by Emma Sutton
My Sweet Enemy Rancher
Emma Sutton
Contents
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My Sweet Enemy Rancher
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Trusting the Billionaire
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Also by Emma Sutton
About the Author
Thank You!
Copyright © 2020 by Emma Sutton
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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My Sweet Enemy Rancher
Introduction
He manages the ranch, she’s the horse wrangler who wanted his job. Can the two rivals put their differences aside to help save the fate of the ranch... and their romance?
Walker Hayes is a divorced cowboy who spends his days running Lone Oak Ranch while trying to flee a past that’s found him putting his heart on the line one too many times. As Mary Jo, the owner and resident matchmaker of the western ranch, lets him in on the news of financial ruin, Walker realizes he needs to step up his game, starting with the head horse wrangler who happens to have a fiercely stubborn mind of her own...
Hattie Locherman is a fighter. Growing up in the foster system from an early age, she learned to fend for herself. But to some, including Walker, she’s a downright handful. She doesn’t mind the fresh accusation as long as he keeps his distance. But one morning in the riding ring, things come to a peak when Walker confronts Hattie about her work ethic, causing a certain soul-spark to ignite...
As Walker and Hattie are forced into each other’s proximity, things get heated and a romance starts to bloom. But while they learn to navigate the lands of the property, hand-in-hand, will the two be able to put their rocky pasts behind them in order to rescue their relationship and the ranch?
Chapter One
Hattie
“Come on, Oreo,” I say with a sharp click of my tongue. Heavily sighing at the horse’s unexpected obedience, I try to ignore the envelope that’s burning a hole in my back pocket and continue on with my morning chores. Tossing the short lead rope over Oreo’s elongated neck, I gather it under his chin to coax him toward the stable. “Let’s go this way, bud.”
I call him Oreo because of his coloring— mostly white, marbled with brushstrokes of onyx. I also call him that because he’s sweet as anything though he’s known around the ranch to have a certain stubborn streak in him. Turns out I’m the only one of our ten wranglers that can handle him on his worse days, and thankfully, today is not one of those days.
Oreo’s muscles twitch under the tightness of his skin, and without a fight, I’m able to easily guide him past the sea of other horses, the majority of the kind, noble beasts keeping to themselves as the saffron sun fights to make its way over the haze of the horizon.
Today’s routine is calm, and for now, everything is in its right place.
Me, on the other hand… my 5 a.m. morning had started out full of panic and dread. The letter from the detective had come in the mail sometime yesterday. But late last night when I got to my room, I didn’t have the heart to open it. I don’t know why, but I thought maybe opening it somewhere in the vast outdoors of the ranch would do me some good— fresh air, a clear mind, all that.
Plus, if it’s going to be the bad news I’m expecting, I want to make sure I can be alone with it. It’s hard to feel everything as deeply as you need to when you’re living in a lodge surrounded by everyone else who takes up work here on Lone Oak Ranch and calls this place their home just like me.
With the comfort of daily routine, I continue to lead a particularly dusty Oreo into the stable that’s currently teeming with horse and human bodies. Like many of the other vibrantly intelligent horses here at Lone Oak, he knows the drill well as it’s one of our everyday duties as wranglers to brush, feed, and look after the whole lot of them.
“Jess, can you grab this?” I hear someone call from a few stalls down as a nearby horse whinnies, its cry echoing against the wooden guts of the stable. There are seven of us working the horses right now so we can finish before guests start arriving for 10 a.m. lessons. But we’re short-handed today which leaves us behind schedule.
Aiming my attention back at Oreo as I guide him toward one of the few remaining empty stalls, I run my fingers down his dark mane. A cloud of dust floats from him, the pungent smell of dried earth now tickling my nose. For a second, I feel like I might sneeze. “You get into a rolling match with someone last night, bud?” I ask with a laugh.
As if on cue, he snorts something short and friendly. The sound is a breathy accent over the clopping of his hooves on the stable concrete as we come to a halt on the rubber mat in the stall next to Lyra, one of his best friends from the entire troop.
I latch Oreo to the post and run my bare hand down his white coat, admiring the fist-sized splatters of black painted all down his back. He reminds me of a Dalmation pup and acts all the same, too, when given a chance. It’s not too ridiculous to say that with all of his usual antics on the ranch, this stallion might just be the biggest puppy we have of all sixty-five horses. That’s probably why I’ve taken such a liking to him over the past three-and-a-half years I’ve been lucky enough to work here.
