Книга - Cowgirls Don’t Cry

Cowgirls Don't Cry
Silver James


The wealthiest of enemies may seduce the ranch right out from under her!Cassidy Morgan wasn’t raised a crybaby. So when her father dies and leaves the family ranch vulnerable to takeover by an Okie gazillionaire with a grudge, she doesn’t shed a tear, she fights back.But Chance Barron, the son of said gazillionaire, is a too-sexy adversary. In fact, it isn’t until Cassidy falls head over heels for the sexy Stetson-wearing businessman that she even finds out he’s the enemy. Now she needs a plucky plan to save her birthright. But Chance has another trick up his sleeve, putting family loyalties—and passion—to the ultimate test.







The wealthiest of enemies may seduce the ranch right out from under her!

Cassidy Morgan wasn’t raised a crybaby. So when her father dies and leaves the family ranch vulnerable to takeover by an Okie gazillionaire with a grudge, she doesn’t shed a tear—she fights back.

But Chance Barron, the son of said gazillionaire, is a too-sexy adversary. In fact, it isn’t until Cassidy falls head over heels for the sexy cowboy-hat-wearing attorney that she even finds out he’s the enemy. Now she needs a plucky plan to save her birthright. But Chance has another trick up his sleeve, putting family loyalties—and passion—to the ultimate test.


“Most people just call me Chance, since that’s my name.”

“Fine. So, why are you here … Chance?”

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I don’t know. Can you be honest?”

Damn but that question hit a little too close to home. Good thing he was the poker player in the family.

He deflected her question with a wink and a little smirk. “I’ll plead the Fifth on that one. You know what folks say—all’s fair in love and war.”

“Yeah, but which is this?”

“You tell me, Cassidy.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Well, you’re a man, so we know you can’t be honest. So that leaves the other one. Why are you here?”

“Ow. I lodge a protest in the name of men everywhere.” He offered her another crooked grin and a wink as he added, “I came to see you.”

“Why?”

Time to lay his cards on the table. “Because I want to take you to dinner.”

* * *

Cowgirls Don’t Cry is a Red Dirt Royalty book—These Oklahoma millionaires work hard and play harder.


Dear Reader, (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

I’m an Oklahoma red-dirt cowgirl bred, born and raised. Once you get red dirt in your blood or on your clothes, it never washes out. When I was lucky enough to share a walk through New York City and lunch with the man who would become my Mills & Boon editor, I popped off and asked, “If I write you a Mills & Boon Desire story, will you read it?” He laughed but said, “Absolutely.”

Back in my writing cave, I went to work. I wanted to write about my home state. The people here are as fascinating and enduring as the land itself. We have cowboys, oilmen, billionaires, country music stars and smart women more than capable of wrangling their men. It took hearing a country-and-western song, sung by two Okies, to figure out the story of Cassidy Morgan and Chance Barron.

I wrote the manuscript. My editor read it. And here it is. To say I’m excited to share Chance and Cassie’s story is an understatement. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed the telling. If you like it, please let me know.

Happy reading,

Silver James


Cowgirls Don’t Cry

Silver James






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


SILVER JAMES likes walks on the wild side and coffee. Okay. She loves coffee. Warning: her muse, Iffy, runs with scissors. A cowgirl at heart, she’s also been an army officer’s wife and mum and has worked in the legal field, fire service and law enforcement. Now retired from the real world, she lives in Oklahoma, USA and spends her days writing with the assistance of her two Newfoundland dogs, the cat who rules them all and the myriad characters living in her imagination. She loves interacting with readers on her blog, Twitter and Facebook. Find her at www.silverjames.com (http://www.silverjames.com).


To my dad, who taught me how to ride and all about cowboy honor, to my family for always believing in me, and to Charles, my editor, for his faith in my abilities, his enthusiasm and his patience.


Contents

Cover (#u20373b0e-b792-568d-8c70-243455ab10b3)

Back Cover Text (#ubd11b63a-ae9e-5434-9909-7a3bd78198db)

Introduction (#u3c02ecf8-233e-5cf5-a4e1-51573d6aa452)

Dear Reader

Title Page (#u20b3a46b-220c-5254-aecd-0924fee240b6)

About the Author (#ueec7382f-cfdb-5ec4-a69f-065c0ed35d33)

Dedication (#ua37d4aab-fad8-5aa0-a899-48d9367c79ad)

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


One (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

Chance Barron always knew exactly what he wanted. At the moment, he’d set his sights on the attractive blonde sitting at the hotel bar.

The late-March blizzard had shut down Chicago O’Hare Airport, and he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. The weather service predicted the storm would blow over by morning, and he’d be on the first flight back to Oklahoma City. In the meantime, there was a pretty little gal all alone knocking back martinis like water. She’d twisted her hair up on top of her head and secured it with something that looked like a chopstick. Her face remained angled away from him, but the graceful curve of her jaw and neck had him noticing her profile. The red jacket and black slacks showed fashion flair and, despite the snow, she sported boots with impossible heels.

He studied her like she was evidence in a hotly contested case and debated how to phrase his opening argument. She ordered another martini and when the drink was served, he watched her long fingers play with the plastic pick and all but gulped as her full lips slid over the ripe, green olive stuffed with a cocktail onion. His groin tightened as his mind conjured up sexy images. A one-night stand wouldn’t hurt, and he’d certainly be in a better mood to deal with the old man when he got home.

Thoughts of his father, Cyrus Barron, intruded at the worst possible times. Probably because he was a force of nature. Oil. Land and cattle. Politics and media. Name the pie, and Chance’s old man owned most of it. Too bad he was such a jackass. He delighted in setting his spurs in the hides of his sons, and Chance was no exception. He had his own law firm, though the family was a big client. He certainly wasn’t in charge of the ranch’s breeding program but his father had sent him on a fool’s errand looking for a stud colt that didn’t exist in the state of Illinois. And now he was stuck in the Windy City during a freak March blizzard.

The waitress approached, an interested smile curling her lips. He declined her offer for a refill and handed her a crisp fifty dollar bill to cover his tab and tip. “Keep the change, hon,” he drawled. He slid out of the booth and homed in on the bar—only to realize his quarry had escaped.

“Damn.” His muttered curse was lost in the clatter of glasses and hum of conversation as he pushed toward the exit. She couldn’t have gone far. He’d find her and argue his case for keeping each other warm tonight.

* * *

Cassidy Morgan leaned against the window in the hotel lobby, her cell phone pressed to her ear. Outside, fat cotton balls of snow drifted across her view—like staring into the heart of a giant snow globe. Dizzy and a tad claustrophobic, her equilibrium thrown off both physically and emotionally, she closed her eyes.

“I’m not going to make it in time, am I?” The words spoken quietly into the phone were ripped from the depths of her soul.

“No, darlin’.” Baxter “Boots” Thomas didn’t believe in sugarcoating things. “The doctors don’t know how he’s hung on this long.”

She heard the muted sounds from the heart and respiration monitors beeping in the silence that followed on the other end of the line. And she recognized both the exhaustion and surrender in the voice of her father’s best friend.

“Will you put the phone next to his ear? I know he can’t hear me but...” Her throat closed, and she blinked hard to clear her vision. She pictured Boots’s actions from the rustling sounds and then she heard his muffled, “Go ahead.”

She talked. She reminisced. In the end, her voice broke and she cried. When her mother died of pneumonia, Cassie had been three, so young the emotional pain was lost on her. But this? This hurt far more than she had ever imagined it could. She wanted to be there. Wanted to hold his hand as he passed. He’d always been there for her. And she’d always managed to fail him, the disappointment in his eyes apparent to her every time she’d seen him over the past ten years.

Her father’s voice whispered in her ear. “Cowgirls don’t cry, baby. Ya gotta pick yourself up and ride.”

She blinked against the stinging tears and felt his sharply indrawn breath all the way to her toes. Then silence. He was gone. That quickly. Two blinks of her eyelids, his sharply indrawn breath, and the great bear of a man who’d been her father existed no more.

“You okay, baby girl?” Boots was back on the line.

Cass dashed at her eyes with the back of her hand. Hell no, she wasn’t okay. But she had to be. She had to take care of things. Whether she wanted to or not. “I’ll be there as soon as possible, Uncle Boots. I’m stuck here until the blizzard lets up. Couldn’t even get back to my apartment, so I’m spending the night in a hotel here at O’Hare.” Her voice remained steady. She couldn’t lose it. Not yet.

