Rodeo Rancher
Автор
Mary Sullivan
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Chapter One
The pounding on the front door of Michael Moreno’s ranch house cut through the shrieking howl of a snowstorm that had paralyzed Montana.
“Who do you think it is, Dad?” His son, Mick, didn’t scare easily, but they’d all startled at the knock. Michael squeezed his arm to reassure him as the family sat together in the living room.
They spent most of their days alone. Guests were rare.
Michael frowned. “No idea. Someone in trouble, I guess.” No one he could think of would venture out today.
He didn’t worry about trouble. Why would he?
Nothing much bad happened in Rodeo, Montana. He lived in as safe a place as he could want for his children.
Michael shifted his daughter, Lily, from his lap and plopped her onto the sofa beside Mick. “You two stay put.”
“Kiss, Daddy.” Lily had taken to wanting kisses before he left the house, or even just a room.
He touched her soft cheek with his lips and dropped the book he’d been reading to them onto the littered coffee table.
In the hallway, he pulled open the heavy oak door. The noise of the wind increased tenfold, blasting him with frigid air, shocking after the warmth of the living room.
He stared at the very last thing he expected—a woman and two kids covered head-to-toe in snow.
Snow blew onto his veranda, even as deep as it was, adding an exclamation point to the first question that popped into his head. What on earth were they doing out in this storm?
“Oh, thank goodness,” the woman said, stepping into the house before he invited her in, crowding him.
He stepped back.
Her bright red nose peeked out from a snow-covered pink scarf swathing her face. The kids, too, had bright red noses, and a blob of snot ran onto the little one’s scarf.
“Bad day to be out,” he said, his voice rife with accusation. What kind of woman took her children out in this? If she wanted to endanger herself, fine, but her kids? No.
Considering there’d been weather warnings everywhere for days, there were no excuses.
“The car broke down just up the road.” She didn’t seem to notice his critical tone. “I remembered seeing this light when we drove past. When I saw it I said, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to be in there all toasty and warm right now?’ Didn’t I, boys? Then the car just went kaput suddenly, and we had to trudge all the way back. I was afraid there’d be no one here, but I figured where there’s light there will be people, right? Someone had to be home.” She prattled on, ushering her children inside, still without waiting for an invitation. The kids stopped just inside the door. “Then where would the boys and I be?”
Probably dead by morning, Michael thought, but he didn’t say it. No sense frightening those two young boys. At least, he thought the woman had said they were boys. It was hard to keep track of her ramblings, and their scarves hid their faces.
“It’s absolutely frigid out there,” she went on. “When we left San Francisco, it was 50 degrees. Now this. Are storms always this bad in Montana? I can’t stop shivering.”
“No wonder,” Michael said. Seemed she didn’t have the sense God gave most creatures. At least the children were decked out in snowsuits, but she wore a fashionable coat and light pants. No snowsuit. No snow pants. Flimsy fashionable boots, too—useless against a Montana snowstorm. “You aren’t dressed for the weather.”
She glanced down at herself. “No, I guess I’m not, am I?” Her gaiety lit up the gray corners of his house. Far as he could tell, she didn’t take offense to his criticism. Strange woman. “But we were driving. We were safe in the car. I thought, ‘Why would I need a snowsuit?’ I bought them for the boys because they’ll be playing outside once we get settled into our new home, but I won’t be, will I? Playing outside, that is.”
She shook herself, sending snow flying.
“Boys,” she said. “Come in properly, will you? We need to get this door closed so we don’t lose all of this man’s lovely heat.”
This man’s lovely heat? Say what?
“I thought we were going to end up as human Popsicles. Oh, it’s lovely in here. Mmm. Your house is so warm,” she blathered on.
He’d never really understood the meaning of the word blather. He got it now.
“It’s like an oasis in the desert,” she said. “I mean, a port in the storm. Oh, you know what I mean.”
She could probably teach courses in chattering. College level.
“Boys, move along so the nice man can close the door.”
“Mom,” the older boy said, “he didn’t invite us inside. You just walked in without waiting.”