Grabbing the feed bucket that sits on the ground, I pat his haunches and slide past him. Lifting the bucket up to him, I can’t help but smile as he plunges his muzzle into the fodder like he’s starved even though they’ve all been grazing on the freshly growing grass in Field B. To give him his fill, I hook the bucket handle over the nail that’s just in his reach.
“Eliza,” I say, popping my head out of the stall. I catch a quick glimpse of my best friend and fellow wrangler across the aisle, her blonde hair twisted into an updo underneath a red bandana.
“Yeah?”
“Have we ridden Oreo in the ring this week?” I should know the answer myself and usually do. But this week was a special circumstance as my focus had been working with the three new foals we just acquired.
“Nope, you might give him a run.”
As soon as I finish feeding him and brushing the dust from his coat, I search the tack room around the corner for a saddle and headgear and find a vacant set.
Tacking Oreo and readying him for a ride on
ly takes me a few minutes. Though, with as dusty as it is in the ring right now due to not having rain in a few weeks, I’ll probably have to give him another quick brush once we’re through with his ride. He won’t mind though. I swear I can hear him purr his thanks for all the attention he sometimes gets.
Unhooking Oreo and taking the bridle in my hand, I lead him on foot past the rest of the stable excitement of every other horse’s routine. I feel him tense up as we veer around Umbra, an American Quarter Horse, and then again when I nearly brush shoulders with another wrangler, Jillian.
“It’s okay. We’ll get you out of the eye of the hurricane,” I promise him. And as we head out the other end of the stable, a deep-down part of me wishes someone could promise me that, too. “See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Taking a quick step in response, Oreo picks up his pace as if he knows and is thrilled we’re about to do some rounds in the riding ring.
There’s a low rumble somewhere in the distance, but I can’t place from which direction it’s coming. If the sun wasn’t nearly white and low in the sky right now, I could almost hear it being thunder. But the brightening heavens are lagoon blue this morning. Not a single cloud or a storm in sight.
Ignoring the sound and chalking it up to being Mason making his rounds on the ATV, I open the gate to the ring. Before we make it in though, Oreo and I both shake with a scare when a truck lots itself right at my back, its tires lurching to a halt in the gravel.
“You know what time it is?”
Turning, I come face to face with the bane of my existence through the window of his idling pickup truck that spews exhaust no one should be breathing. Dust orbits him as he eyes me with a heavy brow.
Walker Hayes.
Ranch Manager. Resident tormentor. A permanent thorn in my side.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask. “The time?”
Oreo shifts beside me at the presence of Walker and his loudly idling truck.
“No, ma’am. It’s an honest inquiry.”
“Well, I’m not wearing my fine jewelry,” I say, flashing him my wrists while still holding Oreo’s worn leather reins. “But by the way the sun’s up over the trees there, I’d guess it’s about eight-thirty now.”
Walker clears his throat and pulls his hat down tighter over his eyes as if I’ve practiced the delivery of that answer all night. He wears a tight white T-shirt that’s probably been straight bleached one too many times. Frowning, the man averts his gaze, now taking in the dignity of Oreo beside me. As if I’ve offended him by showing him a little wrist action, he shakes his head. “How many more you have to get through today before lessons?”
Wiping the sweat that’s starting to form on my brow from the unbearable heat of summer, I shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe thirty or forty more to go.”
“You know what they say about workload, Hattie?”
The way he says my name grates my nerves just like it always has. Setting my jaw, I blink at him, hardly seeing him from the cutting sun that reflects in the dirty windshield of his truck.
Walker’s the stickler of the bunch. Never happy with anyone unless they kneel down and kiss his boots which is something I’m just not willing to do. Some of the wranglers find no problem in that, but not me. Not unless my job depends on it. Why worship the ground he works on when I could be doing his job three times better than he does it? Doesn’t make any sense.
“What is it?” I ask, humoring him, hoping for another chance to shut him down. “What is it they say about workload?”
“They say if your chores take up twenty percent of your day or more, you’re doing ‘em wrong. What percentage of your day would you say you’re spending here?” he asks throwing a thumb toward the stable that’s teeming with horses. “Total.”
“Don’t know. I didn’t take this job because I’m good at math.”
“Well, how about you guestimate for me.”
Planting an annoyed fist on my hip, I shift my weight toward Oreo and gaze at the brambles that line the other side of the gravel road on which Walker has just raced. “Not sure. If I had to guess, maybe twenty-four.”
Because that’s how many hours in a day I wish I could spend not looking at your self-satisfied face, I want to say. Instead, I bite my tongue.
