Lassoed by the Would-Be Rancher--A Clean Romance

by Melinda Curtis

  “Fireworks.” Davey thrust out his right hand.

  The two fist-bumped and did a backhanded handshake, then performed a one-handed jazz-hand explosion, complete with the sound of firework bursts.

  “Uncle Shane!” his four-year-old nephews said in unison as they scrambled onto his lap.

  “We’re cowboys,” Andy announced, digging his toes into Shane’s thigh.

  “Franny said so,” Alex echoed solemnly.

  Shane made all the appropriate noises and shifted Andy’s feet.

  His gaze collided with Franny’s in the hope he’d have gotten over his infatuation.

  Nope, still attracted.

  He glanced at Gertie, who was grinning. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Too late.” She chuckled.

  Shane set his nephews to the floor. “We’d best be going before we wear out our welcome.” He stood, pausing to kiss Gertie’s soft cheek, ignoring Alex and Andy’s protests about video games and feeding their ponies dinner. “Thanks for the cowboy lessons. We’ll come back for another pony ride in a day or so.”

  Gertie grabbed his hand. “Look for more bread crumbs to Merciless Mike.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Bread crumbs? You mean, the pictures in the trees.” Shane glanced out the window, but the pouring rain obscured everything. “Here?”

  “Everywhere,” the elderly woman replied. “Follow them to find what you’re looking for.”

  “Okay.” The jaded side of Shane, the one that comped high rollers and planned corporate takeovers, wondered at the purpose of such a hunt. The gentler side of Shane, the one that was a good uncle and loved his grandfather, wondered what clue Gertie was giving him. Would he find Mike Moody’s gold? Or something important about Grandpa Harlan? Both seemed a cold roll of the dice.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Franny cut short any opportunity for more questions. She didn’t waste time outside, either, helping Alex into Shane’s tall SUV and buckling him into his car seat, while Shane did the same for Andy on the other side of the vehicle. “Can we talk before you go?” She gestured for him to follow her to a corner of the covered porch, away from the front door.

  “My grandmother likes to spin stories about the past.”

  “You mean Merciless Mike?”

  Franny nodded, looking grim. “Merciless Mike Moody. Buried loot. Riches like you’ve never seen.”

  “I’ve heard the tale before.” From Egbert, the town historian, who’d helped fill in gaps about the historical significance of buildings in Second Chance.

  “The gold is a myth,” Franny said firmly. “Every kid for the past five or six generations has tried to find Merciless Mike’s ill-gotten gains, including Gertie’s husband and your grandfather. While it’s amusing to most people in town, it’s real to Gertie.” Franny winced. “More so, ever since her stroke. I’m afraid my kids are going to take her seriously one day and go off into the woods and start searching. And be deeply disappointed.” She punched her hands into her jacket pockets. “Please, don’t tell anyone she brought up that old tale. It just keeps a silly myth alive.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Gertie’s lips should’ve been sealed,” she muttered.

  All this talk of lips...

  Shane was struck with the need to stare at hers. No lipstick. No work done to plump them. They were just your average, run-of-the-mill lips.

  And still, he stared.

  “I...” Franny paused and for the first time seemed uncomfortable with him. “You don’t need to come around anymore. I know you promised Zeke you’d watch out for me—for us—but that won’t be necessary.” There was a worried slant to her eyes, as if he’d discovered more than Monroe secrets during his time on the ranch today. As if he’d discovered her secrets.

  Help her. Gertie’s words came back to him. Maybe she did need help. In his experience, the people who vehemently turned down assistance were often the ones who needed it most.

  The jaded side of Shane was convinced Franny wasn’t his problem.

  The sentimental side of him was convinced it would be an honor if she was.

  He stared at his Hummer through the pouring rain. Water raced past his tires, easily two inches deep now. The ranch’s dirt-and-gravel driveway was long, with switchbacks, potholes and deep ditches.

  “You can see we’re doing fine here,” Franny said with just a hint of desperation in her tone. “We moved some of our prime stock down to the spring pasture this morning.”

