The Rancher’s Second Chance Read online

  That's usually when Sammie would bolt upright in bed, panting and covered in sweat. It was an awful way to wake up, but at least she wouldn't be stuck in the nightmare anymore.

  As she swung her car into the gravel drive that wound up to the main house of Bitter Ridge Ranch, Sammie tried everything to wake herself up. “I'm not even supposed to be here,” she mumbled under her breath.

  It didn't work. She stayed stuck in the nightmare. Because the nightmare was real this time.

  This was all wrong. Her whole life, she'd known that the ranch would go to her little brother, Julian. J.J. loved this place, shadowing their father almost from the moment he could walk. Her father had taught Julian everything there was to know about ranch life, which left Sammie free to lose herself in her books and a career that took her as far from Hope Springs, Texas, as she could get.

  The fact that Julian had been in the passenger seat when her father had a heart attack behind the wheel was just another facet of this nightmare.

  Had it really only been two months ago that she'd stood in the cemetery and heard the horribly hollow sound of dirt and pebbles tumbling into a grave...twice?

  She'd taken a red-eye flight to Houston that morning, arriving in Hope Springs just as the funeral she'd hastily thrown together long-distance began. That one day had lasted an eternity, but when it was finally over, she'd been on the first flight out of there, convinced her duty was done.

  Her life was her work, and her work was in New York. Always had been. Burying herself in her work was a good way of avoiding...everything, so she flung herself back into academia headfirst. She buried herself in her books and research, stacking piles of papers around her as she worked so she could have everything close at hand. The other adjuncts in her shared office teased her about building a fort, and maybe she was. She felt safe there, behind that wall of paper. She wished she could build something like it in her mind.

  In the weeks following the funeral, she wrote and submitted two papers. When the first was accepted for publication in a prestigious academic journal, she barely lifted her head up from her work long enough to notice.

  But when the second one was accepted, someone else did.

  “Dr. Jensen? This is Doctor Marion Ambrose from—”

  “I know where you're from,” Sammie had blurted before she could stop herself.

  The Chair of the Department of Economics at Yale University had chuckled good-naturedly at her blunder, then asked about her availability for the fall term. “Pending a face-to-face meeting with the Search Committee, we're ready to offer you a tenure-track position as assistant professor of economics.”

  Sammie managed to hold off bursting into tears until she'd hung up the phone. But when she did cry, it was with relief that the nightmare was over and her dreams were coming true.

  She was still crying when her phone rung again. She answered blindly, sniffling and wiping her nose on her sleeve.

  Even now Sammie had to wonder, What would have happened if I just...hadn’t answered the phone?

  Sammie blinked, then climbed out of her car and slammed the door with more force than necessary. She leaned against the car, taking a moment to gather herself again. Because she had answered the phone.

  And now she was here in Hope Springs.

  No. Worse. She was here. At Bitter Ridge Ranch.

  It was as familiar to her as the lines on her hand, and yet as strange as an alien planet. She'd spent her whole life running away from this place, with its rambling main house nestled in low, rolling hills dotted with scrub brush, and yet here she was again. Forced back by the cruelest twist fate could deliver.

  The crunch of gravel under tires jolted her upright again. Most everyone in Hope Springs drove rumbling pick-up trucks, so the smooth purr of the approaching luxury car was unmistakable.

  Without turning around, she bolted for the house.

  Maybe if he thought no one was home, her cousin would get the hint and leave.

  Sammie leapt up the front stairs and into the house. Thick clouds of dust swirled around her as she hurried back toward her father's study. The gloomy rooms were still and close from being shut up for two months, and the whole house felt to her like it was holding its breath.

  The air was heavy with the same muffled silence she remembered from her lonely childhood, but somehow it was all different now. There was no one here but her.

  The thought made her move even faster.

  But as she entered the formal dining room, her steps slowed. Then stopped.

