by Cassie Miles
USA TODAY bestselling author Cassie Miles shows what happens when a big-city girl meets a sexy cowboy after inheriting a Colorado ranch.
Since quitting the rodeo circuit, Zach Sheffield hadn’t much time for people, never mind city folk. A stranger had inherited a famous ranch in their Colorado town, and worse than not knowing one end of a horse from the other, he pegged Gabby Rousseau as a mustang, for sure.
Local legend said that Gabby’s estate hid the Frenchman’s treasure, making it a frequent target for thieves. After the first break-in, Zach knew Gabby would need protection, but the beauty from the big city was putting up a fight. He knew he was better off tending to his horses than praying for a breakthrough…but then again, Zach had never met a mustang he couldn’t tame.
2 books in 1! MOUNTAIN MIDWIFE also included in this book!
Though Gabby had never been a big fan of Westerns, she was mesmerized by the vision of a broad-shouldered, long-legged, masculine cowboy in a black hat and denim jacket.
Beyond gorgeous, he was iconic and, at the same time, utterly original. He dismounted near the place where she’d gotten tangled up last night and he sauntered to the fence with a cool, loose-limbed stride. When he pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked toward the house, she stepped behind the curtain so he wouldn’t see her staring.
Their meeting last night hadn’t been under the best of circumstances, and he certainly hadn’t done anything since then to make her think he was glad to see her. But she’d sensed chemistry between them. Maybe she and Zach would never have a relationship, but she could easily imagine some kissing in their future. She wouldn’t mind sticking around at the Roost long enough to see where things with Zach might go.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Though born in Chicago and raised in L.A., USA TODAY bestselling author Cassie Miles has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Harlequin Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
Books by Cassie Miles
HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
904—UNDERCOVER COLORADO**
910—MURDER ON THE MOUNTAIN**
948—FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
978—PROTECTIVE CONFINEMENT*
984—COMPROMISED SECURITY*
999—NAVAJO ECHOES
1025—CHRISTMAS COVER-UP
1048—MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE
1074—IN THE MANOR WITH THE MILLIONAIRE
1102—CHRISTMAS CRIME IN COLORADO
1126—CRIMINALLY HANDSOME
1165—COLORADO ABDUCTION‡
1171—BODYGUARD UNDER THE MISTLETOE‡
1177—SECLUDED WITH THE COWBOY‡
1193—INDESTRUCTIBLE
1223—LOCK, STOCK AND SECRET BABY‡‡
1229—HOOK, LINE AND SHOTGUN BRIDE‡‡
1255—MOUNTAIN MIDWIFE
1279—UNFORGETTABLE
1293—SOVEREIGN SHERIFF
1317—BABY BATTALION
1343—MIDWIFE COVER
1368—MOMMY MIDWIFE
1384—MONTANA MIDWIFE
1402—HOSTAGE MIDWIFE
1454—MOUNTAIN HEIRESS
**Rocky Mountain Safe House
*Safe House: Mesa Verde
‡Christmas at the Carlisles’
‡‡Special Delivery Babies
Mountain Heiress
&
Mountain Midwife
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Cassie Miles
Table of Contents
Mountain Heiress
Mountain Midwife
Excerpt
Mountain Heiress
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Gabby (Gabriella) Rousseau—Born and raised in Brooklyn, she’s a city girl whose dreams of becoming a fashion designer are put on hold when she inherits a house in the Colorado mountains.
Zach Sheffield—A former rodeo star and all-around cowboy, he owns a horse ranch and is renowned as a trainer/horse whisperer.
Daniel Rousseau—Gabby’s ne’er-do-well brother has a gambling problem and is always out to make a quick buck.
Michelle Rousseau—Gabby’s deceased great-aunt was a successful artist who left her Colorado home to Gabby and Daniel.
Rene Rousseau—Gabby’s other deceased great-aunt and the sister of Michelle. She stayed in Brooklyn and raised Gabby and her brother after their parents died.
Louis Rousseau—The ancestor who established the Rousseau dynasty in Colorado in the 1860s.
Charlotte Potter—A plain Jane teenager who cared for Michelle before she died and blossoms after a glittery makeover.
Rhoda Phillips—Zach’s housekeeper has a talent for organizing his business and for bookkeeping.
Jason Fox—The Aspen-based attorney acts as the executor of Michelle’s will.
Kevin Fox—The red-haired nephew of the attorney wants to become a professional snowboarder.
Harrison Osborne—The art dealer handling Michelle’s work has his hands full with cataloging all the paintings.
Ed Striker—The local handyman works for Osborne.
Sarah Bentley—Her nonprofit organization, Forest Preservation Society, is heavily endowed by Michelle Rousseau.
