“Oh.” Franny tried to sound nonchalant, as if the fate of the Bucking Bull didn’t hinge on that call. “It was Bradley Holliday.” The rodeo-stock contractor they sold most of their trained bucking bulls to. “He claims our bulls last season weren’t rank enough.”
Rank was achieved by being near impossible for cowboys to ride for eight seconds.
When Franny’s husband, Kyle, had died two years ago, the Bucking Bull Ranch still had a reputation for providing athletic, beefy bulls with a killer instinct. It was why folks like Bradley Holliday paid top dollar for their stock and why breeders from around the world paid top dollar for their bull semen.
Or they used to.
A breeze swirled around Franny.
“We’ll be fine.” Emily held the bouquet she’d caught in one hand and her skirt in the other. She wore a simple yellow sundress. Her brown hair floated freely down her back. “I’m sure when we round up the main herd there’ll be a straggler to bring some excitement to the mix.”
By straggler, Emily meant one of the feral bulls that roamed the slopes above the Bucking Bull.
There’d been no stragglers for two years.
“Bradley wants to visit in two weeks and ride our bulls himself.” Franny’s sensible white flats pinched her feet.
Bradley would come with a posse of cowboys. He’d see the truth—their stock wasn’t as dangerous as it used to be. He’d leave without anything. And he’d tell others. Then the second mortgage and the taxes would go unpaid.
How long could the Bucking Bull survive without the lucrative rodeo contracts and sperm sales? Franny felt the weight of generations of Clarks press down on her shoulders.
“But...” Emily’s jaw dropped as the objects of her regard, the visiting Monroes, shifted like a mesmerizing school of brightly colored fish. “Zeke is going on his honeymoon.” Her speech slowed. “And I’ll be working in town the next few weeks. There’s no one to help you round up and train stock for Bradley. Put him off.”
Like she hadn’t tried? “It’s the only day he can come.”
Franny considered reminding her sister-in-law what was at stake. But Emily had decided that nearly thirty was over the hill and her best chance to meet a man was to work in town, at least part-time. Sophie Monroe had fueled Emily’s dream by hiring Emily to run her oddity shop while she was on her honeymoon with Zeke, their one paid ranch hand.
“I can manage without you.” Franny tried to sound confident and cheerful. “I just need to find a cowhand to help me get the cattle to the lower pastures. And a couple of brave souls to ride bulls.” Because bulls without a hatred of humans had to be trained to buck to put on a good show at the rodeo.
But feral bulls...
Feral bulls were a danger to cowboys on or off their backs.
Kyle had casually told her two years ago, “There are a couple of stray heifers who got through a break in the fence. I can bring them down myself.” He’d tried to reassure Franny, making it sound as if he was only driving into town to pick up a gallon of milk, not riding the western border of their property, where a herd of feral cattle roamed, watched over by a wily bull with sharp horns and a sharper temper.
A quick hug. A peck on the cheek. And that’s the last time she’d seen him alive.
And now if she wanted to save the ranch, Franny needed to venture up the western slopes in search of fresh stock. Rank stock. Feral stock.
Fear darkened the edges of her vision, threatening her calm.
She’d been raised to be fearless, but dark woods and killer bulls had chipped away at her courage.
Emily gasped, drawing Franny’s attention back to blue skies and wedding laughter. “This is my chance.” Meaning the Monroe debate on the other side of the cake table was over. She turned to Franny, holding the white-rose bouquet and quivering like a Labrador about to receive a command to fetch. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful.” Too good for the likes of those rich city boys. Franny smoothed Emily’s brown hair and gave her an encouraging smile. She’d often wished that her sister-in-law would find the love she yearned for.
Emily marched across the field like she wore jeans and cowboy boots and they were calling her number for the barrel-racing competition. Her target? A burly, tanned Monroe. The one who hadn’t worn a suit and tie to the festivities today. He’d slid the white lace wedding garter he’d caught around his forearm.