  Sammie swallowed and turned towards the antique hutch. It had sat there for as long as she could remember, as much a part of the family as she was. At one time, the panes of cut glass would have gleamed from her mother's scrupulous polishing, but they were now cloudy with dust.

  It didn't matter. She could still see the treasures inside.

  The Jensen family china was a work of art even way back in her great grandmother’s day. Her mother had always called the main color white, but that word didn't seem enough to describe the pearly, translucent glow of it, nor the hints of blue and violet it gave off when viewed sidelong. Sammie always thought of it as “sky” colored, and it made sense given the lifelike nature of the bird-of-paradise hand painted on each piece. Sammie had never seen a bird-of-paradise, but she was certain if she did see one, she would recognize it on sight thanks to the Jensen china. Maybe someday she would see a bird with the same fantastic plumage—feathers tumbling in a fall of magentas and scarlets—but until then, she had this china.

  She gently swung the hutch door open. The plate she picked up felt warm in her hands, as if it still carried the memory of her mother's delicious cooking. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she clutched it tightly to her chest. The phantom scent of her mother's candied yams, studded lavishly with miniature marshmallows, seemed to fill her lungs. Her mother had tried to teach her how to cook that recipe—how to cook all of her recipes—but Sammie had been too young to realize her time with her mother would be so short.

  All she had now were memories. Memories and the Jensen family china.

  “You really care that much about a stupid plate?”

  Sammie jumped. She clutched the precious china to her chest and glared at her cousin, who’d somehow managed to get right next to her without her noticing. “How'd you get in here?”

  Peter laughed, then reached into the hutch. Sammie bristled at how casually he held her mother's favorite teacup. “Door was open,” he said, twirling the cup around his finger by the handle. “And even if it wasn't, I have a key, remember?”

  “You need to give that back. The lawyer should have never let you have it. It's not yours.” Sammie set the plate down so she could draw herself up to her full height. She was tall for a woman and knew when to use her height to her advantage. She glared at her sleazy cousin. “And neither is Bitter Ridge Ranch.”

  Peter twirled the teacup faster. “Yeah, see, Sam, I don't get why you're wasting your time here. I know what the will said, but you have a life.” He tossed the teacup from one hand to the other, grinning as Sammie yelped. “You're up for a tenure track position, if I remember it right. Ivy League? That's the big time. So why prolong the inevitable here? This place has too many zoning and environmental violations to ever operate in the black. And…” He set the cup down to move in for the kill. “I already hired away almost all of your ranch hands and bought up the surrounding properties. It's only a matter of time before I get this place, so why waste your time fighting me?” He spread his hands in a way that made her skin crawl. “After all, we're family.”

  Sammie stepped back. “If family meant anything to you at all, you'd know why Bitter Ridge can never be sold to developers.” She shook her head, hardly believing the words coming out of her own mouth. Because, for all his oily sleaziness, Peter was right. She did have a life. And it wasn't here. “We've been on this land for four generations. This town is in our blood.”

  Peter grinned like a shark. “Clea
rly not yours, since you moved away as soon as you could.”

  Sammie blinked. Then shook her head. “Get out,” she said, pointing to the door.

  Still chuckling, Peter sauntered away. Sammie followed, intending to slam the door behind him and lock it tight.

  “I'll be in touch, cuz!” Peter called from the porch, then whirled to face her as she stood at the door. “Oh, one more thing. Do me a favor? Let your hands know my offer still stands, okay? If they join my construction crew, I'll pay them triple what you're paying.”

  Sammie shut the door on her cousin's evil laughter and swore. She let her head fall forward until her forehead rested on the door.

  One minute. She would allow herself exactly one more minute of self-pity before getting to work.

  She closed her eyes.

  Cole's face sprang into her mind's eye as if it had been lurking in a corner, waiting to pounce.

  Sammie swallowed and then allowed herself a tiny, private smile. Peter had been wrong about one thing, at least. She wasn't going to have to be the ranch boss. She'd hired someone for that position.