To Jerry Kreiter and, as always, to Rick.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter One
The night was never this dark in Brooklyn. If she’d been back in her home borough, Gabby Rousseau could have counted on a streetlamp or the glow from a sidewalk window or the never-dimmed glare of Manhattan across the river. But here? In the Colorado mountains? She couldn’t see ten feet in front of her, even with her headlights on high beam. Heavy clouds blocked the starlight as sheets of rain pummeled the roof of her poor, tired, little Ford hatchback.
She considered pulling over until the storm let up but she didn’t dare. What if her tires sank into the mud at the edge of this skinny road that was more pothole than pavement? Then where would she be? Stuck. In the rain. Without a yellow cab for hundreds of miles.
Dis-as-ter! Her cell phone was out of juice, and the charger didn’t work. She had no GPS. For the past hundred miles, the car had been making a clunk that got louder and louder. The heater didn’t work, which meant the defroster was defunct and she had to crack a window, which let in the rain. She was wet and cold and, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the lightning started.
Zigzag bolts of raw electricity slashed the darkness. In the flash, she saw a stark vision. The clawing branches of a thick forest seemed to grab at her car. Jagged rocks appeared at the edge of the road like evil, ancient sentinels. She glimpsed movement. Something was out there. Probably zombies.
S
he’d been driving four days—four long, miserable days—across the country. Finally, she was close to her destination. She couldn’t give up.
Thunder rumbled like a barrage of cannons. Her fingers tensed on the steering wheel. This morning when she’d started out, the June weather had been hot enough that she’d put on a pair of high-waisted chino shorts and platform sandals—an unfortunate choice of outfit because she was freezing cold. Her legs rippled with goose bumps. Her toes were numb.
Another bolt of lightning cut through the sky. The thunder roared and rumbled.
“Enough.” She couldn’t take much more. “Come on, Universe. Give me a break.”
If it stopped raining, she’d never criticize the weather again. Was the Universe open to a deal like that? “If I find my way, I’ll give up anything. No more chocolate. No more overdrafts in the checking account.”
She needed something bigger to deal with, something more important, something life-changing. She needed the barely worn, red-soled Christian Louboutin heels she’d picked up secondhand before she left civilization. “That’s right, the Louboutins. Go ahead, Universe. Take my shoes. Just let me find the place I’m looking for.”
A flash of lightning showed a carved wood sign: Rousseau’s Roost. An arrow pointed left. This is it!
As the thunder rattled around her, she made the turn. She had asked, and the Universe had answered. She was on her way, nearly there. Survival was within her grasp. Did she really have to give up the shoes?
The final stretch of road to Rousseau’s Roost was marked by deep ruts. On the plus side, she was moving away from the scary trees, heading across an open space with a barbed wire fence to her left. Things were looking better, much better. The rain seemed to be letting up.
In another crackle-boom of lightning, she saw the outline of a two-story house with a wraparound porch. In photographs, Rousseau’s Roost had a rustic charm that appealed to Gabby. She couldn’t believe she owned half of this property. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen, and her living space in Brooklyn had been a series of one-room apartments. Now she was a home owner with a house and a barn and acreage.
Her great-aunt Michelle—who Gabby had met exactly five times in her whole life—had left the property to Gabby and her older brother, Daniel, whom she hadn’t heard from since her twenty-third birthday party three years ago. Every attempt she’d made to find him and tell him about this strange windfall had fallen flat, which made her sad. With Aunt Michelle dead, her jerk of a brother was her only living relative. She wouldn’t really mind splitting the inheritance with him if they could be a family again.
When she parked in front of the house, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She turned off the engine. It was entirely possible that the car wouldn’t start up again in the morning, but she’d deal with that problem when it happened.
The lawyer who’d contacted her had sent the key to the front door, which she had already attached to the key ring that held her car keys, a couple of keys to friends’ apartments that she really ought to mail back to them, a lipstick-sized container of pepper spray and one very special set of rhinestone-embellished keys that she had hoped would unlock her fondest dreams. She remembered the day when she and her three friends had used these keys to open the door to the storefront shop on Myrtle Street. For almost two years, they ran a little boutique where—in addition to seamstress work and fittings—Gabby got to show off her original designs. Then the money ran out.
She pulled her pink hoodie over her damp brown hair and shoved open the car door. All of her earthly belongings were jammed into her compact car, but her primary necessities were in a red polka-dot carry-on she’d kept on the passenger seat beside her. Wrestling that suitcase past the steering wheel, she started toward the front door. Mud splashed on her black platform sandals. No big tragedy, these shoes were past their prime.
The mountain sounds bore no resemblance to the hum of people and cars and electricity in Brooklyn. Out here, she could hear the splat of the raindrops, the rustle of wind through the branches of a leafy tree at the side of the house and—as she stepped onto the porch—a heavy thud like a door slamming. Had that sound come from inside the house?
She stood very still and listened with her ear against the door. She heard a creak and a shuffle as though someone was walking on tiptoe, trying not to be heard. But that couldn’t be right. Nobody was supposed to be here. The lawyer had told her that the house wasn’t occupied. Did she have an intruder? A squatter?