“I’ll be on the first flight out in the morning. I’ll call to give you my arrival time.” She cleared the lump forming in her throat. “Will you call the funeral home for me? To pick him up. I... Don’t let them cremate him until I get there, Uncle Boots. I...I need to see him. To say goodbye. Okay?”

“Sure, baby girl. I’ll take care of it.”

“You know where he stashed the good stuff. Go home and toast the stubborn old coot for me.”

“Sure thing, sugar. Now get your tail home. We’ve got work to do.”

“I love you, Uncle Boots.”

“Love you, too, baby girl.”

She tapped the red end call bar on her phone and slipped it into her pocket. Damn, damn, damn. How could she absorb the enormity of this event and not let it drive her to her knees? She closed her eyes against the prickle of tears. She didn’t cry. Not in public. Hadn’t she learned that from her dad? Cowgirls were tough. Well, dammit, she wasn’t a cowgirl. Not anymore. Not for a long time. Cass continued to rest her hot forehead against the cool glass.

She’d left the ranch behind ten years ago. With dreams of making her mark, she’d chased life in the big city, where stars in the night sky were outshone by light from skyscraper windows, and the rumble of traffic sounded like far-off thunder.

Ranch life was hard. Early mornings. Late nights. Worrying about the weather—searing heat, freezing cold, too much rain or not enough. Early frosts. Diseases that could wipe out a herd in a heartbeat. Rodeo was even harder. Her dad had loved the rodeo. She had, too, once upon a time when she was a little girl insulated from the reality of it all.

Cass did not want to go home. She didn’t want to say goodbye to the man against whom she measured every boyfriend. Even hurting him as she had, and regardless of his disappointment in the choices she made, he had continued to love her. And now her dad was gone.

She squared her shoulders and decided she needed to go to bed, despite the allure of another martini. Or a bottle of whiskey. Not that it would help. Booze wouldn’t touch the ache in her heart, wouldn’t numb the pain like a shot of Novocain administered to an abscessed tooth. That’s what her heart felt like. A deep, throbbing abscess full of decay and vile selfishness. She hadn’t been back home for a year. And now it was too late.

She reconsidered getting another drink. Or ordering a bottle from room service. She knew that wasn’t the answer. Plus, there were other drawbacks. Fighting the crowd at the airport and dealing with things at home while nursing a hangover just didn’t appeal.

Cass turned —and buried her nose in a starched white shirt.

“Easy, darlin’.”

The man’s large hands gripped her biceps and kept her upright despite the fact her knees had turned to jelly. She tilted her head to look up. Quite a ways up. She took in the chiseled jaw shadowed by dark stubble, eyes the color of amber and dark hair—thick, silky and worn just a little long so that it caressed the man’s wide forehead and kissed the collar of his crisp shirt. She swallowed. Hard.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were standing there.” At least she didn’t stammer. Two points for her. But she cringed inside at how breathless her voice sounded. It was surprise. That’s all. She didn’t want or need the complication presented by this sexy man right now.

“S’okay, hon. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She backed away from him and shook his hands free. “Scare me?” Her brow quirked as she lifted her chin. “I don’t scare, mister.” Now that she had a good look at him, her brows narrowed in speculation. “You look sort of familiar. Have we met before?”

Cass managed not to blush as those wolf-like eyes traveled over her body from head to toe and back again. A smile she could only describe as appreciative spread across his full lips.

“Honey, as beautiful as you are, I’m sure I’d remember.” He held out his hand as if to introduce himself but was interrupted when the theme song from the old television show Rawhide emanated from his pocket, startling them both.

A look of anger flashed across his face, and he muttered something that sounded like, “Dammit, I’m busy.”

Busy? She stepped back, putting more space between them. For an insane moment, she wondered if he was stalking her. She’d noticed a man in the bar watching her. This guy fit the general description even though the corners of the place were dark, and he’d remained in the shadows.

He fitted a smile on his face but was interrupted again. This time his phone erupted with the sounds of a siren. People stopped, turned and stared. She stepped back farther.

“That sounds like an emergency,” she hinted.

* * *

Chance fumbled in his jacket pocket and found the blasted phone. He planned to cheerfully kill whichever brother had reprogrammed his ring tones. Stabbing at the screen, he growled, “What!” He held up an index finger to indicate it would be a short conversation, hoping she’d stay.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

Chance could feel his brother’s smirk through the phone. “It’s always a bad time when you call, Cord. Tell the old man not even he can control the weather. I’m stuck in Chicago until this freaking blizzard blows over.”

Chance barely listened, his attention focused on the blonde. Something in her expression captured his interest. Every time she blinked, her lashes appeared to leave bruises under her eyes. He peered closer and noticed the dark circles marring the delicate skin. Sadness. That’s what he saw on her face and in her eyes.

“Chancellor! Are you even listening to me?”

“No.” Not even the use of his full name could distract him.

“Well, you better. He called a family meeting for tomorrow. Clay is flying in from Washington. The old man tried to send one of the planes for you, but every pilot on staff refused to fly because of the weather. Pissed him off to no end, but he couldn’t fire all of them.”

Chance resisted the urge to scrub at his forehead. The old man’s temper and propensity for firing people kept Chance hip deep in fixing the messes made by his father. In fact, he cleaned up all the predicaments his family got embroiled in. It was his duty, according to Cyrus Barron, and part of the price to pay for being a member of one of Oklahoma’s richest and most powerful families. The perks of being a Barron were many, so Chance paid the dues.

“I have a seat on the first flight out in the morning. Any clue about the hornet’s nest we’re walking into?”

“Trouble with a capital T. The old man’s worn a path in the carpet from all his pacing. He keeps muttering something about ‘that old bastard thinks he can outsmart me by dying’ with a lot more choice cuss words sprinkled liberally throughout. He had a map spread out on the conference table, so I have the feeling he’s in acquisition mode and isn’t going to take no for an answer.”

“So what else is new?” The rhetorical nature of the question was lost on Cord. Chance resisted the urge to hang up on his brother as he continued to watch the girl. He liked her looks, but the playboy side of his brain told him to run. The abiding sorrow in her eyes boded nothing but trouble—and entanglements. With his father on the warpath, he couldn’t afford either one. He tuned back in to his brother’s voice.

“It’s not enough that Clay is a senator. The old man is bugging Chase to run for governor next year.”

This was a conversation he didn’t want a stranger to overhear. He turned his back and stepped a few feet away. “Chase? In politics? Oh hell, no. Trouble follows him like an ambulance-chasing lawyer. The old man must be losing his grip on reality.”

“Hey, at least he’s not after you or me, bro.”

Chance snorted. “I had that conversation with the old man when I was twelve.”

Cord laughed again, harder this time. “Yeah, I remember that. You couldn’t sit a saddle for almost a week after he finished tanning your hide with that switch. And he got back at you by making you go to law school.”

Chance turned around just in time to see his plans evaporate behind the elevator doors. He laughed as he saw the woman lean over to continue watching him until the doors closed. His intellect remained curious about her. His body had a more basic interest involving naked skin and sheets. He could still smell the scent of her perfume, or shampoo or simply her. Almonds, orange and a hint of cinnamon—the fragrance as distinctive as the woman. With a frustrated snarl, he focused on his brother’s voice yammering in his ear.

“The old man is livid, Chance. I’ve never seen him like this. Not even when Tammy ran off with the foreman. I’m worried he’s actually going to stroke out.”

Chance rolled his eyes. Tammy was wife number six. Or seven. Half his father’s age and built like Dolly Parton, she’d turned her charms on the ranch foreman and convinced him to take off with her. The Barrons owned the two major papers in Oklahoma so she’d threatened to go to the tabloids with fabricated family secrets. She would sink to that level to cause a scandal. As the family lawyer, Chance negotiated a monetary settlement to avoid the nuisance and filed the divorce papers while the ink was still wet on her signature.

“So what the hell’s going on, Cord? You just cost me a roll in the hay. There’d better be a damn good reason for the old man’s fit.”

“Does the name Ben Morgan mean anything to you?”

Chance rifled through his memory. “Vaguely. Old rodeo cowboy, right?”

“That’s him. The old man and Morgan butted heads a few times, including once over a woman.”

“Aw, hell... Which one of the stepmonsters?”

“That’s the funny thing. None of them. This was years ago. Before he married Mom.”

Chance rubbed his forehead. “Damn, Cord. I know the old man is legendary for holding a grudge, but that’s a little ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me? I’m the one he’s been cussing the last few minutes, ever since he found out Morgan died tonight.” Cord paused for a breath. “He’s upset enough he forgot about your failure to find the colt.”

“Now you’re giving me grief about that, too? Come on.”