  The worst person she could possibly find.

  Sammie walked slowly to her father's study, letting her fingers trail along the edge of his vast, oaken desk before flopping into his chair. She leaned forward and cradled her head in her hands.

  Sammie may not have learned to cook from her mother. But back here, in this wood-paneled room with wide windows that framed the western sky, she'd learned about money. Helping her father with his bookkeeping had put her on the career path she was still following today.

  But one look at her daddy's books had her wondering if the rules he'd taught her were ones he actually followed for himself.

  The loan officer had told her first, and now her father's records proved it. Bitter Ridge Ranch was in serious trouble. It was a stroke of luck that she'd bumped into Cole when she did.

  Or rather, Sammie thought as she rubbed her shoulder, he'd bumped into her.

  “What the hell am I doing?” she muttered, opening her eyes again. She'd never meant to hire Cole Baker. She'd done it on impulse, and she never did things on impulse. But this morning's meeting with the bank manager had left her no room for quiet deliberation. The ranch was in trouble. Without a ranch boss on the payroll, there was no prayer of securing the necessary loans to keep this place. And she needed those loans. Now. There was no time to put out a help-wanted ad…

  Cole had been right there. Like some kind of dark-eyed answer to her prayers.

  He still looked exactly the same as he had in high school. Same swagger. Same squared off jaw like a comic-book superhero. But even if he had looked totally different, her body still would have remembered him.

  Remembered those stolen moments in the bed of his beat-up Ford pickup truck, too.

  She shivered and straightened her shoulders. Dating Cole Baker had been a bad decision during a period in her life when bad decisions seemed the best choice. She was glad she'd finally taken her friends' advice and dumped him when she had.

  Cole Baker is the answer to my prayers? Now I know I've lost my mind. She shook her head to dislodge the image of Cole's butt in those faded blue jeans.

  Those little butterflies that fluttered in her tummy when he'd smiled at her were nothing more than a relic of the old days. She was sure of it. So sure that when he'd countered her job offer and asked for a place to live on top of it, she'd readily agreed, promising to clear out the bedrooms on the lower level tonight so he could move in tomorrow.

  Now, in the quiet house, the reality of what she'd promised was slowly dawning on her.

  According to the terms of her father's will, she needed to live at Bitter Ridge Ranch for the next year in order to inherit it. If she didn't stay, she'd forfeit the china that was her last link with her mother.

  She had to stay here.

  Which meant, for the next year, she'd be living with Cole Baker.

  Three

  Cole packed light. Years in the service did that to a man. A few changes of clothes rolled up and stuffed into his faded duffel bag were all he needed to be ready to move on to the next place.

  Devon did not pack light.

  “How many books do you have, buddy?” Cole complained as he closed what he fervently hoped was the last cardboard box.

  “Book,” Devon repeated, grabbing the flap and ripping it back up again. He disappeared into the box nearly up to his waist and emerged with a battered copy of Goodnight Moon. “Dada read,” he insisted, punctuating his request by thumping the book into Cole's sternum.

  Cole hated to deny his son's request. Every time he did, it brought back memories of his own dad's snort of derision whenever Cole showed an interest in reading.

  Those memories still stung.

  “I promise,” he told Devon as he walked him to the truck. “We'll read when we get there. Okay, bud?”

  Cole strapped Devon into his seat, and tossed the last of the bags and boxes into the back of his truck. The load had taken forever to pack up, but now it seemed unnervingly small for everything they had to their name.

  But not forever, Cole reminded himself. This was why he was staying in Hope Springs, he reminded himself sternly. Devon needed roots. He needed stability and a room of his own filled with all his precious little-boy treasures.

  “Eyes on the prize,” Cole muttered to himself as he climbed into the driver's seat. He needed to remember what was important here.

  “Eyes on the prize,” he repeated as he slowed for the turn into Bitter Ridge Ranch. “Eyes on the prize,” he breathed one more time for good measure as he put the truck in park and saw what kind of greeting he would receive.

