A Cowboy's Claim

by Marin Thomas

  “Actually I was pretty sure I was going to propose to you.” She smiled. “But you beat me to the punch.”

  “And you’re okay with...” He dropped his gaze to his nephew.

  Tanya drew Alex into their circle. “We’ve been a family since July and we’re going to stay one.”

  Vic’s throat swelled shut and he couldn’t have spoken if he’d tried. So he kissed Tanya, blocking out the noisy fans. He savored her sweet lips and the near perfect future that awaited them as soon as they left the Thomas and Mack Center.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Higgins’s score fell a few points short and this year’s national champion saddle-bronc cowboy is Victor Vicario!”

  “You did it,” Tanya whispered against his mouth.

  When the kiss ended, Vic glanced up and spotted Cruz and Alonso waiting to congratulate him. Tanya took Alex’s hand and walked off to join her parents and the rest of Vic’s fan club.

  Vic, Alonso and Cruz stood together, each trading looks of forgiveness. Then Cruz spoke. “Now that we’ve taken care of all that bullshit, it’s time the three of us had a beer together.”

  “Amen,” Alonso said, clasping Vic’s shoulder. “Go get your buckle, so we can get out of here and celebrate.”

  “Cruz’s buckle,” Vic corrected Alonso.

  Cruz snorted. “Are you kidding me? I could have ridden Cyclone backward with a blindfold on and gotten a higher score.”

  “Oh, you could, huh?” Vic punched Cruz playfully in the arm. “I’ll tell you what. You do the riding next season, because I’m done.”

  “Guess we’ll see what the next generation does on the circuit,” Alonso said, his gaze sliding to his brother-in-law.

  “Maybe we should make a wager right now.” Cruz nodded at his daughter. “I’m betting Dani is the first female bull rider to win the NFR.”

  Alonso whistled between his teeth. “I’ll wager my brother-in-law, Luke, wins more than one national championship buckle.”

  Vic’s gaze swung to his nephew, and his chest tightened when Alex smiled at him. “And I bet my nephew, Alex, is smarter than all the rest of us and stays away from rodeo.”

  The three friends busted up laughing and joined the others. Vic swung Alex onto his shoulders and took Tanya’s hand. “After I talk to the media, we’ll make wedding plans.”

  “There’s no rush.” Tanya’s smile wrapped Vic in its warmth. “While we’re making plans for the rest of our life, we’ll just start living it.”

  * * * * *

  Read on for a sneak preview

  of ONCE A RANCHER by

  #1 New York Times bestselling author

  Linda Lael Miller,

  the first title in her brand-new series,

  THE CARSONS OF MUSTANG CREEK.

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  Once a Rancher

  by Linda Lael Miller

  CHAPTER ONE

  SLATER CARSON WAS bone-tired, as he was after every film wrapped, but it was the best kind of fatigue—part pride and satisfaction in a job well done, part relief, part “bring it,” that anticipatory quiver in the pit of his stomach that would lead him to the next project, and the one after that.

  This latest film had been set in a particularly remote area, emphasizing how the Homestead Act had impacted the development of not just the American West, but the country as a whole. It had been his most ambitious effort to date. The sheer scope was truly epic, and as he watched the uncut footage on his computer monitor, he knew.

  160 Acres was going to touch a nerve.

  Yep. This one would definitely hit home with the viewers, new and old.

  His previous effort, a miniseries on the Lincoln County War in New Mexico, had won prizes and garnered great reviews, and he’d sold the rights to one of the media giants for a shitload of money. Like Lincoln County, 160 Acres was good, solid work. The researchers, camera operators and other professionals he worked with were the top people in the business, as committed to the films as he was.

  And that was saying something.

  No doubt about it, the team had done a stellar job the last time around, but this—well, this was the best yet. A virtual work of art, if he did say so himself.

  “Boss?”

  Slater leaned back in his desk chair and clicked the pause button. “Hey, Nate,” he greeted his friend and personal assistant. “What do you need?”

  Like Slater, Nate Wheaton had just gotten back from the film site, where he’d taken care of a thousand details, and it was a safe bet that the man was every bit as tired as he looked. Short, blond, energetic and not more than twenty years old, Nate was a dynamo; the production had come together almost seamlessly, in large part because of his talent, persistence and steel-trap brain.

  “Um,” Nate murmured, visibly unplugging, shifting gears. He was moving into off-duty mode, and God knew, he’d earned it. “There’s someone to see you.” He inclined his head in the direction of the outer office, rubbed the back of his neck and let out an exasperated sigh. “The lady insists she needs to talk to you and only you. I tried to get her to make an appointment, but she says it has to be now.”