“Hey, you know how he reacts to losing, little brother. The good news, he’s distracted. There’s some sort of legal BS involving this Ben Morgan guy. The old man wants you to wade through it. Thought I’d give you a heads-up so you don’t walk in blind.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll fire up the laptop and do some research.”

“I’ll email the particulars. And Chance? Sorry if I messed up any sort of extracurricular activity you might have planned for later.”

“Yeah, right. I can hear the remorse ringing in your voice. I’ll head to the office straight from the airport when I get back tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Chance tapped his phone and dropped it into his pocket. This whole trip had gone to hell in a handbasket, and now he was quoting the old man’s clichés. That was so not a good sign. He glanced toward the bar. The waitress would get off sooner or later but after getting up close and personal with the blonde, his desire for any other woman waned—at least for tonight. In three strides, he reached the elevator and stabbed the button. He had work to do.


Two (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

Cass loosened her seat belt as the flight attendant announced the flight would be delayed. Seemed a passenger was running late. The economy section was packed, so it had to be somebody in first class. She rolled her head on her neck and listened as her vertebrae snapped, crackled and popped. Better to sound like a bowlful of Rice Krispies than suffer the headache that would follow.

She closed her eyes and tried to forget her situation. Going home was always hard—that’s why she’d avoided it for so long, even though Boots had urged her to visit. And now with her dad gone—with things left unsaid and apologies not made, her heart hurt. She swallowed her guilt but it churned in her stomach like raw jalapeños. Cass forced her thoughts away from her dad. She’d say goodbye when she got to the funeral home, but until then, she’d just have to hope he had heard what was in her heart when she talked to him last night.

The pilot’s voice echoed over the intercom, scratchy and hard to hear over the hum of conversations. Evidently, whoever they’d been waiting for had arrived, and they were finally ready for takeoff. She braced her feet against the floor and clasped her hands in her lap. Flying was not her favorite activity, especially getting off the ground and landing. She measured her breathing, concentrating on remaining calm, then remembered the scent of the guy in the hotel. Leather and rain on a hot day. That’s what he smelled like—an odd combination that evoked memories of her childhood growing up on the ranch and around rodeo arenas all over the West.

He’d been wearing a starched white shirt with a button-down collar, like a banker, but it was tucked into a pair of well-fitting jeans, even if they were pressed to a knife-edged crease. Her brow furrowed. He’d also been wearing boots. Not that people in Chicago didn’t wear Western boots. Some of them even wore them “for real,” not just as a fashion statement.

Her stomach dropped away as the plane rumbled into the cloudy skies, chasing all thoughts of the guy out of her head. The fuselage shuddered several times before she heard grinding as the landing gear retracted. The plane continued to climb at a steep incline, and the pilot mumbled something about weather and flying altitude that she couldn’t really hear over the throbbing in her ears. She swallowed to make her eardrums pop, pushed back against her seat and returned to thinking about her close encounter.

Had the timing been different, she might have let the guy buy her a drink, just to see what percolated between them. He was sexy as all get-out. Tall. Muscular. His hands strong as they gripped her arms, but with a certain amount of gentleness. She wasn’t petite by any measure, but he’d towered over her. He radiated heat, too, or maybe he just touched something in her that created heat. She hadn’t been so intrigued by a man in ages. Then she remembered the reason for her trip, and all thoughts of the sexy encounter fled.

I’m sorry, Daddy. She offered the apology to the heavens, knowing it covered so much more than her wayward thoughts. Cass squiggled her nose, fighting the burn of tears. She couldn’t cry. Not here. Not now.

Her dad’s voice echoed softly in her memory, reminding her to be strong. She flashed back to the time she’d just lost the final round of a barrel-racing event by mere tenths of a second. That she’d lost to the reigning national champion, who was twenty years older didn’t mean a thing. At the age of seven, all she’d wanted was that shiny buckle and the saddle that went with it for winning.

“No, Daddy. No time for tears. Cowgirls just get back on and ride.” Back in the present, she whispered the words in the hopes that saying them out loud would make them true. She hadn’t been a cowgirl for ten years. Not since she’d left home to attend college back East. Not since she’d taken the job in Chicago. In fact, she’d only been on a horse a handful of times since then. She hated going home. Hated the heat and dust, the smell of cattle manure.

She didn’t want to be a cowgirl. She’d liquidate the ranch, get Boots set up somewhere comfortable and haul ass back to Chicago where she belonged. No regrets. It’s what her dad would expect her to do. She’d told him often enough she’d never be back, never take over the ranch.

Those guilty jalapeños boiled and raged in her stomach again. Returning to Chicago was the right thing. Really. She conjured up the picture of her close encounter from the night before in her mind, shutting out the remorse. His chiseled face still seemed familiar, and she felt as if she should know him. Was he an actor? Or maybe a professional cowboy? She nudged the feeling this way and that, seeking an answer, but didn’t find one.

The passenger in front of her shoved his seat all the way back jostling her tray table so that the coffee, served moments before by the flight attendant, sloshed out. The man on her right in the window seat snored as his head fell over toward her shoulder. She dodged him but bumped the woman on her left. That earned her a scathing look. Cass rolled her eyes and shrugged. She could only hope this flight from hell ended sooner rather than later.

She gulped what little coffee didn’t spill and passed off the sodden napkin and cup to the attendant as she came back down the aisle. Feeling far too much like a sardine for comfort, Cass closed her eyes and tried to sleep. Thoughts of the handsome cowboy danced in her head. She was positive she knew him from somewhere. Since she didn’t watch much TV, she discarded the idea he might be an actor. Could he be someone she’d met in college? Or, heaven forbid, high school? She didn’t have the best memory for faces, but there was just something about the man.

Giving up any pretense of relaxation, she shoved her tray table up and fastened it with the little lever, using a lot more force than technically necessary. Then she stretched her legs under the seat in front of her and drummed her toes against the bottom of it. When the occupant twisted to stare at her over the top of the reclined seatback, she flashed the smile of a two-year-old brat. And didn’t care. The man eventually turned around and since he raised the seat a few inches, she quit kicking.

More memories of her dad swamped her. Moisture filled her eyes, and her nose stung. She blinked rapidly and had to sort through more guilt. She was a terrible daughter. Her dad had died, and she couldn’t be bothered to get there in time to say goodbye. If she never saw the ranch again, never saw Oklahoma again, it would suit her just fine. Yes, she was selfish. She admitted it. So there. Boots had begged her for months to come, and she’d stalled. Her dad had been too proud to call. And she’d been too proud to bend. Now it was too late.

When the tears finally came, Cass dashed them from her eyes with the back of her hand. Her elbow caught the arm of the passenger sitting on her left. The woman exhaled, the sound uncompromisingly disdainful as she shifted away from the contact. The guy on her right just snored, mouth open and drool threatening Cassie’s wool blazer.

Already walking a fine line between anger and grief, Cass lost control. “Well, pardon my tears.” She didn’t bother to keep her voice down. “My father died last night, and I was stuck in a freakin’ blizzard and didn’t get there in time. I’m on my way home to bury him. If my crying is too much of an imposition, you can just move your...self to another seat.”

Around her, the hum of conversation petered off into silence. She could tell from the heat radiating off her face that she’d turned beet-red—a legacy from her mother. She flushed scarlet whenever she got mad, cried or laughed too hard. Yeah, that was Cassidy Morgan. She wasn’t pretty when her emotions ruled. Unfortunately, that was a great deal of the time. At the moment, her emotions slammed her with a double whammy.

The woman stared, mouth gaping, left speechless by Cassie’s outburst.

Cassie bit back any further retort, instead, settling back into her seat. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared stone-faced straight ahead, ignoring everyone.

* * *

Chance sipped his French roast coffee from a ceramic mug and skimmed the information on his laptop screen. He was learning all sorts of interesting things about his father he couldn’t wait to share with his brothers. To hear the old man tell it now, he’d been born with a gold spoon up his... Chance reined in that thought and tried to scrub the image from his brain.

But back when Chance’s mother was still alive, the old man had been all about hard work and scrabbling to put the Barron name on the map. Chance’s research from the night before showed Cyrus had worked the oil patch, ranched and even been a rodeo rider on the side.

And he’d loved a woman named Colleen before he’d met and married Chance’s mother, Alice. According to the papers at the time, Cyrus Barron had done a stint in county jail after a spectacular fight at a rodeo in Fort Worth. He’d put Ben Morgan in the hospital and ended the man’s promising bronc-riding career. Colleen had turned her back on Cyrus and married Ben within weeks. Oh, yeah. The old man didn’t hold a grudge; he got even. He’d been dogging Ben Morgan’s steps ever since, throwing up roadblocks in an attempt to grind the other man beneath his boot heel. But Ben Morgan didn’t have any “give up” in him. He’d made a life for his wife, first as a supplier of rodeo stock then as a horse trainer.