“Twenty-four is a ways off from twenty, don’t you think? Let’s find a better way, Hattie. You’re in charge of the leading and training over this way, and I believe you can handle that. But we’ve got to find a quicker way.”
My eyebrows dart up to my hairline. This man has some actual nerve telling me I’m not running this part of the ranch to his standards. Mary Jo, the owner of Lone Oak, has never had a single bad word to say about me, and she always tells it how it is.
I sigh and feel Oreo shuffling in the dirt, him clearly wanting to get away from the looming presence of Walker and his obnoxious truck. “Well, Walker, as it turns out, I’m wasting time just by standing here, so—”
The man nods, taunting me in agreement as a dimple pulls at his cheek. He’s a handsome man if I knew him as a stranger. Blonde hair that he usually wears buzzed down to nothing in the summer, a thick and solid jaw that makes him look brave, a Blake Shelton smile that turns my stomach whenever I see it. And he’s one of the only ranch hands that hates being seen in a cowboy hat and a button-up unless guests are present.
But no matter how hard I try, it seems the more I get to know Walker Hayes, the more repulsive he becomes. He just leaves behind that shiny star, can-do-no-wrong impression that doesn’t sit well with me. He’s seemingly faultless, and he and Mary Jo make sure everyone knows it. In fact, that’s probably why MJ moved him up to Ranch Manager instead of me three years ago. But I don’t blame her because that’s another frustrating thing about Walker— he’s good at putting on appearances.
Closing the riding ring gate behind Oreo and me, I squint in his direction. “Has anyone ever told you you don’t work well with others?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s why I choose to work with cattle,” he chuckles. “And what about you? Has anyone ever told you you’re a handful?”
Rolling my eyes, I plant a foot in the stirrup closest to me and heave myself up and over onto Oreo who, beneath me, works his hardest not to fidget.
Receiving no response, Walker backs his truck into reverse. “Twenty percent, Locherman. Let’s work on efficiency here,” he says, twisting a finger in the air. He throws the brute into drive and takes off, his rear bumper nearly robbing the brambles of their berries. “Twenty percent,” he says pointing at me with that Blake Shelton grin as he disappears down the gravel road.
With the detective’s letter still burning a hole in my back pocket and my rival smoking a frustratingly hot hole in my heart, I jet off around the ring, letting Oreo carry me through the humid, dusty air of an emotionally trying Wyoming morning.
Chapter Two
Walker
The navy blue front door of the main house is wide open when I arrive. The only thing separating the summer gnats and pesky flies from infiltrating Mary Jo’s home is a screen door that’s seen better days. I make a note to myself to replace it next time I head into town.
A chubby orange Tabby cat named Tipsy lazily sits on the opposite side of the screen door, purring at my unexpected appearance. My boots are heavy against the porch as I cross the white-washed wooden planks.
Knocking on the door frame, I call her name. “Mary Jo?”
She’d called me a few minutes earlier and asked me to come up for a meeting, but I don’t hear any stirring.
“MJ?” I ask again, this time opening the screen door, the hinges creaking out into the heat of the afternoon. When I step inside the house, the hardwood floor whines underneath my weight, but there’s still no sign of her except for the scent of fresh-baked bread mixed with an earthy sweetness. The smell is something I can’t quite put my finger on, but I find my mouth watering.
Mary Jo Reinholdt owns the Lone Oak Ranch. She was with her husband, Charles, until the
day he passed from complications of a weak heart three years ago. But on any given weekday when she’s not in the garden or out on the gazebo by the lake, she can usually be found in her kitchen.
Except for today apparently. I know this because I would’ve heard her by now.
Sidestepping into the living room, I glance out the lake-facing window but don’t spot anyone at the gazebo a good way down the lot. Not hearing a single peep, I take a few more steps toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Tipsy,” I whisper to the cat as she picks herself up from her spot in front of the door and winds around my ankles with a tiny mew. “You want to go out?” I ask her. I turn back from where I just came and hold the door slightly ajar.
Ignoring my question, the cat stays tight against my boots, clearly more interested in the smells on it than actually getting out there and experiencing them for herself.
“You might be the only animal on the entire ranch that doesn’t like spending time outside,” I say with a chuckle.
“Mason for Walker,” a gruff voice says, flowing from the walkie talkie that’s looped to my belt. It’s a tool we use when immediate communication is more effective than cell phones. Plus with the spotty wireless here on the ranch, there are times where any one of the forty-plus staffers could be out of our limited service area. “I’ve got eyes on August and Jack. What’s your twenty?”