  Slater suppressed a sigh of his own. “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

  “I’ve actually pointed that out,” Nate said, glancing at his phone. “It’s five after, to be exact.” Like Slater himself, Nate believed in exactness, which was at once a blessing and a curse. “She claims it can’t possibly wait until morning, whatever ‘it’ is. But if I hadn’t been walking into the kitchen I wouldn’t have heard the knock.”

  “How’d she even find me?” The crew had flown in late, driven out to the vineyard/ranch, and Slater had figured that no one, other than his family, knew he was in town. Or out of town. Whatever qualified as far as the ranch was concerned.

  Nate looked glumly resigned. “I have no idea. She refused to say. I’m going to bed. If you need anything else, come and wake me, but bring a sledgehammer, because I’d probably sleep through anything less.” A pause, another sigh, deeper and wearier than the last. “That was quite the shoot.”

  The understatement of the day.

  Slater drew on the last dregs of his energy, shoved a hand
through his hair and said, “Well, point her in this direction, if you don’t mind, and then get yourself some shut-eye.”

  He supposed he sounded normal, but on the inside, he was drained. He’d given everything he had to 160 Acres, and then some, and there was no hope of charging his batteries. He’d blown through the last of his physical resources hours ago.

  Resentment at the intrusion nibbled at his famous equanimity; he was used to dealing with problems on the job—ranging from pesky all the way to apocalyptic—but at home, damn it, he expected to be left alone. He needed rest, downtime, a chance to regroup, and home was where he did those things.

  One of his younger brothers ran the Carson ranch, and the other managed the vineyard and winery. The arrangement worked out pretty well. Everyone had his own role to play, and the sprawling mansion was big enough even for three competitive males to live in relative peace. Especially since Slater was gone half the time anyway.

  “Will do.” Nate left the study, and a few minutes later the door opened.

  Before Slater could make the mental leap from one moment to the next, a woman—quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—stormed across the threshold, dragging a teenage boy by the arm.

  She was a redhead, with the kind of body that would resurrect a dead man, let alone a tired one.

  And Slater had a fondness for redheads; he’d dated a lot of them over the years. This one was all sizzle, and her riot of coppery curls, bouncing around her straight, indignant shoulders, seemed to blaze in the dim light.

  It took him a moment, but he finally recovered enough to clamber to his feet and say, “I’m Slater Carson. Can I help you?”

  This visitor, whoever she was, had his full attention.

  Fascinating.

  The redhead poked the kid, who was taller than she was by at least six inches, and she did it none too gently. The boy flinched; he was lanky, clad in a Seahawks T-shirt, baggy jeans and half-laced shoes. He looked bewildered, ready to bolt.

  “Start talking, buster,” the redhead ordered, glowering up at the kid. “And no excuses.” She shook her head. “I’m being nice here,” she said when the teenager didn’t speak. “Your father would kick you into the next county.”

  Just his luck, Slater thought, with a strange, nostalgic detachment. She was married.

  While he waited for the next development, he let his gaze trail over the goddess, over a sundress with thin straps on shapely shoulders, a midthigh skirt and a lot of silky, pale skin. She was one of the rare titian types who didn’t have freckles, although Slater wouldn’t be opposed to finding out if there might be a few tucked out of sight. White sandals with a small heel finished off the look, and all that glorious hair was loose and flowing down her back.

  The kid, probably around fourteen, cleared his throat. He stepped forward and laid one of the magnetic panels from the company’s production truck on the desk.

  Slater, caught up in the unfolding drama, hadn’t noticed the sign until then.

  Interesting.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy gulped out, looking miserable and, at the same time, a little defiant. “I took this.” He glanced briefly at the woman beside him, visibly considered giving her some lip, and just as visibly reconsidered. Smart kid. “I thought it was pretty cool,” he explained, all knees and elbows and youthful angst. Color climbed his neck and burned in his face. “I know it was wrong, okay? Stealing is stealing, and my stepmother’s ready to cuff me and haul me off to jail, so if that’s what you want, too, mister, go for it.”

  Stepmother?

  Slater was still rather dazed, as though he’d stepped off a wild carnival ride before it was through its whole slew of loop de loops.

  “His father and I are divorced.” She said it curtly, evidently reading Slater’s expression.

  Well, Slater reflected, that was good news. She did look young to be the kid’s mother. And now that he thought about it, the boy didn’t resemble her in the slightest, with his dark hair and eyes.

  Finally catching up, he raised his brows, feeling a flicker of something he couldn’t quite identify, along with a flash of sympathy for the boy. He guessed the redhead was in her early thirties. While she seemed to be in charge of the situation, Slater suspected she might be in over her head. Clearly, the kid was a handful.

  It was time, Slater decided, still distanced from himself, to speak up.

  “I appreciate your bringing it back,” he managed, holding the boy’s gaze but well aware of the woman on the periphery of his vision. “These aren’t cheap.”

