. “I’m truly sorry about your husband’s death,” he said.
Even though the words were sincere, she’d had enough of pitying looks and mumbled sympathies. It wasn’t easy being reminded how gullible she’d been. Besides, I’m sorry wouldn’t pay the mortgage or breathe life into her dead husband. “We’re having grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. You’re welcome to join us.”
His lips curled at the corners. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll grab a bite to eat in town.”
Rude man. She hugged herself, because the wind had picked up, not because the cowboy had declined her meal invitation. “You’re not going to make this easy on me and disappear, are you?”
“No, ma’am, I’m not.”
“If you don’t mind me saying—” she gestured to his horse trailer “—you appear to have the financial means to absorb a thirty-thousand-dollar loss.”
“That’s beside the point. A deal is a deal. I intend to breed my mares to Son of Sunshine.”
Enough said. There would be no changing the wrangler’s mind—not today. She spun, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “How did Ben die?”
She supposed he had a right to know. “He was attacked by a horse.”
The wind died suddenly, as if heaven held its breath. “What horse?” he asked.
“Son of Sunshine.”
If she hadn’t been watching his mouth she would never have heard his faintly uttered cuss word.
Shit.
Chapter Two
A smart man would understand when to stop pursuing a lost cause.
A smart man would know when to pull up stakes and hit the road.
At the moment Matt Cartwright didn’t give a crap about how smart he was or wasn’t.
As he drove away from the Broken Wheel late Saturday afternoon, he glanced in the rearview mirror. After issuing a supper invitation both Amy Olson and Matt knew he’d refuse, the widow stood in the gravel drive, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, watching the truck’s taillights fade into the distance.
When he reached the county road he pulled onto the shoulder and cut the engine. The anger he’d experienced at having his plans to breed his mares suspended was nothing compared to the shame consuming him.
It might not make sense, but Matt wasn’t able to shake the feeling that one stupid poker game—instigated by him—had set in motion a series of events that had culminated with Ben’s death. What if the card game had never taken place—would the future have played out differently? Would Ben be alive today?
Matt wanted to believe that if he’d been aware Olson had had a wife he’d never have suckered the compulsive gambler into playing poker.
Don’t kid yourself. You would have done anything to gain access to Son of Sunshine.
He tilted the rearview mirror and stared himself in the eye. Had Kayla’s betrayal left him with more than a broken heart and his pride in shreds? Had he channeled his hurt into a ruthless determination that ignored everyone and anything, including his own moral code?
Leave it alone, man. What’s done is done. Matt would have to deal with the wreckage left behind from his own selfish interests—a widow, two fatherless girls and a prizewinning stud whose behavior had become unpredictable and erratic.
What the hell was he going to do now? His father disapproved of Matt’s plans to enter into the horse-breeding business, and Matt didn’t relish the idea of returning to Oklahoma with his tail tucked between his legs.
You’re an ass—wallowing in self-pity while Amy Olson struggles to pick up the pieces after her husband’s death.
What was it about the young widow that got to Matt—not her looks, that’s for sure. Amy Olson didn’t come close to the sexy groupies that pestered him on the road. She was a living, breathing, walking advertisement for home and hearth—kids included. A world of hurt and stubborn pride shone in her brown eyes, yet she carried herself—shoulders stiff, chin high—as if ready to face her next test, which happened to be him.
Fingers drumming the steering wheel, he considered his options. His stomach gurgled with hunger, so he started the truck and merged onto the highway, heading north into town. Five minutes later he slowed to a stop at the sole intersection in Pebble Creek.
The quaint map dot consisted of one city block of 1920’s brick-front businesses. Fake, old-fashioned hitching posts lined the sidewalk. A livestock tank overflowing with red and purple flowers sat by the door of a beauty shop called Snappy Scissors Hair Salon. Mendel’s Drug emporium offered a park bench for customers outside its store. Smith Tax Consultants was sandwiched between the beauty shop and drugstore. Farther down Wineball Realty had been painted in white lettering across a black awning. And at the end of the block sat United Savings and Loan.
Situated across the street was a turn-of-the-century Victorian home that had been converted into a tavern. Joe’s was scrawled in red paint across the front window and a Michelob sign hung from the flagpole bracket mounted on the overhang of the porch. A pot of faded plastic daisies decorated the bottom porch step and two battered aluminum chairs graced either side of the front door. An orange tabby rested in a windowsill on the second floor.
Roxie’s Rustic Treasures occupied the abandoned gas station on the corner. The treasures: iron headboards, broken furniture and an assortment of tools and dishes were scattered about the parking lot. Next to Roxie’s, a life-size horse statue pawed the air in front of Pebble Creek Feed & Tack.
A sidewalk sign outside Pearl’s advertised, Parking in Rear, so Matt drove around the corner and swung into the lot behind the block of businesses. He left his hat on the front seat and entered through the back door of the diner, deciding he’d order a thick juicy burger.
“We’re out of burger meat. Delivery truck jackknifed near Pocatello. Won’t get here till morning,” the waitress groused when she arrived to take his order at the lunch counter. The middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair scrutinized him through her mango-colored bifocals. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”
Matt read her name tag. “I’m from Oklahoma, Pearl.”
“I met an Okie years ago. Didn’t impress me none.” She batted a set of false eyelashes.
“Maybe I’ll change your mind.” Matt’s grin teased a twitch from the corner of the woman’s mouth. “What do you recommend for a hungry cowboy?” He read the offerings scratched in white chalk on the blackboard mounted to the wall behind the counter.
“If you’ve a mind for home cooking try the meat loaf. Otherwise the Reuben ain’t bad.”
Pearl’s World-Famous Meat Loaf…Matt shook his head. Every diner in America boasted a worl
d-famous something. “Meat loaf it is and a cup of decaf.”
“Sure thing.”
After Pearl delivered his coffee, Matt forced his current dilemma to the far reaches of his mind and soaked up the atmosphere. Over the years he’d broken bread in plenty of small-town diners while traveling the circuit. After a while the mom-and-pop eateries blurred together. Pearl’s business possessed candy-apple-red tabletops. Worn seats made from cheap leather that sported their share of cracks and splits, allowing the yellowed foam cushion inside to poke through.
Cigarette burns scarred the Formica lunch counter, which was the same red color as the booth tables. The wall facing the street displayed a collection of license plates from all corners of the United States—even Hawaii. Framed photographs hung near the door—famous people like the 1978 4-H Fair Queen and the 2007 school district spelling-bee champion. Instead of the custom jukebox in the corner wailing Gatlin Brothers’ songs, the local farm bureau report droned from a radio at the end of the counter.
Snatches of conversation filtered into Matt’s ear. A group of elderly women gossiped about the local pastor and traded apple pie recipes. A couple of hippies in their fifties, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and torn jeans, shared an animated conversation—probably reminiscing over a recent biker rally. A middle-aged couple in a corner booth sat stone-faced over cups of coffee. And a trio of anglers nearby complained about the new state-wide limit on chinook salmon.
“Passin’ through to the next go-round?” The question came from two stools away. Friendly gray eyes smiled out of a chiseled face covered in white whiskers. “Noticed the buckle.” The geezer’s arthritic pointer finger crooked at an odd angle.
“Here on business.” Matt swiveled his stool and shook hands. “Matt Cartwright by way of Tulsa.”
“Jake Taylor. Foreman out at the Gateway Ranch.”