  Some.

  And her father had refused to help her.

  “And how much more stock needs to be moved?” Shane zipped up his jacket.

  Her eyes widened. “How did you...?”

  “A lot, I’d imagine.” Shane shrugged off her surprise at his assessment. “I’m a manager. I put information together and manage things.” Like family trips to Second Chance and a one-thousand-room luxury hotel on the Vegas strip. He’d gladly push forward change in Second Chance if given the opportunity. “What are you worried about?” It couldn’t just be him learning about a local legend from her grandmother or mentioning the fable to folks in town.

  Franny put her hands on her hips and tried to look as if she was a successful, independent businesswoman who had everything under control. She couldn’t pull it off. Her gaze wavered.

  Shane jumped in, feet first. “You’re behind in inventory management because Zeke broke his leg last January, aren’t you? And now he’s off honeymooning and you didn’t have the heart to tell him you couldn’t spare him. So, seriously, how can I help?”

  “You can’t.” She frowned, clearly disliking his perceptiveness and his questions. “Ranching is dangerous work. We’ll get by on our own.”

  Shane shook his head. “I can ride, a little.” Western saddles had horns, didn’t they? It was a lot harder to fall off than from an English saddle while wielding a polo mallet. “I’ll come back tomorrow and give you a hand.”

  “So, you’re a corporate manager and a cowboy now?” Franny was trying to undermine his goodwill. But her gaze couldn’t hold his, a sure sign there was more here than met the eye.

  More than her pride?

  He didn’t know her well enough to decide. “I’m sure you have horses that know what to do around cattle. You just need someone to sit at the controls in case anything goes wrong.”

  The rain increased, coming down so fast that the sound nearly drowned out his words.

  “You’ve just succeeded in boiling down the effectiveness of a cowboy into a simple drone.” Oh, she was mad. Her hands were moving. And her eyes... They were moving, too. Giving him a once-over. A twice-over. Landing on his mouth.

  Shane might have smiled if her gaze hadn’t deepened into a glare at the first twitch of the impulse.

  “I gave my word that I’d help,” he said. “And help I will.” He moved toward the steps to leave, but hesitated, noting the increasing depth of water around his tires, while struck with worry about his nephews and the drive to town.

  “I suppose you always honor a deal.” Franny came to stand next to him, hugging herself.

  “Yes. And I suppose you don’t accept help.”

  “I would from my ranching neighbors.”

  “You’d ask for a cowboy’s help but at great cost to your pride,” he said, thinking of her father. “I don’t understand why my suggestions are so unpopular in this town. I always offer good advice.”

  “We’re afraid whatever you suggest will raise taxes to pay for services more common to a city, like buses to ferry tourists from one end of Second Chance to the other. Up here, if you want to go somewhere, you find your own transportation.”

  “Ah.” That might explain why his suggestions about tourism and festivals met with resistance from the town council. But he had bigger issues at hand. He pointed to the deepening water rushing across th
e gravel driveway. “Is this house in a flood plain?”

  Franny scanned the yard, and then the dark sky above them. “You need to come back inside.” She hurried down the porch steps and shouted over the downpour, “The road back won’t be safe.”

  He ran after her through water that reached his ankles. “Are you sure inside is the best alternative?” It seemed like the flood was coming and they’d need an ark.

  “The house is raised. We’ll be fine. The highway has a history of washing out in springtime, rolling whatever is on it down the hill.” She yanked the SUV door open and reached for Alex. “The safest place on the Bucking Bull is this house.”

  With her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “THERE’S MY NEW partner in crime.” Laurel Monroe, Shane’s cousin, waved at Emily from the porch of the brick mercantile.

  Tongue-tied, Emily ran through a litany of witty replies, like “hey” and “afternoon.” None of which struck the sophisticated note Emily was looking for. Because she was used to talking to horses and cattle, not twin sisters of famous actresses. Silently, she climbed the stairs from the highway to the trading post, where she’d be working at least temporarily, settling for a wave as a reply.

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Laurel disappeared into the mercantile.