“Be smart, Franny.” Granny Gertie sat in a chair, her walker nearby. She’d been sidelined by a stroke last Christmas and was still struggling to regain full speech and mobility. Unlike Emily, she’d listened to Franny’s phone call. “You know you can’t do this alone.”
Franny grabbed hold of her grandmother-in-law’s right hand. “I know.”
“We’ll find a way.” Gertie’s grip was strong. “To keep going.” Decades ago, Gertie had married into the Clark family, same as Franny. Gertie and her husband, Percy, had run the ranch, same as Franny and Kyle. Only the older couple had done a better job of it. “You stay safe.”
Safe? Franny had been playing it safe ever since Kyle’s death, when she’d taken over the ranch. And look where that had gotten the ranch. Sales of bull semen were down, prices for Buttercup’s straw negotiable. They were at risk of losing their prestige and price point for two-and three-year-old bulls. And now, the fate of the ranch hung in the balance.
I can’t play it safe.
The pretty flowers. The blue sky. The sound of laughter.
It all melted away.
Words caught in Franny’s throat, trapped by fear and loss. She had to swallow twice before she could say, “I have to go up there.” Before Zeke returned. Before Bradley arrived. “I’ll find someone to help me.”
Gertie’s bony fingers dug into Franny’s flesh. “There’s a Monroe. He could go with you.” She pointed to Shane. “Take him.”
“He’s not a cowboy, Gertie.” Up until a few months ago, Shane was the kind of man who’d only existed in magazine ads for Franny. He was pretty to look at and as far as she could tell not good for much else.
But kissing. He’d be a good kisser.
That was loneliness, talking out of turn.
“Put Shane on a horse.” Granny’s eyes were bright. She knew what was at stake. “Monroes learn quick, especially from pretty cowgirls. And there’s safety in numbers.”
“Numbers higher than two.” Franny would find cowboys hungry for a challenge or with nothing to lose. “I’ll call around.”
Although... April was a busy time for cowboys—calving, branding, mending fences, entering or attending spring rodeos. This time of year, skilled cowboys looking for work were scarce.
Two weeks.
That was all the time she had to capture at least one killer bull and make him workable on the circuit.
“You need someone to have your back.” Gertie’s eyes slanted sorrowfully. “Like Shane.” Her expression softened into an uneven smile. “I bet he can dance, too, like my Percy.”
Franny couldn’t remember the last time she’d danced. “Save your Monroe matchmaking for Emily.”
Her sister-in-law was on the other side of the cake table talking to the burly Monroe. Her smile was brighter than a newly minted penny. And his smile... His smile was indulgent, because...
He was humoring Emily.
Emily, who could ride any horse of any temperament.
Emily, who could referee any argument Franny’s boys had.
Emily, who’d held Franny when they’d found Kyle’s body.
Anger jutted Franny’s jaw. That muscle-bound Monroe didn’t appreciate what was standing right in front of him.
Worse, a few feet behind Mr. Muscles, a redheaded, goateed Monroe studied the pair, curiosity in his gaze.
Did the bearded redhead think Emily wasn’t good enough for Mr. Muscles?
Franny wante
d to stomp over there and tell those two men what a wonderful woman Emily was.
“Shane can help you.” Gertie pointed to the lone Monroe again, drawing his attention this time.
Shane gave Franny a look, one that said, “Why do you look so interesting to me?”
Yes, his look was a question. Because there was no way a worldly man like Shane Monroe would find a small-town rancher interesting.
“No.” Franny shook her head. Shane didn’t know her. And contrary to what Granny thought, he couldn’t help around the ranch. He couldn’t ride a bull. And she was certain he couldn’t help her capture feral stock, either.
Shane Monroe was a city slicker. She recognized the high-quality leather of his shoes and the glint in his brown eyes that said he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. Never mind the thick brown hair with the unruly curl that tempted fingers. Never mind that he looked deep into her eyes, or how he carried himself that said he could handle anything.
No one can handle anything.
Franny’s little boys—Davey, Charlie and Adam—collapsed on the grass around her.
