by Nancy Bush
There wasn’t a whole lot of light left. As he watched, Sammy Jo stepped from the barn and headed toward the house. Her weariness communicated itself to him as she refilled the trough with the hose.
He was in the process of lifting his arm to hail her when movement caught in his peripheral vision. Turning slightly, he saw one of his cows sail over the connecting fence, land on Whalen property and bound into the gathering darkness.
“Damn,” Cooper murmured, but his one slight imprecation couldn’t match the stream of profanity that suddenly issued from Sammy Jo’s lips. Cooper leaped over the fence with nearly as much grace as the cow. Unfortunately, he landed knee-high in the stream, and his one tiny, “Damn,” changed to language almost as ear-singeing as Sammy Jo’s.
“You!” Sammy Jo yelled, recognizing him as she stalked furiously toward the fence.
“I’ll get the cow,” Cooper said as he staved her off.
“Yeah? How? It took off like a jackrabbit, and if history repeats itself, the damn thing’ll send my cattle frantically in all directions. Is that Bambi-wannabe your piece of livestock, Mr. Ryan?”
“Look, I’m selling off the Limousins as soon as—”
“So, you’re Serenity’s new owner?”
“That’s right, and I’ll make sure I make it up to you. I just need a little time and—”
“Just get that thing off my property,” Sammy Jo snapped, hands on her hips. “And then do the same yourself!”
Cooper stared. He hadn’t expected her to be out-and-out rude. “That’s the thanks I get for helping you today?”
“Helping me?” The tone of her voice warned of danger.
“At the bank.”
“The bank?” Her lashes narrowed. “All I saw was interference.”
“Fine,” Cooper said, sorry he’d brought it up. “I’ll get Jack, and we’ll chase down the cow.”
“I’ll get the pickup. I know where they all are.”
“I don’t want your help,” Cooper said, annoyed.
“Too bad.”
She stomped off toward the house. Cooper waded back through the stream, climbed the fence and stalked toward his own house, full of growing fury. Okay, so the cow had leaped the fence again. Big deal. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t going to take care of it, for God’s sake.
He slammed through the back door. “Limousin’s jumped the fence,” he growled to Jack who was standing by the stove, examining the stew his wife was stirring.
“Lemme get my hat,” Jack said, following after Cooper. “Does Sammy Jo know?”
He couldn’t quite hide his anxiety, and that annoyed Cooper even more. “She knows,” he muttered through his teeth.
“Bad luck,” Jack said, and that was really all there was to say about that.
An hour and a half later, Jack had the pesky cow by a halter and lead rope and was trying to lead her into the back of one of Serenity Ranch’s trucks. The stubborn beast was having none of it, so grumbling all the way, Jack led the cow down the Triple R’s long driveway and then back up the adjoining driveway to Serenity Ranch.
That left Cooper standing in Sammy Jo’s front yard with the Triple R’s blonde owner beside him.
“Sorry for all the trouble,” he told her.
They’d barely spoken three words to each other during the search. Still, he’d given her his first name and she hadn’t seemed to mind that he called her Sammy Jo.
“So, you bought the Riggs place, huh?” She brushed blond strands away from her face. Several strands clung to her lips, drawing Cooper’s unwilling gaze to a pink mouth set in stubborn lines.
She was too damn pretty for someone so prickly, he thought. “Yup.”
She gave him the once-over, from the top of his dirt-spattered cowboy hat to the tips of his worn boots. When her green eyes met his, they were cloudy and full of mistrust.
“Lettie says you hail from California.”
Her tone suggested he was probably an ax murderer. “That’s right.”
“And you’ve…retired…to Serenity Ranch?”
“Not retired. I plan to expand the current operation.”
“But you’re a corporate farmer.”
Mistrust wasn’t a strong enough word. The lady’s voice dripped sarcasm and disgust. “Why do I get the feeling that’s a dirty word?”
She was frank. “Because it is.”
“Ahh…”
“Look, Cooper,” she said coolly. “I’ve got things to do. As you’ve heard, I’m in a bit of a money bind. I can’t waste time talking to the neighbors. Good luck to you, and I’m sure by the next time we meet, you’ll have built a taller fence…”
“Have you had dinner?” he asked quickly, before he thought.
Sammy Jo slid him and assessing look. “No. Why?”
“Thought I might take you out. Try to pay you back for all the trouble.”
“What are you really after, Mr. Ryan?”
“It was Cooper a minute ago,” he reminded her. “And all I want is to even the scales.”
“They’re even.”
She was one stubborn piece of work, Cooper concluded, wondering why in the world he was trying so hard. There was no chance for friendship. He didn’t want it anyway. He just wanted the ranch.