Chance rubbed the back of his neck. His father was a royal jerk. He couldn’t even let the man have peace in the grave. The email from Cord first thing this morning had confirmed that Morgan had taken out a loan at a small bank—the bank recently purchased by a subsidiary of Barron Enterprises, and he’d used the ranch as collateral. The old man wanted Chance to stop off and pick up the file before coming into the office. Since he could no longer screw with Ben Morgan, Cyrus planned to screw with any heirs or successors his old nemesis might have by calling the note.

Yeah, leave it to his father to be four moves ahead of any opponent. Chance had to admire the old man’s business acumen. He’d thought the acquisition foolish at the time and certainly not worth the hassle of the federal and state banking regulators’ paperwork. Chance had hired a couple of experts in banking law to handle it because Cyrus had remained adamant. The old man wanted the bank. So they’d bought it. Chance knew why now. He tossed off a mental shrug. Barron Enterprises could afford it.

Closing the laptop, he held up his mug for a refill as the flight attendant hovered, a ready smile on her face.

“You know, I have layovers in OKC sometimes,” she whispered. She wrapped one hand around his to steady the cup as she poured, a move he recognized as an excuse to touch him.

Chance glanced up. She was a brunette, in her late twenties, and her trim uniform fit in all the right places. The girl was just his type—female—but even as he smiled, another face appeared in his memory. The blonde from the hotel. His abdomen contracted, and his heart thundered for a few beats. He hadn’t even gotten her name, yet here she was haunting him.

“Sorry, hon. This is just a quick trip for me.” The lie flowed smooth as honey from his mouth. As disappointment registered on her face, Chance wondered what the hell had gotten into him. Why would he turn down a sure thing?

While it was unlikely he’d ever cross paths with the woman, he did have a brother who was a private investigator and ran Barron Security. He’d sic Cash on her trail. All Chance wanted was one night to get her out of his system. That’s all it would take.

He shifted in his seat, glad the tray table and computer disguised his discomfort. He couldn’t pinpoint why the woman had gotten under his skin but she had, like a burr under his saddle. He shoved thoughts of her away and opened his laptop again, hoping to concentrate on the task at hand. He had to squelch his libido and his uneasiness over what his father wanted—the combination made for an odd sensation in and of itself.

The flight attendant scurried toward the economy section. He leaned into the aisle to see what was happening. Three attendants hovered around a row of seats toward the back of the plane. Everyone with aisle seats had twisted to watch the commotion, too. He heard raised voices, but the conversation was too indistinct. Within moments, the situation calmed. He returned his attention to the problem at hand.

Once the plane landed, he was the first one off. With no luggage to retrieve, he headed straight for the parking lot. He stepped into the gentle March sunshine, glad he hadn’t bothered to shrug into his heavy winter jacket. The storm pounding the upper Midwest hadn’t dipped as far south as Oklahoma, and Chance was thankful. He hated cold weather. Of course, he hated hot weather, too. If he had his way, he’d live somewhere where the temperature remained at a balmy sixty-eight degrees year-round.

He dug out his car keys, hit the button for the auto-unlock and dumped his carry-on suitcase and laptop case in the passenger seat before settling behind the wheel. With a reckless abandon born from experience, Chance maneuvered his sleek, phantom-black Audi R8 sports car toward the parking lot exit. The car swooped down the exit ramp, slowing to a stop just long enough for him to pay the attendant.

Without looking for merging traffic from other lanes, he downshifted and gunned the powerful 571 horsepower V10 engine. A flash of rust in the corner of his eye and the sound of squealing tires had him handling the powerful vehicle like a race car to avoid a collision. Caught by the next traffic light, Chance glanced over at the beat-up old pickup in the next lane. He looked away then looked back. He didn’t recognize the old man in the driver’s seat but the passenger? Oh, yeah. It was her! The blonde from the hotel. She’d rolled down the window, and her glare could melt the metallic paint right off the Audi.

His windows were tinted dark, and he doubted she could see him. When the light changed, instead of accelerating the way he normally would, he eased off the clutch, making sure the clunker pulled ahead of him. He made a mental note of the license plate. Now he’d have a chance to sic Cash on her and move in for the kill after all. He grinned, unable to calculate the odds of seeing her again, especially here on his home ground. Excitement tingled in his fingertips. Life was looking up. Gunning his engine, he headed toward I-40 and the command performance he had to attend.


Three (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

“Did you see that idiot? He could have killed us!”

“City folks drive a bit faster, sugar. That’s all. We didn’t wreck.” Boots turned his head and spit out the window.

“You shouldn’t chew, Uncle Boots. That stuff’s bad for you.”

“It’s the only vice I got left, Cassie, and I ain’t gonna live forever. Give an old man some peace.”

She ground her back teeth together but held her tongue. The seat cover—an old horse blanket—made her back itch through her cotton turtleneck. She’d shed her heavy jacket as soon as she’d stepped out of the terminal. Compared to Chicago, the fifty degree temperature in Oklahoma City felt positively balmy. The Australian shepherd sprawled on the bench seat between them yawned, and she absently scratched his ears.

“I want your life, Buddy. Nothing to do all day but nap in the sun and chase squirrels. And you don’t have to put up with the stupid people of the world. You can just bite ’em or piss on ’em.”

“You watch your mouth, Cassidy Anne Morgan. I won’t have you corrupting this poor dog with such language. Ol’ Buddy here is sensitive.”

She rolled her eyes but reached over to pat Boots on the shoulder. “Yessir.”

They rode in silence for several minutes. The old man cleared his throat but didn’t speak. A few blocks later, caught by another red light, he glanced at Cassie. “I’m gonna miss him, sugar.” Buddy whined softly and shifted to lay his head on the man’s thigh, as if to say he’d miss Ben, too.

Cass pressed her lips together and lost the battle with her tears. They streaked her cheeks even as Boots pulled a faded red bandanna from his pocket and offered it to her. She took it and dabbed at her runny nose, but the tears continued. She leaned her head against the window.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what, Cassie? I asked you to come home lots of times.”

“You could have told me he was dying.”

“I told you he was sick.”

Her temper flared. “There’s a big damn difference between sick and dying, Boots!” Her tears stopped as her anger surged.

“And there’s a big damn difference between being too stubborn to come home and make amends and being too busy to worry about your daddy.”

“He started it.” She winced. That sounded so petulant. But it was true. Her dad had fought her plans the whole way. If she had to go to college, why wasn’t one of the local universities good enough? Why did she have to go traipsing off where he’d never get to see her? She’d saved her barrel-racing money and made straight As to get an academic scholarship. Even so, she’d had to wait tables to make ends meet while in college. Then she got a job with the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. Granted, she was far from rich, but she didn’t have to haul her butt out of bed at the crack of dawn to do barn chores. She didn’t have to muck the manure out of stalls or round up cattle too stupid to seek shelter in a storm.

Boots made a choking noise so she glanced over at him. His face shone with tears and his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel indicated how upset he was. She leaned over the dog and placed her hand on his.

“You’re right, Uncle Boots.”

“Aw, honey. The two of you are so dang much alike. Stubborn to the core. But he loved you. And he was proud of you.”

“No.” She shook her head, unable to believe that. “No, he wasn’t. I disappointed him. I didn’t stay here to help with the ranch. I didn’t get married and give him grandbabies. I didn’t do anything with my life that he wanted me to do.”

“All he ever wanted was for you to be happy, baby girl.”

Cass didn’t know what to say. She knew in her heart Boots was wrong. She’d disappointed her dad from the day she’d turned eighteen, lost her virginity in the back of a pickup at the National Western Stock Show and Rodeo in Denver and decided she’d never get on a horse again.

The old truck rattled across a speed bump as Boots turned it into the parking lot at the funeral home. He pulled into a parking space and shoved the transmission into Park. Neither of them moved. She did not want to get out and walk inside that building. With its white-washed stucco and blue shutters topped by a red-tiled roof, the place looked more like a Mexican restaurant than a funeral home. Part of her wanted to ask Boots to just drive away. The other part knew that if she turned tail and ran she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

Cass sucked in a deep breath and held it. Letting the air hiss out slowly, she wiped her face and nose with the bandanna then stuck it in her pocket, just in case. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

The doors on the old truck creaked as they opened. Buddy jumped out after Boots, and he scolded the dog.