  “Like my voice?” Emily’s foggy brain didn’t bode well for the next two weeks.

  In a sea of log cabins that made up the heart of Second Chance, the brick mercantile stood out. One hundred years ago, women had bought calico and lace there. Today, Laurel’s shop sold work by local artisans—quilts, hand-knit sweaters, blown glass, paintings and photographs of the Colter Valley. Laurel was a vibrant redhead who was pregnant and engaged. Needless to say, Emily was envious. Laurel had come to Second Chance and fallen in love with the local innkeeper and his daughter.

  In a few short weeks, Emily would be thirty. She could practically feel the seconds ticking by on her biological clock. The girl who once only wanted to work on a ranch, now only wanted to be a mom. And the way Emily saw it, she had two choices: move to Alaska, where the male-female ratio favored single women, or find a job in Second Chance. So, she set aside her guilt over leaving Franny in a jam on the ranch and opted for town to reach for the brass ring. Or a diamond ring, as it were.

  Emily turned toward the trading post.

  Whereas Laurel ran a homey boutique, her cousin Sophie ran a secondhand store. What she sold wasn’t exactly antique, but it wasn’t exactly junk, either. And she knew how to let people know it was a store filled with unusual finds. The front end of a Ford Edsel was attached to the log facade and the porch railings were antique bicycles. Sophie also had an online store advertising what seemed like an endless stream of merchandise.

  Emily unlocked the door and turned on the lights. It was like stepping back in time. A small horse from a carousel. A collection of oil lanterns and old oilcans. Delicate wooden chairs. A small potbellied stove. She peered into a glass case and wondered what Sophie had put inside this week. There’d been a display of silver sheriff’s badges and cast-iron toy fire trucks last week. Pairs of ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers filled it now—brightly colored Chihuahuas, mallards, hula dancers, dancing bulls and more. Each priced around twenty dollars. They were cute, and she bet she’d sell some before Sophie returned home from her honeymoon.

  Emily was always amazed at the items Sophie had on sale. Several pairs of used cowboy boots were clustered in the corner near some old ceramic gas-station signs that leaned against the wall. An ancient typewriter sat on the shelf, missing the H key. A display of tall, slender trophies lined a shelf beneath a high, narrow window.

  There were lots of outbuildings at the Bucking Bull with similar collections of what Emily considered useless stuff. But, hey, people actually bought things here, and because they did, Emily had a chance to meet men. Possibly eligible men interested in used cowboy boots, old oilcans and gas-station signs.

  Slim pickings, but still.

  Why was Granny Gertie so annoyed with her working in town?

  Would you leave if you married a Monroe?

  Leave her home for the chance at love and family?

  Can I take my horse?

  Emily sighed. She didn’t want to leave the ranch, but drastic times called for drastic measures.

  A truck parked in front of the Lodgepole Inn across the street. Two men got out and looked around.

  Two men.

  A shudder of excitement made Emily’s heart soar.

  I knew working in town would pay off.

  Her brain matched faces to names. Monroes! And one of them was Bo!

  She’d chatted with him at the wedding reception. He’d said he was leaving town, but here he was. Back again.

  For me?

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Emily refused to take it as a bad omen.

  “Jonah! Bo!” Laurel had stepped out on the mercantile’s porch. “What are you doing here?”

  Perhaps not having heard, Bo trotted up the steps to join Laurel. Jonah, a skinny redhead with a messy goatee, turned and acknowledged Laurel with a nod.

  Before the wedding, Emily had studied the Monroe family tree as if preparing for a midterm exam. Jonah was Laurel’s brother. He was a scriptwriter with credits that included such classics as The Good Witches of Sixth Grade and Christmas on Cleveland Mountain. Kid fare. That didn’t disqualify him. No. It was his lean frame. Clearly, he didn’t eat beef or biscuits. And Emily had never been skinny in her life. That disqualified him.