“Mom.” Davey was nine and the leader of the pack. He had his father’s sturdy frame and can-do attitude. A birth defect had left him with only a right hand, but he wasn’t going to let the lack of a left slow him down. “There’s no more cake. Can we go now?”
“Yeah, can we?” Charlie was seven, with wild brown hair and wild-eyed ideas. When he wasn’t doing something foolish, he followed Davey’s every lead. “There are cookies at home.”
“No more sweets.” Add cooking vegetables for dinner to Franny’s list of things to do before bedtime. Her bedtime, that is.
“Cookies!” Granny Gertie raised her right hand and then held it toward Charlie for a fist bump and a series of handshakes, accompanied by fireworks sound effects. Despite the stroke, the old dame had game.
Five-year-old Adam grabbed the hem of Franny’s green dress and pulled himself to his feet. He clung to her legs with his skinny arms. Of all her children, he was the most like Franny—loving, plucky, yet small. “I’m tired.” And dirty. His face needed a good washing. He wiped his nose on her hem.
In no mood to scold, Franny swung Adam into her arms. Only then did she realize he’d wet his pants. She didn’t have dry ones with them.
“Don’t tell,” Adam whispered in her ear.
She patted his little back. There wasn’t much she could do. As soon as they got into the truck, his older brothers would know and tease him mercilessly.
The gentle breeze turned into a tug of wind. Franny’s skirt billowed, stretching to show the smudges from Adam’s dirty hands, face and shoes.
“Time to go,” she said, before the visiting Monroes turned their judgmental eyes her way.
“Franny.” Zeke, a tall, ginger-haired cowboy, approached with his bride alongside him so fast that her red glasses slid down her nose. “I’m sorry to leave you in a lurch.”
Zeke had no idea the lurch Franny was in.
Her shoes pinched the back of her heels, forcing her to shift her stance, searching for relief.
Zeke might postpone his honeymoon if she asked. It was on the tip of her tongue to do so, but pride kept her silent. Clarks didn’t quit and they didn’t beg, either.
Lovestruck Zeke gave his bride a slow grin before returning his attention to Franny. “We wanted to get married right away and get past the honeymoon.”
Get past the honeymoon?
He referred to honeymoons as if they were a chore.
Franny forced herself to smile, to pat Adam’s back, to acknowledge the warmth of the sun on her face. To remember the good things—a time when she could sit and watch sunsets, when she had a hand to hold and a pair of steady brown eyes to gaze into, a partner to share problems with, to dream with.
Franny hugged Adam tighter, wet pants and all.
I’m not envious.
Or lonely.
Or in wretched denial of said envy and loneliness.
“Don’t go it alone,” Zeke continued as his bride was greeted by one of her Monroe cousins. “I made Shane promise to check up on you.”
Shane? Shane Monroe?
Franny dug her sore heel in the dirt as she tried to backpedal. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“Franny.” Zeke’s eyebrows dropped. “Shane can help on the ranch. He used to play lacrosse. He’s tougher than he looks.”
“But he’s not a cowboy.” Therefore, her unwanted appreciation of his good looks was even more unwelcome.
“He can ride.” Sophie swiveled around as she juggled two conversations at once. “He tried out for the polo team at school.”
“Your school had a polo team?” Davey stared up at Sophie in wonder. “We don’t even have a football team. Or a stadium. Or even a school.”
Because Second Chance was in a remote mountain location. The kids were all homeschooled via the county’s independent-study program. Luckily, the county coordinator lived in town.
“Things are different here, for sure.” Franny tried to smile while simultaneously performing a mental inventory of the contents of her freezer. Did she have anything to cook for dinner? Did she need to pick something up at the general store before heading back to the ranch?
What else could she distract herself with so as not to think about Shane, feral bulls and financial ruin?
The Monroe in question stood, looking polished and professional. If he’d ever regularly ridden a horse, there were no traces left. No slight bow to his legs from hours spent in the saddle. No callouses on his hands, one of which she’d shaken when he’d visited the ranch last month. No lines emanating from his eyes from hours spent in the sun.