The woman’s bright blue eyes widened. That was saying something. They were already big to start with. “You’re right, Jason. I did just walk in. You don’t mind, do you?” she asked Michael, but went on before he could respond. “Of course you don’t mind. We’re strangers stranded in a storm. I heard people in Montana are welcoming. We can’t go anywhere else right now, can we? But don’t worry. We’re nice people. I’ve taught my boys to pick up after themselves. They even put down the toilet seat when they’re finished.”
She noticed his children’s toys cluttering the hallway. “Your wife will be pleased with them.”
Your wife. Lillian. The kick to his gut left Michael reeling. It was always bad, but at this time of year, it was—
His mind slammed shut. He couldn’t think about it. Two years might be a long time to other people, but to him it felt like only yesterday that she’d...left.
He couldn’t even say the word.
Died. She died, Moreno.
The littlest boy coughed.
Michael glanced at them still standing in the open doorway, noses getting redder by the second. “Come in,” he said, impressed with their manners even if their mother didn’t have any.
Once they were all the way inside, he closed the door, shutting out the violence of the storm.
“See?” the woman said. “I told you we’d be all right. Travis wouldn’t have moved anywhere that wasn’t safe for us. We are in Montana, right? The GPS on my phone stopped working yesterday. We’re supposed to reach Rodeo tonight. I guess that’s not going to happen.”
“Rodeo? If you came here from San Francisco, you drove right past it. You didn’t see the turnoff?”
She shook her head. Her shoulders seemed to slump. “We were so close.” Looking around the hallway, she seemed a little lost. “The storm’s huge. I barely managed to make it this far.”
“This ranch is on the far side of Rodeo, about ten miles out.” Hang on—she’d mentioned Travis. “Do you mean Travis Read? The new guy in town?”
She perked right up. “Yes! Do you know my brother?”
Michael had heard of him, only good stuff. Salt of the earth. Good addition to the town. Hardworking and quiet. Not at all like this ditzy woman.
Before he could respond, he got caught up in watching her unwind her scarf. She took off her wool hat and Michael stopped breathing.
She was that beautiful. Hair like spun gold. Eyes as blue as photographs he’d seen of the sea around Greece. Flawless, tanned skin.
Any man would lose his senses.
Not him, though. He was immune. He didn’t think about women these days. Didn’t pay them much attention. He had other things on his mind, like surviving each day.
Michael felt her older son watching him, probably gauging his reaction. At maybe nine or ten years old, and mature enough to understand the way men checked out his mom, the boy watched Michael with a knowing look. He’d seen it all before, a shame in one so young, but no wonder. What a woman.
The wind screeched. Something thumped against the side of the house. As he’d noted a few moments ago, Michael had other things on his mind, like how to get through the coming night...and what he was supposed to do with the family stranded on his doorstep.
His unexpected company might be stuck here for days. This beautiful woman might be in his house for a while.
Images of Lillian flashed through his mind, with her average looks, but more beautiful to him than any model or movie star.
The woman had been prattling again, but he’d missed every word.
She stopped and stared at the wall behind him. “Is that—is that a wagon wheel? On the wall?”
“Yeah. I’m a rancher.” You got a problem with that? he wanted to add, but good manners held him back. He amended the thought and asked, “You okay with it?”
“Yes, of course,” she said too quickly. “What’s that?” She pointed to the antique wood hand plane on the table in the front hallway.
Michael loved old tools, the ones men had used to craft and shape wood before power tools were invented. He loved the way they felt in his hand.
“It’s a plane,” he said.
The smaller of the boys, four or five at a guess, stepped close to the table and touched it with one finger. “That’s not a plane, mister. Where’s its wings?”
Michael smiled. Cute kid. “Not that kind of plane.”
The boy sneezed, stirring the dust on the table.
Michael frowned. There’d been a time when his tools would have been spotless.
The woman patted her pockets and started rummaging through the bag she carried. She looked up at him, kind of helplessly. “I don’t believe I have a tissue.”
“I got it.” Michael had wiped more noses in the past two winters than he cared to count.
He took a clean handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped his fingers around the back of the boy’s head and cleaned his nose.
“Hey!” The boy tried to pull away and pointed toward the living room.
Used to children resisting handkerchiefs, Michael finished the job.