“Leave him be, Uncle Boots. He has as much right to say goodbye to Daddy as anyone.” She met him on the sidewalk and slipped her arm through his. “We can do this. Right?”

Boots patted her hand where it rested on his forearm. “You know what your daddy always said, sugar.”

“Yeah. Often and loudly.” She inhaled deeply again. “Cowgirls don’t cry, they just get back on and ride. I really hate that phrase, you know.”

He chuckled and gave her hand another pat.

Boots distracted the officious man who met them at the door while Cassie snuck past, Buddy at her heels. They were probably breaking some law but she didn’t care. Buddy needed this goodbye as much as she did.

Alone in a private viewing room a few minutes later, Cass stared at what used to be her father. A sheet covered his body from shoulders to toes. There’d be no burying clothes or makeup on his face since he’d be cremated once she left. The funeral home had kept the body solely for her chance to say goodbye.

His face had thinned with the years, as had his hair. And the crinkles around his eyes looked like they’d been etched in wax. This...thing wasn’t her father. He’d been full of life. Of laughter. And a few choice cuss words. She reached out as if to touch his hand but couldn’t follow through. The cancer had stolen his vitality. The thought of her skin touching that cold facsimile of her dad made her stomach roil.

“Oh, Daddy.” The words clogged up her throat as sorrow surged. “God, I miss you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything. Please forgive me?” She closed her eyes against the salty sting, and her throat ached from swallowing her sobs. With her arms pressed across her stomach, she swayed with the rhythm of her grief. Something warm leaned against her leg, and Buddy’s whine joined her choking sobs. She dropped one hand to rest on the dog’s head, her fingers burrowing into the soft fur. “You miss him, too, Buddy. I know. What the hell are we going to do now?”

* * *

Chance sat in the bank’s parking lot making notes as he talked to Cash on the phone. “So Ben Morgan has a daughter.” An heir complicated matters, but he could file enough paperwork to keep the estate tied up until he could get the loan called. Morgan had been desperate so there was a balloon payment—due and owing on a date certain. “Do you have a name?”

“Cassidy. I’ve put a tracer on her. Oh, and speaking of, I have the information you wanted on that tag. Truck belongs to a guy named Baxter Thomas.”

A memory nudged him again. “Where do I know that name from?”

“Ya got me, Chance. Want me to run his financials?”

“No. Just do a quick Google search. See what comes up.” He drummed his fingers on the leather-clad steering wheel as he listened to clicking keys through the cell phone.

His brother’s low whistle caught his attention. “Now that’s interesting. Baxter Thomas is also Boots Thomas.”

“The rodeo clown?” They weren’t called that anymore—now they were called bullfighters, which was more appropriate to what they did inside the arena. Boots Thomas was a legend and anyone who’d ever traveled the rodeo circuit knew his name.

“That’s the one. And according to this article, he and Ben Morgan were partners in a rodeo stock company.” Cash whistled again. “And the plot thickens. Cassidy Morgan was a champion cowgirl back in the day, but she quit after winning the Denver Stock Show ten years ago. That’s the year you and Cord won the team roping up there.”

“Well, damn.” Had he met her on the rodeo circuit? He couldn’t put a face with the name so probably not. His rodeo career pretty much ended after that night. He graduated from college that spring and started law school soon after. He didn’t have time to chase steers or cowgirls.

“Chance? Are you listening?”

He wasn’t. “What?”

“There’s a memorial service for Morgan day after tomorrow at the Pleasant Hills Funeral Home. As near as I can figure, it’s a cremation. I suppose it’d be really uncool to serve her with the papers at the service.”

“Ya think? Jeez, Cash, you’ve been hanging around the old man too long. What time is the memorial?”

“Ten in the morning. Why? You aren’t thinking about actually showing up, are you?”

He didn’t examine his motives very closely as he answered. “It might be a good idea to go. Just to get a feel for things.” Business. This was just business. But he could do business without being a jerk—even if his father wanted to steal a ranch out from under his enemy’s grieving daughter. He didn’t believe in coincidences, but the odds of his mystery girl being Cassidy Morgan just kept getting better.

Armed with the information he needed, Chance started his car and headed home. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed. First, he wanted a shower and a change of clothes because he felt slimy all of a sudden. Like a royal SOB. He had plenty of time to get the legal papers filed.

He was about to act the world’s biggest bully, all under the orders of the bastard who sired him. At a stoplight, he glanced at his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You are a complete slimeball, you know that, right?” He didn’t blink at the accusation. He always told the truth, at least to himself.

Lost in thought, the light turned green, but he didn’t notice until someone honked. He waved a hand hoping the car behind saw the gesture as an apology, and wondered why the hell that mattered. He was a Barron. If he wanted to sit through a whole light, he would. He accelerated through the intersection and put his thoughts on hold until he arrived at his condo. Thinking about stealing the ranch from Cassidy Morgan would only make things worse. He barked a wry laugh. As if. He wasn’t sure how they could get any worse.

* * *

Cassie wore black—suit jacket, matching skirt and heels—and felt out of place. Colorful Western clothes abounded, the room resembling a patchwork quilt—homey and warm, like the people who wore them. The small chapel was bursting at the seams with an array of folks—old rodeo hands, neighbors, the friends garnered from a lifetime of living. Death was just another part of all that living. Her dad once commented that suits were for marryin’ and buryin’, but nobody said they had to be black. She should have remembered that.

The front of the room looked like a field of wildflowers. No fussy formal arrangements. She didn’t know the minister, but he seemed to know all about her dad. While short, his eulogy painted a vivid picture of the man. When he finished, he invited any who wished to share a few words or a memory.

Near the back, a man cleared his throat. Chairs scraped and creaked on the wooden floor, followed by the sound of heavy boots marching up the aisle. A big bear of a man, with a scraggly beard, a paunch overhanging the huge rodeo buckle on his belt and a chaw of tobacco in his cheek stepped forward.

“Ben Morgan saved my life some forty years ago. We were dang sure dumb back in our twenties. At the Fort Worth rodeo, I got hung up on a bull named Red Devil. Ol’ Boots here was working the arena as a clown, and Ben rode the pickup horse. While Boots kept Devil occupied, Ben jumped off his horse, grabbed that bull by the ear and rode him down to his knees so the other boys could cut me free. Next thing I knew, I’m sitting on my ass in the dirt, and Ben is flyin’ across the arena. That dang bull broke three of Ben’s ribs but he got right up, dusted off his britches and went on with his job. He was a helluva man, and he’ll be missed.”

A chorus of yesses and amens followed the man back down the aisle. A woman approached the microphone next. She paused to offer her hand to Cassie and gave Boots’s shoulder a pat. At the lectern, she turned a 100-watt smile on the congregation. “Most of y’all know me. For those who don’t, I’m Nadine Jackson, and I own the Four Corners Diner. Ben came in most every day before he got sick. But all the regulars kept up with him through Boots. Ben’d give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. He didn’t have deep pockets, but if a cowboy was down on his luck, Ben always had a few bucks to spare and dinner to share. My granddaughter called him the Louis L’Amour Cowboy.”

She paused to let the chuckles from the crowd die down. “She’s only eight, so I’m pleased the little darlin’ even knows who Mr. L’Amour is. But she’s right. Ben could’ve been a hero in one of those books. He was tall, rugged and believed in doin’ the right thing no matter what. He was the kind of man a body would be proud to call friend.”

Nadine turned her smile toward Cassie. “And you, honey? You was his pride and joy. He couldn’t stop talkin’ about you. Your buckles and trophies from back when you were a champion cowgirl, your report cards and your college graduation. ‘My little girl is a college graduate, Nadine,’ he told me. ‘She’s made somethin’ of herself.’”

Cassie’s ribs seemed to constrict around her lungs, and she couldn’t breathe. Pain. There was so much pain in her heart. She gripped her hands together until her knuckles turned white. Tears prickled behind her eyelids, and she swallowed around the lump clogging her throat. Oh, Daddy, I’m so sorry. She sent the prayer winging into the cosmos, hoping her father would catch a whisper of it.

“I just have one more thing to say,” Nadine continued. “The Four Corners is closed to the public today. I figure poor Cassie ain’t in any shape to be hosting this herd at home, so I’m throwin’ open the doors. Y’all come on by, grab a bite t’eat and reminisce some about Ben.”

When no one else came forward, the minister speared Cassie with a long look. She sat for a moment to gather her thoughts and steel her emotions. Boots gave her clenched hands a little squeeze. She leaned over, kissed his cheek and stood. From the podium, she gazed out over the room and was struck once more by the bright colors and the kind, honest faces of her father’s friends. They knew him so much better than she. He wouldn’t want her wearing black on this day, wouldn’t want her tears or her remorse.