  Sammie stood on the porch like a statue. With her arms folded protectively over her chest, her eyes narrowed, and her mouth set into a grim line, her expression was night-and-day different from the vulnerable one she’d worn in the lobby of the bank. Was she regretting her offer?

  He was starting to regret taking it.

  “You're late,” she called.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” Cole said through gritted teeth as he worked to unbuckle Devon from his seat. “I'm on toddler time.”

  “I have a conference call in five minutes.” Sammie sounded put out. “I was going to help you move in but—” She trailed off and spread her hands.

  “I got it.” Cole set Devon down on the dusty drive and finally faced her head on. “You go do what you gotta do.” She looked more like she was heading to a funeral than a conference. She was dressed in a pantsuit the color of storm clouds, her gleaming blonde hair scraped back from her face in a bun so tight it pulled her eyebrows up into a quizzical smirk.

  The big city's sure got its claws in her. Ain't that a crying shame.

  Back in the day, Sammie's beauty had been an effortless thing. Cole could still remember her pretty bare toes wiggling as she sat on the tailgate of his truck, swinging her legs. Now those pretty toes were caged in the kind of heels that would sink into the Texas mud and never come free. Maybe that was why she wasn't venturing off the porch.

  “You sure? You've got a lot to bring in.”

  Her words were feather light, but the subtext landed like an anvil. You're bringing too much stuff. “It's not all that much,” Cole pointed out testily. “We won't be taking up too much of your space, Sammie.”

  “I wasn't saying that.”

  “Yeah, but you were though.”

  Two spots of furious color flared on her cheeks. She pointedly checked her watch. “My call,” she said, in that same snobby tone she'd adopted way back in high school. Then she swept off the porch, heels hammering self-importantly on the wooden boards.

  Cole looked down at Devon. Devon looked up at Cole. “Don't eat rocks, Devon,” Cole sighed.

  Devon obediently popped the rock out of his mouth.

  Yeah, there was no way Snobby Sammie was going to be thrilled with this arrangement.

  But it couldn't be helped.

  Cole hefted hi
s duffel and considered. Devon was staying close…for now. The shock of his new surroundings had rendered him unusually docile. But Cole knew he couldn't count on it. He needed to find a way to both move in and corral Devon somewhere safe.

  “Want your books, bud?” he asked. When Devon nodded eagerly, he set down his duffel and hefted a box under one arm. With his toddler in the other arm, he mounted the steps up to the porch and into the main house of Bitter Ridge Ranch.

  His new home.

  Wings rambled out from the central front hallway like spokes on a wheel. Newer construction was tacked right on to the old to accommodate the growing Jensen family and their growing ranch operation. It was a huge place, and Cole realized with a grunt that he had no idea which direction he needed to head.

  “Uh?” he called out.

  As if in reply, Sammie's voice floated from the back office. Her call had started, from the sound of it.

  So much for the grand tour.

  “Okay, bud, pick a direction,” Cole told Devon, who was clutching at Cole's shirt and kicking his legs agitatedly.

  “Dat way.” He pointed.

  “Fair enough. You're better at this than I am, clearly.” He started down the hall. “And which door, do you think?

  “Dat.” Devon pointed a chubby finger to the very end of the hallway, where it ended at two closed doors. Cole followed his son’s direction, opening the door on the right.

  “I think you're right.” This had to be it. The room had been cleared out fairly recently, the dust motes still dancing crazily in the slanted sunbeam that poured in through the bare window. But Sammie had set Devon up with a gorgeous crib, a small dresser, and a little blue reading lamp with ducks printed on the shade.

  Cole blinked. His irritation at her snobby behavior warred with his gratitude for her thoughtfulness. “Okay, little man, looks like this is your room. We'll have to get you some curtains, put up some pictures, maybe a rug. But it's not bad.” Cole hoped it was the dust that was making his vision all watery. “What do you think?” He looked down at Devon.