  Some of the F-you drained out of the kid’s expression. “Like I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “You made a mistake,” Slater agreed quietly. “We’ve all done things we shouldn’t have at one time or another. You did what you could to make it right, and that’s good.” He paused. “Life’s all about the choices we make, son. Next time, try to do better.” He felt a grin lurking at one corner of his mouth. “I would’ve been really ticked off if I had to replace this.”

  The boy looked confused. “Why? You’re rich.”

  Slater had encountered that reasoning before—over the entire course of his life, actually. His family was wealthy, and had been for well over a century. They ran cattle, owned vast stretches of Wyoming grassland, and now, thanks to his mother’s roots in the Napa Valley, there was the winery, with acres of vineyards to support the enterprise.

  “Beside the point,” Slater said. He worked for a living, and he worked hard, but he felt no particular need to explain that to this kid or anybody else. “What’s your name?”

  “Ryder,” the boy answered after a moment’s hesitation.

  “Where do you go to school, Ryder?”

  “The same lame place everyone around here goes in the eighth grade. Mustang Creek Middle School.”

  Slater lifted one hand. “I can do without the attitude,” he said.

  Ryder recovered quickly. “Sorry,” he muttered.

  Slater had never been married, but he understood children; he had a daughter, and he’d grown up with two kid brothers, born a year apart and still a riot looking for a place to happen, even in their thirties. He’d broken up more fights than a bouncer at Bad Billie’s Biker Bar and Burger Palace on a Saturday night.

  “I went to the same school,” he said, mostly to keep the conversation going. He was in no hurry for the redhead to call it a night, especially since he didn’t know her name yet. “Not a bad deal. Does Mr. Perkins still teach shop?”

  Ryder laughed. “Oh, yeah. We call him ‘The Relic.’”

  Slater let the remark pass; it was flippant, but not mean-spirited. “You couldn’t meet a nicer guy, though. Right?”

  The kid’s expression was suitably sheepish. “True,” he admitted.

  The stepmother glanced at Slater with some measure of approval, although she still seemed riled.

  Slater looked back for the pure pleasure of it. She’d be a whole new experience, this one, and he’d never been afraid of a challenge.

  She’d said she was divorced, which begged the question: What damn fool had let her get away?

  As if she’d guessed what he was thinking—anybody with her looks had to be used to male attention—the redhead narrowed her eyes. Still, Slater thought he saw a glimmer of amusement in them. She’d calmed down considerably, but she wasn’t missing a trick.

  He grinned slightly. “Cuffs?” he inquired mildly, remembering Ryder’s statement a few minutes earlier.

  She didn’t smile, but that spark was still in her eyes. “That was a reference to my former career,” she replied, all business. “I’m an ex-cop.” She put out her hand, the motion almost abrupt, and finally introduced herself. “Grace Emery,” she said. “These days I run the Bliss River Resort and Spa.”

  “Ah,�
� Slater said, apropos of nothing in particular. An ex-cop? Hot damn, she could handcuff him anytime. “You must be fairly new around here.” If she hadn’t been, he would’ve made her acquaintance before now, or at least heard about her.

  Grace nodded. Full of piss-and-vinegar moments before, she looked tired now, and that did something to Slater, although he couldn’t have said exactly what that something was. “It’s a beautiful place,” she said. “Quite a change from Seattle.” She stopped, looking uncomfortable, maybe thinking she’d said too much.

  Slater wanted to ask about the ex-husband, but the time obviously wasn’t right. He waited, sensing that she might say more, despite the misgivings she’d just revealed by clamming up.

  Sure enough, she went on. “I’m afraid it’s been quite a change for Ryder, too.” Another pause. “His dad’s military, and he’s overseas. It’s been hard on him—Ryder, I mean.”

  Slater sympathized. The kid’s father was out of the country, he’d moved from a big city in one state to a small town in another, and on top of that, he was fourteen, which was rough in and of itself. When Slater was that age, he’d grown eight inches in a single summer and simultaneously developed a consuming interest in girls without having a clue what to say to them. Oh, yeah. He remembered awkward.

  He realized Grace’s hand was still in his. He let go, albeit reluctantly.

  Then, suddenly, he felt as tongue-tied as he ever had at fourteen. “My family’s been on this ranch for generations,” he heard himself say. “So I can’t say I know what it would be like having to start over someplace new.” Shut up, man. He couldn’t seem to follow his own advice. “I travel a lot, and I’m always glad to get back to Mustang Creek.”

  Grace turned to Ryder, sighed, then looked back at Slater. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Mr. Carson.”

  Mr. Carson?

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said, still flustered and still trying to shake it off. Ordinarily, he was the proverbial man of few words, but tonight, in the presence of this woman, he was a babbling idiot. “This place is like a maze. I took over my father’s office because of the view, but it’s clear at the back of the house and—”