Movement in the doorway caught her attention, and her breath froze for a moment when she thought she recognized the figure ducking out. Impossible. There was no way that man could have been the same one at the hotel in Chicago. The hair prickled on the back of her neck and she got a shivery feeling. Her dad would have said someone was walking across her grave. She shivered again, doing her best to ignore the premonition.

“Daddy...” Her voice broke, and she coughed to clear the frog in her throat. Feeling a bit stronger now, she tried again. “Daddy was full of sayings, most of them taken from Louis L’Amour books.” She offered Nadine a tentative smile. “We have a whole wall of them at the house, and I grew up on their truisms. Dad also had a tendency to tell me, ‘Shoulda, coulda, woulda, honey, just opens the door to regrets. That’s the worst thing a person can do—live a life full of regrets.’”

She bit her lip and stared out the door where that mysterious figure seemed to be waiting in the shadows. “I should have been a better daughter. And I could have. Would I if circumstances had been different? I don’t know. But I do believe Daddy wouldn’t want me worrying about the past. He lived and loved life to the absolute fullest. We can honor him best by doing the same.” She glanced over at Boots and was puzzled by the look on his face. Something was going on, something he didn’t want to tell her. She’d pin him down soon.

“Thank you all for coming, for being my dad’s friends. And thank you, Nadine, for your gracious offer of Four Corners. I never did learn to cook.” She glanced down at the speckled gray-and-black box that held her father’s ashes. “Hard to believe that a man bigger than life can be reduced to a little box like that. What’s left of his body might be in there, but his spirit is riding free. Nothing could ever contain it. Not a hardscrabble life and certainly not death.”

Cass stepped away from the microphone and was immediately enveloped in a big hug from Boots. Within moments, they were surrounded by well-wishers, despite her resolve to get to the lobby area to see if her imagination was playing tricks on her. The hairs on her neck rose again, and she could have sworn someone was staring at her. As surreptitiously as she could, she scanned the room, but no one triggered the sense of her being...hunted. She shivered.

“I need to get outside, Uncle Boots.” She breathed the words out in a rush and added a few “I’m sorry, excuse me’s” in her wake. Stepping into the balmy temperature of the early spring morning didn’t quell the feeling of being stalked.

A man wearing a black Stetson caught her eye. He strode across the parking lot headed toward a massive Ford pickup. Broad shoulders tapered to a really fine pair of jeans—could it be the guy from Chicago? That wasn’t possible. No way, no how. The shiver dancing through her this time had nothing to do with fear.

* * *

Chance escaped before she recognized him. Traffic wasn’t heavy enough to curtail his thoughts, which left him wanting nothing more than a tall scotch and a cold shower. What in the world had possessed him to attend the memorial service? Who was he trying to kid? Cassidy Morgan. He was drawn to her like a honeybee to clover. Crossing paths with her in Chicago had been a fluke but now he knew where to find her.

Her face as she eulogized her father was far too reminiscent of her expression in the hotel lobby. He’d probably bumped into her right after she received the news about her father’s passing. Chance didn’t do vulnerable but this woman had an inner spark that drew him like a bull to a red cape. He wanted her, plain and simple—even if there was nothing simple about this situation.

His cell phone rang, and he punched the button on the steering wheel for the Bluetooth connection. He snarled into the hidden microphone, “What?”

“Dang, bro. Don’t be biting my head off.”

“What do you want, Cord?”

“Cash and I tracked down that stud colt the old man wanted. You’re not going to believe where he is.”

“Dammit. Does he want me chasing a horse or stealing a ranch out from under a woman who just buried her father?”

“Whoa, dude. Back up there a minute. That almost sounded like you’ve developed a conscience.”

Chance rubbed his temple and gave up trying to talk and drive at the same time. He pulled off and realized he’d parked a block from the Four Corners. How the hell had that happened? He jammed the transmission into Park and leaned his head back against the headrest on the driver’s seat. “Okay, Cord, so tell me where the damn horse is.”

“Right here. The plot thickens, little brother. Ben Morgan bought that colt months before you headed north to track him down. He’s been under our noses all along.”

He sat up straighter. “The ranch and everything on it is collateral. The colt, too?”

“No clue, but Cash is pulling financials. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, the old man wants to accelerate things. Can you call the balloon payment immediately?”

“Our father is a real SOB, Cord.”

His brother’s ringing laughter filled the cab. “So what else is new?” Cord broke the connection before Chance could retort anything.

He stared out the windshield. “So what’s that make us, big brother?”


Four (#u4ff283cb-3456-5b7a-be51-1f50fa1db1d1)

The screen door banged shut behind her. The room hadn’t changed one iota in her entire life. She stopped short as countless memories washed over her.

Don’t run in the house.

Don’t slam the door.

No, you can’t bring that baby skunk inside.

Boots sprawled in the worn wooden chair on the porch, Buddy at his feet. A small metal table separated his chair from its twin. Her father’s chair. How many evenings had she worked on her homework at the kitchen table, listening to the two men talk through the open window? She passed off an icy glass of sweet tea to Boots then grabbed a third chair, a refugee from some 1950s patio set, and settled into it.

“What are you not sayin’, Cassie?”

She’d put off this discussion for almost a week. So much for easing into the conversation. There was no way to soften her news, so she blurted it out. “I’m putting the ranch up for sale.” When Boots didn’t respond, she plunged ahead. “I don’t need the money. Not really. I want to set you up with a little place closer to town. A place where you and Buddy and a horse and some cows can live and be happy.”

She gulped down a breath and continued. “It’s for the best, you know. I have a life in Chicago. A job. Friends. I left the ranch and never intended to come back, and I wouldn’t know what to do with it and...and...” Her voice trailed off as she raised her gaze to meet his. “Say something, Uncle Boots. Don’t just sit there staring at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

“You can’t sell the ranch.”

“Yes, I can. It’s mine.” She snapped her mouth shut. Maybe it wasn’t hers. Maybe her father had left the place to Boots. “Isn’t it?”

“Sort of.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You’re Ben’s heir, but the place is in hock to the bankers.”

“What did Daddy do, Uncle Boots?”

“He took out a loan, Cassie, to pay the medical bills. The note on the land is coming due soon.”

She winced, shut her eyes and rubbed at her temples. “How much?”

“A bunch.”

“Define a bunch, Uncle Boots.” Money. This she understood.

“More than what your daddy has in the bank. More than what I have in the bank. And unless you’ve made a fortune I don’t know about, more than what you have.”

“What was he thinking?” The words burst from her mouth before she could stop them.

“He was thinking about paying his bills.”

The censure in Boots’s tone burned, but she deserved it. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. But if Dad took out a loan, he must have had a plan. He didn’t believe in being in debt.” She tried to feel hopeful while waiting for that proverbial other shoe to drop.

“Cattle.”

“Cattle?”

“Before he was diagnosed, he bought a herd of five hundred feeder calves cheap. Had them on grass all winter so they’re fat and almost ready for market. Give ’em another few weeks, and they’ll bring top price. Grass-fed beef is the big thing now, so those calves should make enough to pay off the balloon payment with plenty to cover the rest of his debts to the hospital and leave you a little start-up cash.”

“Start-up cash? Did he really believe I’d come back here to stay? With him gone? Why would I do that?” She gulped and quickly added, “Not that I don’t love you, Uncle Boots.”

“You need to come with me.” He heaved up out of his chair.

He limped going down the steps, Buddy close on his heels, and she remembered Boots was even older than her father. He had to be pushing seventy. Man and dog ambled toward the barn and a few moments later, Cass followed. She caught up and as they entered the dim environs of the wooden structure side by side, Buddy darted ahead. Boots paused to flip a light switch, though it didn’t add much illumination to the space. Whickers greeted them, and a few horses stuck their heads over the stall doors to watch. She recognized her father’s favorite horse, Red. A big sorrel with a white blaze, the horse neighed and stretched his neck.

“Your dad spoiled that dang pony.”

Cass laughed and stepped over to the stall. Red nickered and stretched his nose toward her. She reached up, and his velvet lips nibbled her palm. “I’ll sneak you a carrot later.” She patted the horse’s neck before glancing back at Boots. “So? You wanted me to see Red?”

He shook his head before tilting it toward the stall across the way. “Nope. I want you to look over here.” He pointed to a stall across the barn. “Ben was a horse trader and that’s what he did. Just for you.”