The kid struggled to peer around his legs. “There’s kids here!”
Michael turned. Mick and Lily stood in the doorway, Mick holding his little sister’s hand. Their curiosity must have kicked in when they heard all the voices.
“You can take off your coats and things in the back room.” Michael bent to help the younger boy when he struggled with his zipper. “We’ll make introductions when you’re done.”
To Mick, he said, “Show them where to put their things, then bring them to the living room.”
To the boys, he said, “Take off your boots here and carry them through.”
The little one sat down and took off his boots, nearly hauling his socks off with them.
The woman bent over to pull up his socks, but teetered on her fancy high-heeled boots.
Again Michael said, “I got it,” and squatted to pull the boy’s socks back up. They were too big for him. Must be his older brother’s.
Mick led the boys to the back of the house. When the small one ran out of one of his socks, Lily picked it up and chased after him.
While the woman—he really should get her name soon—studied her surroundings, Michael studied her. Her tight-fitting leather jacket outlined a fairly perfect body. Long legs fit snugly into her jeans. He thought they might be what they called skinny jeans, because there wasn’t much that was generous about the fit.
Women around here didn’t dress like that.
A slight frown furrowed her brow.
Michael followed her gaze and found himself eyeing his home critically. Sure, he’d decorated with the tools of his trade, like the wagon wheel, but he found it homey.
All of it was real, used at one time or another over the years. Not a speck of it had been bought from a store.
This woman, with her fancy clothes, obviously found it wanting. She probably thought he was some kind of hick.
Well, he was, wasn’t he?
He’d lived on this ranch just outside Rodeo, Montana, for every one of his forty years. He was a country boy through and through.
Too bad if that made him deficient in her eyes. He was who he was. A rancher. A cowboy. A man who loved horses, cattle, the land and, above all, his children.
Worse than her judgment of his decor was the unspoken criticism of his housekeeping skills.
Bewildered, he saw his home clearly for the first time in a long while. Toys and books and some of the children’s clothes littered every surface, including the carpet.
When had it gotten so bad? He used to be on top of the chores, but lately he was barely keeping up.
He scarcely managed to keep body and soul together, let alone tidying up and dusting.
Besides, he was dog-tired when he fell into bed every night. He’d been up since four thirty this morning and had put in a good three hours of work before this woman even opened her eyes.
She glanced at the carpet that obviously needed vacuuming. On the side tables, his ranching magazines hadn’t even had a chance to get dog-eared, still waiting for his attention months after they’d been delivered.
On the windowsills, plants languished, every leaf caked in a layer of dust, watered only when he remembered to do it every couple of weeks.
She didn’t say anything, but he felt her censure. Or maybe not. Maybe it was his own guilt.
Good manners compelled him to rise above his resentment.
“Give me your jacket. I’ll hang it up.”
She shrugged out of it, revealing a cardigan not even close to warm enough for the weather.
He usually associated that button-up style with old women, but there wasn’t a darned thing old about her.
He kept his eyes firmly on her face and not on her spectacular—
God Almighty. His unwanted response to her beauty angered him. He lashed out with, “Leather won’t keep a person warm in this weather.”
At his hard tone, she shot him an indignant look. “It’s pleather.”
Huh? What the hell was pleather?
“I would never wear leather. Those poor animals.”
Oh, Lord, a hippie-dippie animal lover.
“Do you eat meat?” he asked, working off a hunch.
“Nope.”
“Figures,” he murmured, and hung up her jacket on a hook to dry.
He was a rancher. He raised cattle. He ate meat. He used cattle hide in his clothing and his furniture. As long as the animal was being butchered for food, they might as well use as much of the carcass as possible.
He used glue, too, and gelatin, and whatever else was useful.
Still shivering, the woman stepped closer to the fireplace to warm her hands.
Yep. She had a fine figure, a tiny waist with shapely hips. A perfect body to match her perfect face.
Lillian could never have won a beauty pageant, but she had possessed a plain, simple beauty of her own. She wore sensible clothes in snowstorms and thought their home was comfortable and welcoming.
The visitor turned to face him, presenting her back to the fire. She held out her hand. “I’m Samantha Read.”