  It was Bo whom Emily had her sights on. He had muscles that went on for days, putting some of the rodeo cowboys she’d met to shame. Next to him, she felt petite. He had gorgeous thick brown hair and gray eyes, not to mention he’d been raised in Texas and wore authentic cowboy boots. He’d make beautiful babies. Burly cowboys and sturdy cowgirls.

  “Did you forget something?” Laurel asked Jonah, as he made it to the porch to join her.

  “I forgot not to listen to Shane.” Jonah had a distant air about him, as if he was living too much in his own head. “I’m here to contribute and then I’m going to leave.”

  A car pulled into the lot in front of the general store, which was situated next to the inn. Four young women got out of the car, talking and laughing. They had on city-girl clothes—short shorts and cute blouses.

  “Wow.” Jonah had turned toward the newcomers entering the store and Emily’s opinion of the scriptwriting Monroe went right along with them. “I’d forgotten what a great view the town has.”

  “I know you aren’t enjoying a view of the Sawtooth Mountains or the wildflowers.” Laurel didn’t let her brother get away with anything. “Don’t even try to pretend you aren’t watching four sets of trouble.”

  Jonah grinned. “Okay. Not pretending.”

  Emily grinned. Back when Kyle was alive, she’d teased her brother mercilessly, too.

  Tears gathered, and Emily retreated to the sales counter. Kyle’s death had blindsided her. And now, the ranch seemed to be missing something.

  What would Kyle think about her wanting to leave the ranch for love? She hoped he’d have said something like “We’ll get by without you, squirt,” and not “You’re a quitter, squirt.”

  Granny Gertie was fond of saying “Clarks don’t quit.” But that hadn’t applied to Emily’s parents. A decade ago, they’d accepted a buyout offer from Kyle and Franny, and then retired to Padre Island in Texas. Nowadays, the only thing they rode was a motorboat. They were happy, proving Clarks could live off the ranch and still feel a sense of satisfaction.

  As long as I can take my horse.

  A figure appeared in the open doorway, startling her.

  “You don’t wanna be jumping like that when the paying customers show up.” An elderly woman entered the trading post. She wore a burgundy corduroy skirt and a thick beige fisherman�
�s sweater. Her short gray hair stuck out at all angles and her attitude stuck out, too.

  “Odette.” Emily tried to keep the surprise out of her voice, but she blurted, “What are you doing here?” Odette wasn’t a people person. Instead, she hunkered down in her cabin with her sewing machine and knitting needles.

  Odette didn’t seem to take offense to Emily’s surprise, or at least the older woman’s prickly tone didn’t get pricklier. “I delivered a baby quilt to Laurel. I’m one of her top sellers.” There was pride in her voice as she turned to look out the door. “That Monroe improves the town scenery. I bet Laurel would get more people to stop if he stood in front of the mercantile.”

  “You mean Jonah?” Emily welcomed the excuse to join Odette and take in the view.

  “No.” Odette pointed a slim finger across the way. “Mr. Bo-dacious.”

  Although he was too far away to hear Odette, Bo tilted back his head and let out an all-encompassing laugh as if he was used to being the life of the party. He wore blue jeans, and filled out a red T-shirt that proved he didn’t sit in an office all day writing scripts for teenage girls like his cousin Jonah. Emily wanted Bo to laugh with her like that.

  I should have worn my black blouse.

  The one she put on when she ventured down to Challis for line dancing in summer. It accented her curves and made her feel feminine.

  The Monroes disappeared into the mercantile.

  “Those Monroes make me feel lonely.” Odette shook her head.

  “I know what you mean,” Emily murmured.

  “Because Monroes like that won’t stay here.” Odette prodded Emily’s shoulder with one finger as if needing to emphasize her point, which seemed to veer from the point Emily had thought she was making. “Those big-city fellas are fragile, just like birds who can’t last the winter.”

  There was nothing fragile about Bo. Now Jonah... He was another story.

  “Well, I’m off.” Odette headed for the path in the trees that led to her cabin. “Did you know we still don’t have a replacement for Doc? It’s shameful, I tell you,” she called out, and kept talking long after Emily could no longer make out her words.