* * *

Chance knocked on the door, but no one answered. Lights illuminated the windows and Boots’s rusty old truck was parked nearby. He walked to the end of the porch. A glass of tea sweated on a metal table. Then he noticed the open door and lights glowing in the barn. He sauntered that way, rehearsing what to say. Whatever he said, his heart wasn’t really in what he had to do, even as it tripped a couple of beats at the thought of seeing Cassidy again.

He stepped into the soft gloom of the barn and stopped dead in his tracks.

Cassidy was leaning over a stable door murmuring something he couldn’t understand. The old man stood next to her. Damn but she looked fine in jeans and boots. The plaid flannel shirt tucked into those jeans enhanced every one of her curves instead of hiding them. All the blood in his head rushed south, and he had to lean on the barn door to keep from pitching over face-first.

Boots opened the stall door, then they both disappeared inside. Chance inhaled several times, adjusted the front of his jeans and stepped deeper into the barn so he could see what was in that stall.

“Good-lookin’ colt you have there.”

Cassidy jumped about a foot off the ground, whirled and gasped, her face draining of color.

“You!”

He stepped back in mock innocence. “Me?”

“You! From Chicago!”

He held his hands, palms forward, out in front of him. “Guilty. Though I have to admit Fate is being a lady today. I figured I’d never see you again.”

“What are you doing in Oklahoma?” Her brow furrowed, and he decided her glare was one of the cutest expressions he’d ever seen. Then again, there wasn’t much about this woman he didn’t find attractive in one way or another. That seemed to be the Barron family curse—they all had a tendency to think with the wrong part of their anatomy when a pretty woman was involved. He was far from immune from the affliction.

“I live here. What were you doing in Chicago?” As if they were playing poker, he called her furrowed brows with a sardonic grin and raised her with a wink.

“I live there.” She sounded accusatory.

In all honesty, he rather enjoyed keeping her off balance. “So what brings you to Podunk, Oklahoma?” Cassie bristled, and color suffused her cheeks. He wondered if the same thing would happen if she were sexually aroused.

“Were you there this morning? At the memorial service?”

She’d seen him, dammit, just as he’d suspected. Well, he had no choice now. “Yeah. Why?”

“Pardon me for being a bit...suspicious. You try to pick me up in the hotel in Chicago then you follow me here and show up at my father’s funeral. What’s wrong with this picture?”

“Whoa, darlin’.” She was a sarcastic little thing and damn if he didn’t like it. A lot.

“Don’t call me that. I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Chance—Chancellor.”

“Well, Mr. Chance Chancellor, you just turn around and walk right on out of here. I don’t know who you are, why you’re following me and frankly, I’m not sure I want to know. Get out and stay out!”

He blinked as his mind whirled. She’d cut him off before he finished his introduction. And now she was making assumptions about his name. Was it possible she didn’t recognize him? That she had no clue he was a Barron? He wasn’t sure if that bothered him. Okay, it did, but it simplified matters. He could figure things out before she ever guessed what was going on. “Easy, there, girl. I can explain.”

“Oh? Really? And I’m not a girl, either.”

No, she was definitely all woman. Her eyes positively sparked energy, like two aquamarines under the noonday sun, and he shifted his stance to hide the effect she had on him. This was not the time to be thinking about getting her between the sheets. She was already suspicious of him, so he needed to walk very softly to gain her trust, and for some reason, that seemed very important to him.

No, he didn’t need her trust; he needed her cooperation. He’d handled negotiations far more delicate in his career. He’d get Cassie into bed to get her out of his system then he’d move on, taking the deed to the ranch with him. That was the plan, and he needed to stick to it. Crossing the old man was not a smart thing to do, not when Cyrus Barron wanted something as bad as he wanted this place.

Then Chance inhaled. The dusty-sweet scent of Bermuda hay mixed with the musk-and-leather smell of horses. Rising above those, he caught a whiff of Cassidy—almond and cinnamon dancing with an underlying citrus tang.

“Yo, dude! Out of my barn. Now!”

Like a retriever coming out of a lake, he mentally shook to clear his mind. No distractions. Eye on the prize. But as she stood there, hands on her hips, forehead furrowed and chin jutting stubbornly, he realized she would always be a distraction. And that made him very nervous. No woman had ever gotten under his saddle like this one. His mouth curled into a slow smile, and he watched the effect on her—the slight dilation of her pupils, the flare of her nostrils and the swell of her chest. Yes, he could distract her, too. Good. The playing field was a bit more level now.

A not-so-polite hack and spit had them breaking their staring contest to glance at Boots. Chance recognized him now. Would the old man recognize him? Of all the Barron boys, he stayed out of the spotlight the most. Maybe he could slide through this as “Mr. Chancellor” after all.

“You here for a reason, son?”

Cass watched the stranger glance toward the stall, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Yes, he was sexy as all get-out, but she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw that hunky six-foot-plus frame.

“Yessir. I came to see Ben’s colt.”

“I don’t think we’ve met. How’d you know Ben?”

She cut her eyes to Boots. He didn’t sound too put out, but she knew him. He was suspicious.

“I helped him locate the little guy. I own his half-brother. Same sire but from one of my mares. I considered buying this colt but didn’t want to breed that close to the same bloodline.”

She shifted her gaze from one to the other as they seemed to play a game of verbal ping-pong. She trusted Boots’s instincts and for now she’d just let him run with the conversation. In the meantime, she could study Mr. Chance Chancellor. Tall, broad-shouldered and with a propensity for starched jeans and shirts, he looked like a model. But his boots were comfortably worn, if highly polished, and he wore that black Stetson on his head as if he’d been born to it.

If he traveled the rodeo or horse-show circuit, she’d lay odds he left a string of broken hearts in his wake. The hat covered his hair, but she remembered it being shiny, black and long enough to curl across his collar like the fingers of a lover. And his eyes. Amber, almost feral when the light hit them just right. His face? Chiseled. She had no other description for him. His cheekbones bordered on too angular but didn’t cross the line. Plain and simple, he was gorgeous.

A vague memory pecked at her like one of the speckled hens searching the straw on the barn floor for a bite to eat. He still seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him. She’d figure it out eventually. She jerked out of her reverie when the guy took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Morgan.”

“Cass. Everyone calls me Cass.”

Her nose flared as if she couldn’t inhale enough of his warm scent. Leather and rain—a fragrance both homey and... Her insides tightened, but she refused to acknowledge the tiny quiver in the pit of her stomach. Well, a bit lower than that if she’d be honest with herself. This guy was sex on a stick, there was no denying it. But why was she being nice to him?

“On second thought, until you can prove you were a friend of my dad’s, you can just call me Miss Morgan.”

He laughed. Audacious and arrogant of him, but the sound reverberated in the barn and even Buddy came over to investigate. He sniffed at the man’s boots, growled a little and hiked his leg.

“Buddy, no! Bad dog!” Her face flamed. Mortified that the dog was about to mark the man, she stammered an apology until Boots cut through her embarrassment.

“That dog has always had a good sense of people.” He stared at Chance unblinking and for a moment, Cass wondered if Boots knew something she didn’t. Her gaze darted between the two men, and tension in the barn ramped up a few degrees.

Buddy sat at her feet but his hackles rose, and she could feel the low growl rumbling in his chest as he leaned against her leg. Her father’s old dog definitely did not like this man and apparently, neither did Boots. So why were her girlie bits going all fangirl on the guy?

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Mr. Chancellor.”

He dipped his chin and made a move to touch the brim of his Stetson. The gesture seemed old-fashioned and almost endearing. Whoa, girl. Rein in that thought!

“Another day then, Miss Morgan, when you aren’t so stressed out or busy. Again, my condolences.” He walked away but paused at the barn door. “We will see each other again, Cassidy Morgan.”

Oh, hell. That dang sure sounded like a promise, but she wasn’t sure just what the man had in mind.


Five (#ulink_be028872-4f7d-54b1-9dbc-92d347f958d3)

The office door clicked shut behind his secretary, but Chance had already swiveled in his chair to stare out the window. Restless energy roiled in his chest, leaving him unsettled. He wanted to see Cassidy again. And not because he wanted to serve her with legal papers. He wanted to spend time with her. Take her out and show her off.

What was it about this girl that riled him up? She invaded his thoughts, danced in his dreams and generally kept him guessing. He should stay away from her. She was bad news, and the old man would be royally pissed if he caught the barest whiff that Chance held any interest in Cass beyond his father’s desire to crush her.

Screw it. He wanted to hear her voice. He could always say he was scoping out the competition if anyone in the family caught him. No one had to know what he was really thinking. Or feeling.