Her long-fingered, slim hand, the fingertips still almost frozen, had a soft palm. Her grip, though, was surprisingly strong. Decisive, even. He’d assumed it would be as feminine as she looked and as flighty as she talked.
“Michael Moreno.”
“Have you met my brother, Travis?” she asked.
“No, ma’am, I haven’t had the opportunity.”
She laughed, a cheerful tinkle. Tinkle? Where had that ridiculous word come from?
“Ma’am makes me sound ancient.” Her smile knocked him off-kilter. “It’s Samantha, or Sammy, whichever you prefer.”
What he would prefer was that the distraction, the sheer breathtaking magnificence of her, not be in his home, and that surprised him. He wasn’t easily swayed.
He kept his wide size-eleven feet firmly planted on the ground. Big feet for a man only five ten, but then all of him was wide—shoulders, chest, hands. Not to mention, a good head on his shoulders.
His unusual coffee table caught her eye. “Is that a door?”
“Yes, ma’am. Solid oak. My daddy found it on the side of the road where someone was renovating a house. Folks didn’t know what they were throwing away.” He was proud of his father’s ingenuity. “He scraped off about ten coats of paint. Sanded for hours. Did the whole thing by hand. Gave it to me as a wedding present.”
“Hmmm, interesting,” was her only response.
Obviously his furniture didn’t meet her high standards any more than his wall decorations did.
He’d held his rage in check throughout Lillian’s struggle with cancer and her subsequent death two years ago. He’d held back his anger that his children would grow up motherless. He’d survived hell, and now this woman waltzed into his home and dared to disapprove.
He lashed out. “What were you doing on the road in this kind of weather? A rational person would get to the nearest motel and hunker down for the duration. You like putting your kids at risk?”
For a few moments, she stared at him with those big blue eyes. For a moment, he was afraid she’d cry.
Her expression changed, hardening, and she slowly put her hands on her hips. Her full lips thinned.
“I do everything in my power to keep my children safe.”
He took satisfaction in her anger. If he had to be uncomfortable because of anger and disapproval, why shouldn’t she?
She had a perfect face and a perfect body; she had probably also led the perfect life. They’d come from San Francisco. She should have stayed in sunny California if she didn’t know how to handle Montana weather.
“Safe? Including driving them into a blizzard in a vehicle that wasn’t trustworthy?”
She gasped. “It is trustworthy. It’s brand-new! I don’t know why it stopped. Maybe it’s a lemon.”
“Those kids,” he said, pointing in the direction of the back of the house, “depend on you to—”
“Dad?” Mick said behind him, cutting him off. “Are you okay?”
Michael stilled at his son’s anxious tone. All four children crowded the entrance to the living room. Mick and Lily stared at him. No wonder. He didn’t yell. He didn’t fight, especially not with strangers.
He’d done a stellar job of holding in his emotions since Lillian’s death, but here this woman—Samantha—was breaking through his barriers just by being beautiful.
He wasn’t even attracted to her, not really, but he knew she was attractive. A fine distinction, yeah, but he was hanging on to it with both hands.
Since when did looks ever matter to him? Especially enough to anger him?
Since his life had been turned upside down when he was barely fifteen. Ancient history. So why was it rearing its ugly head now?
Whatever the cause, he shouldn’t have let the children hear him criticize her.
He cracked his knuckles. “Sorry,” he murmured, knowing it was inadequate. He didn’t have much more to offer.
He glanced at the kids and realized only Mick was watching him. Lily was gaping at Samantha with openmouthed amazement.
And why not?
They didn’t often have visitors and rarely women, except for Karen, who was nothing like this woman with her skinny pants and pleather jacket.
Lily still stared. At only four years old, Lily barely remembered her mother. He kept a photograph of Lillian beside his daughter’s bed to remind her.
He guessed Lily would miss her mother’s touch most and, as much as he held and cuddled Lily all the time to try to fill that void, he could never be Lillian.
The walls crowded in on him. His breathing became shallow enough to concern him. He wasn’t up to this fathering and mothering of them, of being both parents to them 24/7.
Samantha Read made him feel every single deficiency he tried to ignore.
He wished to holy hell she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep.