Her phone was dead so she couldn’t call 911 for help. She’d have to face this threat by herself. Okay, fine. I’m from the big city. I know how to handle muggers. First rule, don’t get too close. Second, make a loud yell to startle them. Rule number three, run like hell.
But where could she run? Turning around on the porch, she squinted through the misty rain until she saw the lights of another house in the distance. All she had to do was drive to the neighbor’s place.
Listening again, she didn’t hear another sound. Maybe she’d imagined the slamming door and the squeaky floorboards. If there wasn’t really an intruder, she’d feel like a dope, running away from an invisible boogeyman.
She cleared her throat and pitched her voice to a low, authoritative level. “Hello? Is anybody here?”
Nothing.
Setting her suitcase to one side, she turned the key in the front door until it clicked. When she eased the door open, the hinges whined. An old house like this was bound to make creaks and thumps and rustles. Stepping across the threshold, she reached for the place beside the door where a light switch ought to be. Her fingers glided down the wall. No switch.
The faint light from a couple of stars peeking around the edge of the clouds shone on the carpeted floor in the entryway. The curtains were drawn inside the house, making the interior even darker than outside. She stumbled into a large room, walking like a blind woman with her arms out in front of her until she bumped into a table with a lamp. Groping along the base, she found the switch and turned it on.
A pale glow lit up the parlor. Her great-aunt Michelle had been an artist and was fairly successful, even had some showings in Manhattan. Her taste showed in the eclectic furnishings, which were a crazy combo of claw-foot tables, sleek-lined sofas and jewel-toned pillows.
“Nice,” Gabby said. In spite of the desolation, she could get used to living in a place like this.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and whirled around. Standing on the carved, wood staircase in the entryway was the figure of a brown-haired woman in a long, white gown. Not a zombie. Maybe a ghost? Gabby blinked. Was Great-Aunt Michelle haunting the place?
“Who are you?” the ghost demanded.
“Me? Who are you?” Gabby shot back.
“Get out!”
“This is my house.” Gabby’s fingers tightened on the pepper spray. Ghost or not, this person was skinny and the voice was female. If this came down to a physical confrontation, Gabby liked her odds.
In a rush, the ghost descended the staircase. Her long, stringy hair fell past her shoulders almost to her waist. On the landing that was three steps up from the wooden newel post carved in the shape of a gargoyle, the ghost reached down. When she stood, she was holding a rifle.
“Now,” the ghost said. “Tell me who you are.”
The odds had shifted. Gabby had the good sense to be scared. She raised her hands beside her head and moved toward the staircase. If she could get past the ghost to the open door, she could run to her car and drive to the neighboring house, like she should have done when she first arrived.
“Take it easy,” Gabby said. “My name is Gabriella Rousseau. Michelle was my great-aunt.”
“You better have some identification.”
“No problem.” She was almost to the entryway. “My wallet is in my car.”
“Don’t take another step.”
This girl in the long nightgown couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and she looked upset. Her
eyes were red-rimmed as though she’d been crying. Maybe all she needed was a friend. Gabby tried a smile as she inched her way forward. “How about you put down the gun?”
“I told you not to move.”
“Okay, sure.” She kept her eye on the bore of the rifle. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Look at me. Do I look dangerous?”
“You look stupid in those shorts.”
“They were a lot cuter when I put them on this morning.” Now wasn’t the time for a fashion critique. “Come on, put down the rifle.”
“No way. They might have sent you. They might be trying to trick me.”
“They? Who are they?”
“Just walk to the door, real slow. I’ll be right behind you. One false move and I’ll blow a hole in your back.”
No way was Gabby going to step into the line of fire. This girl was crazy, and she was trembling so hard that she might accidentally pull the trigger. Gabby needed to take control. As soon as she was even with the rifle, she made a quick pivot and dodged to one side. With her opposite hand, she fired a blast of pepper spray. She grabbed the long barrel of the rifle.
With surprising strength, the thin girl yanked the gun away from her. A gunshot exploded. The girl spewed a string of profanities that would have made a Brooklyn Teamster blush.
Gabby made another attempt to get the gun, but the girl wouldn’t let go. They wrestled for the weapon. Gabby yanked hard. Her hands slipped, and she fell backward onto her butt. She dropped her keys and pepper spray. The girl waved the rifle blindly and blasted the head off the wood gargoyle at the foot of the staircase.
It was time for rule number three: run like hell.
Scrambling to her feet, Gabby charged through the open door and dived down the steps leading to the porch. Her car was right there, but it didn’t matter because she’d lost the keys. Hunching her shoulders to make herself a smaller target, she ran as fast as she could in the platform sandals, putting distance between herself and the house.
“Get back here,” the girl yelled.
Not on your life. Gabby ducked behind a clump of some kind of mountain prickly bush and stared at the house. The figure in white stomped back and forth on the porch with the rifle in her hands, treating the place as though it was her property and she was sworn to protect it. What the hell was going on here?