Chance scrolled through his contact list to the letter M. Not for the first time in the past few days, his finger hovered over the entry for Cassidy Morgan. He wanted to hit that call button so bad but he always stopped himself at the last instant—and not because he worried what the family would say.

What mattered was what Cass would say. How could he explain knowing her cell phone number? He’d called the ranch’s landline once, only to hang up before anyone answered.

He finally gave up, shoved the phone in his jacket pocket and headed for the parking garage. He’d just drive out and see her.

Besides, he needed to check up on the colt, since he’d soon be a Barron asset. That was a good excuse. He’d also told Cass he would see her again, and to be honest, he’d enjoyed her quick intake of breath and the flash of her eyes when he made that promise. A grin twisted one side of his mouth. What Barron didn’t keep his promises, right? Exactly. His driving out to see her this morning was now a matter of family honor.

* * *

Cassidy sat forward on the chair and watched the pickup rattle across the cattle guard and head up the dirt drive. She was alone, but for Buddy. The dog stayed behind when Boots had left first thing to run errands. Surprised when Buddy didn’t jump up in the truck, Boots had shrugged and headed off. Cassidy had spent the morning mucking out stalls and making phone calls.

The loan officer at the bank seemed to be dodging her calls and try as she might, she’d been unable to hire a cattle hauler to get the herd to the stockyards in Oklahoma City. Every company she called told her to call back when the calves were ready to haul. What did she know about selling cows anyway? The cattle would be ready in May or early June. April was just rolling around.

And now Mr. Chancellor was pulling up in her front yard. Buddy leaped off the porch and charged the truck, dancing and barking as the driver’s-side door opened and six-foot plus of sexy man stepped out. Since she’d last seen him, she’d done her best to convince her libido that the man was not nearly as hot as she remembered.

Her libido doubled over in laughter.

“What’re you doin’ here?” She had to yell over Buddy’s excited barks.

Her visitor waded around the dog’s determined forays to keep him away from the house and smiled. “A man can’t come see a lady just because?”

“I’m not a lady, and I don’t believe for a New York minute that you ever do anything just because.”

He pressed his hand against his chest. “You wound me, m’lady.”

She rolled her eyes. “You are so full of it, dude, I’m glad I have my boots on.” He laughed, and the sound did funny things to her insides.

“You going to make me stand out here in the sun, or can I come up and sit down?” The grin on his face challenged her as much as if he’d actually thrown down a gauntlet.

“Buddy, come.” The dog responded to her instantly, but he never took his eyes off Chance. She returned to the little vignette of chairs and settled in her father’s. She’d overcome her aversion and now sat there in the evenings, watching the sun go down and visiting with Boots. The dog hopped up into Boots’s chair, and she chuckled. Sometimes, the Australian shepherd seemed almost human. She petted the dog and ignored the man as he clomped onto the porch and sat in the metal chair.

“Buddy looks like a little ol’ cowboy sittin’ there.”

She glanced at the dog and laughed. His shoulders, chest and front legs were white. A black stripe circled his back and tummy and below that, his fur was speckled gray with black spots. His lower legs were tan, like he wore boots. A brown-and speckled-gray mask covered his eyes and ears.

“That or a bandit.” She leaned back in her chair and stared at her guest. “So why are you here again, Mr. Chancellor?”

“Most people just call me Chance, since that’s my name.”

The grin he flashed was devilish, and she wondered what thoughts were in his mind. “Fine. So, why are you here...Chance?”

“Can I be honest with you?”

“I don’t know. Can you be honest?”

* * *

Damn but that question hit a little too close to home. Good thing he was the poker player in the family. Okay, honestly, he wouldn’t want to play poker with any of his brothers. He deflected her question with a wink and a little smirk. “I’ll plead the fifth on that one. You know what folks say, all’s fair in love and war.”

“Yeah, but which is this?”

“You tell me, Cassidy.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Which one?”

“Well, you’re a man so we know you can’t be honest, so that leaves the other one. Why are you here?”

“Ow. I lodge a protest in the name of men everywhere.” He offered her another crooked grin and a wink as he added, “I came to see you.”

“Why?”

Time to lay his cards on the table. “Because I want to take you to dinner.”

“Dinner.”

“Yes, dinner. I know Boots goes to the Four Corners to eat. A lot. I figure you weren’t kidding about being a bad cook. I’d like to take you out to eat. To a real restaurant.” She folded her arms across her chest, and his eyes drifted despite his best efforts.

“Yo, dude. Eyes up here?”

Heat climbed the back of his neck. Was he actually blushing? He broadened his grin. “Sorry. A man can’t help it when the view is so lovely.” She snorted, and he laughed. He tossed a shrug of his shoulders into the mix and tried a boyish look on her. “The point remains. I’d still like to take you out.”

“Like...on a date? A real date?”

“There’s such a thing as a fake date?” She rolled her eyes again, and he couldn’t tell if that was progress or not. “Yes, a real date. Dressing up and everything. A nice restaurant, maybe a movie after? Or we could go to Bricktown, hit some of the clubs?” Or maybe not. He’d be recognized there. Crap. He’d be recognized at any of his usual haunts. He needed a Plan B in a hurry. “Or we could go to my place, order in pizza and watch the Cubs game.”

“Cubs? Are you kiddin’ me?”

“Okay...White Sox?”

She looked disgusted. “Why do you think I’d be a fan of either one?”

“Um...you live in Chicago?”

“Yeah. But lifelong Cardinals fan here.”

“Really? You like baseball?”

“Really. And I like Cardinals baseball.”

“So, does that mean pizza at my place and the Cards on the big screen?” He liked that idea. His media room was that much closer to his bedroom, and he had every intention of seducing her before the date was over.

She snorted again. “How cheap do you think I am?” She eyed him speculatively. “Why should I go out with you?”

“I was attracted to you when we bumped into each other in Chicago. That hasn’t changed.”

Her lips pursed as she considered his offer; he wanted to kiss her but he’d remain patient. The time would come—sooner or later.

“Dinner at a nice place then a sports bar to watch the Cards.”

She looked so cocky he couldn’t help but grin back. For a brief moment, he toyed with the idea of calling up the corporate jet and flying her to St. Louis for the game. As a minority owner, Barron Entertainment had box seats, though he seldom got the chance to park his butt in them. Doing so would blow his cover, so he nodded in agreement. “Dinner out then a sports bar to watch the game. I’ll pick you up around five? Game starts at 7:30.” He stood up, and she looked startled.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I got what I came for.” Her expression changed, and he would have missed the flicker of sadness if he hadn’t been studying her reactions.

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” She didn’t move to stand. Instead, her hand gripped the arm of the chair as if to keep her in it. She wore an expression of studied casualness.

“Can you make coffee?” he suddenly asked. She stared at him like he was crazy. “We’ve established you can’t cook. Does that mean you’re a Starbucks baby, or can you perk a real pot of coffee?”

“I make excellent coffee, thank you very much. Even Uncle Boots doesn’t complain.”

Uncle Boots? This was a story he wanted to hear. “Then go make a pot, woman. Prove it to me.”

“Ha! I made one just before you got here. So there.” She darted up and through the door before he could react.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray loaded with a clean mug, sugar bowl, creamer and a thermal carafe. “I figure you take your coffee black, but I admit to a sweet tooth and a need for cream.”

Coffee steamed in his mug, and he inhaled the rich aroma. After a hesitant sip, he nodded. “This is good, but how do I know you made it?” She flushed, her anger rising quickly. He loved eliciting that reaction from her and couldn’t wait to see what she was like when he had her in his arms.

“You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

Sparring with her was fun. He couldn’t deny it. Most women were dazzled by his last name. Cass had no clue, luckily. If she ever found out that his father wanted to take the ranch, she’d hate him. She could hate him later—after he’d given her a tumble, after he got her out of his system.

He finished off the coffee in his mug and reached for the carafe. His hand collided with hers, and instinct had him wrapping his fingers around hers. “Nice,” he murmured.

“Mmm,” she agreed.

As they chatted the afternoon away, clouds gathered on the western horizon. The rising temperature played with the white, puffy cumulous clouds until thunderheads billowed and thrust angry fists into the humid spring sky. A few formed the classic anvil shape associated with violent storms. Whatever breeze there’d been died, and the humidity thickened to the point it was almost hard to breathe.

“I don’t remember a chance of t-storms mentioned on the weather last night.” Cass stood and walked to the end of the porch, scanning the sky. “I’ll be right back. You can come in if you want.” She slipped into the house, and he followed.





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