I’d have to be pretty desperate to ask him for help catching feral stock.
“I want you to promise me you’ll ask Shane if you need help,” Zeke said with a straight face. “I know how you get. You take on too much by yourself, just like Kyle.” He lowered his voice. “Especially now that Emily’s covering for Sophie.”
Franny mumbled something, but made no promises.
“I’ll help Mom while you’re gone.” Davey got to his feet.
“I’m sure you will.” Zeke smiled kindly at her son. “And if you need an extra...”
Hand.
Davey was missing one and could be sensitive about it.
The cake in Franny’s stomach did a slow churn. She forgot about rich, handsome single men and prepared to protect her firstborn.
She shouldn’t have worried.
Zeke was good. He didn’t so much as glance at Davey’s left wrist as he pivoted in his reply. “Davey, if you need an extra someone, you call Shane.”
“We’ll be fine,” Franny stated matter-of-factly, determined to be brave.
Kyle had been brave. But being brave hadn’t been enough to keep him safe in the mountains.
Fear threatened to rise up and knock Franny backward again. But it could just have been another stiff mountain breeze.
She pressed a kiss to Adam’s forehead. He nestled his head beneath her chin.
She couldn’t call Shane for help.
The kind of help she needed...could get a man killed.
CHAPTER TWO
“MAKE THIS QUICK, SHANE.” Holden and his collection of disloyal family members clustered about in the common room of the Lodgepole Inn, the only hotel in Second Chance. “Most of us are headed to the airport tonight to catch our flights.”
They were essentially dismissing Grandpa Harlan, Shane and Second Chance.
“When you’re at rock bottom, there’s no place to go but up,” Grandpa Harlan had once told Shane. “You just have to find your footing.”
“Sure. I’ll make this fast and painless.” Shane had been sitting on the hearth next to the big stone fireplace and its modest fire. He drew a deep breath and
set his feet firmly on the floor’s wide wooden planks. “Grandpa Harlan left us the town where he was born. His family’s been here for generations. They were the town’s founders. They were fur traders and cabin builders. There’s history here. Family history.”
“There’s Monroe history in Hollywood.” That was Cousin Jonah. Up until the reading of the will, he’d written scripts for Monroe Studios.
“And in Texas.” That was Cousin Bo. Up until the coup, he’d worked on the family’s oil rigs.
“Not to mention Vegas.” Shane’s brother, Cam, stood apart from the bunch wearing a white shirt that looked more like a chef’s jacket.
Shane held up an open hand, a peaceful gesture to make them pause. “Let’s revisit the facts. Grandpa Harlan loved us.” Cut off financially or not, Shane refused to believe otherwise.
“He loved us enough to disown us,” Cousin Holden grumbled.
“Yes, he did.” If Shane was going to win over the family, he had to face every argument Holden put up. “But he didn’t do it on a whim. And he wasn’t ill or confused. Grandpa Harlan wrote his last will and testament over a decade ago.” As expected, Shane’s announcement brought a hush to the room. “That’s right. Let me refresh your memory. Twenty years ago, Grandpa Harlan was taking us to Yellowstone and county fairs for amusement rides and cotton candy. Ten years ago, he was taking us on tours of family companies outside our own individual family branches.” Because his four sons, who’d each run a branch of the family business, didn’t encourage cross-pollination. “You can’t prove he wasn’t of sound mind when he wrote the will. He knew exactly what he was doing.”
Silence.
“Which was what?” Holden was the first to recover, to slice the quiet with his sharp tone.
Laurel stood, one hand cradling the babies she carried in her belly, her gaze on her twin sister across the room. “Grandpa Harlan wanted us to discover what’s important to us, and not to settle for what’s important to the Monroe Holding Corporation.”
Sophie had been standing at the check-in desk with Zeke, new wedding ring glinting on her finger. She joined Laurel. “Grandpa Harlan wanted each of us to think about the unfinished business we had with him and to make peace.”
Lassoed by the Would-Be Rancher--A Clean Romance Page 2