“I’ve had a hell of a day,” she said. “I had a piece of broken fence that I’ve just finished jerry-rigging together. I’ve got a lot of other chores, and I’m tired. Why don’t you just…go away?”
For reasons he couldn’t explain, he wanted her to just give in. “If you won’t accept my invitation tonight, then we’ll do it later. I mean to have my way,” he told her.
That comment earned him her full attention. She walked right up to him, and if she’d been six inches taller, they would have been standing nose to nose.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that I totally believe. I bet you mean to always have your way.”
“What did I do to get you so riled up?”
“I just got a feeling about you, and I trust my feelings. Good night, Mr. Ryan…Cooper,” she corrected herself. Then, to Cooper’s intense surprise, a dimple suddenly peeked out beneath her stern countenance, cute and sweet and entirely at odds with Sammy Jo Whalen’s rigid manner.
Before he could respond, she’d walked up to her door and shut it behind her, and he was left alone in her front yard, surrounded by summer heat, the lusty song of the crickets and a powerful need to know a lot more about the owner of the Triple R.
A lot more…
THE PRINCESS OF COLDWATER FLATS — NANCY BUSH
Chapter Two
A second trip to the bank proved as fruitless as the first. Sammy Jo waited impatiently in one of Matt Durning’s client chairs while he spoke on the phone to another of the bank’s VIP customers, or at least that’s what it sounded like based on Matt’s wheedling tones.
“I’ll have Glenda express those forms to you today, and never mind about the appraisal fees.” Matt smiled as if the VIP were sitting in front of him. “We’ll take care of everything….”
He hung up and stared blankly over Sammy Jo’s head, a million miles away. She said distinctly, “I believe we were having a conversation before you were interrupted by that phone call.”
He jumped visibly. “Sorry, Sammy Jo. Where were we?”
“If you can’t remember, I think we’re already done.” She got to her feet. Today she was dressed in a white peasant blouse, skirt, and cowboy boots an attempt at showing Matt Durning she could be a lady when she felt like it. But it had been wasted effort. Matt had barely glanced her way except to frown at her beloved cowboy boots as they’d clattered across the plankwood floor.
“If I could help, Sammy Jo, I would,” he said sincerely.
“Thanks.”
Passing Glenda’s desk, she gave the secretary a faint shake of her head. Glenda was tapping a lighter against her desk as she waved Sammy Jo over.
“Test was negative.” Glenda revealed. “I’m so rel
ieved.”
Sammy Jo managed a smile. “Smoking’s still going to kill you.”
“So far, nothing’s forced me to stop yet, but it’s coming. Oh, and honey, Carl will be there tomorrow if you still need him.”
“I most certainly do.”
“Good luck,” Glenda said, meaning it.
Tess waved Sammy Jo over to her teller’s window. “Have you met your new neighbor yet?” she asked.
“Yes.” Sammy Jo’s voice was dry.
“And?”
“And nothing,” she told her sternly.
“Handsome as the devil and twice as rich.” Tess waggled her eyebrows, and Sammy Jo couldn’t help laughing.
“Give it up, Tess. I’ve got a heap of trouble already. But you’re welcome to him. As I understand it, he’s available.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, he asked me to dinner, and I didn’t get the impression it was to meet his wife.”
“He asked you to dinner?” Her brown eyes sparked with anticipation.
“Don’t make more of this than there is,” Sammy Jo warned, mentally kicking herself for giving Tess more ammunition. “His cattle jumped the fence, and we had a heck of a time separating mine from his. The invitation was offered as a thank-you.”
“Sammy Jo, this is perfect. If he thinks he owes you something, maybe you can get him to invest in the Triple R. I mean, the man’s a philanthropist, for Pete’s sake. I heard Matt talking. Mr. Cooper’s got lots of money and he plans to invest it all right here in Coldwater Flats.”
“Mr. Ryan,” Sammy Jo corrected.
“Ask him for a loan. If he feels guilty enough, maybe he’ll help you.”
“Dream on.”
“Hey, it’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
“No one in their right mind is going to lend a virtual stranger two hundred thousand dollars just because they need it.”
“Then get to know him. He doesn’t have to be a stranger forever.”
“Forget it, Tess. There’s got to be another way.”
“When you think of it, let me know.”
Sammy Jo walked into the hot afternoon, wishing for a breeze. The air was chokingly hot and still as death. Drawing a breath, she climbed into the pickup, then stared through the windshield, completely at a loss. What should she do? What could she do?
Praying for divine intervention, she drove home slowly, passing all the familiar landmarks of Coldwater Flats: the split-rail fence that surrounded the shopping center; the ancient clock tower, which was annually adorned with a six-foot high cowboy hat over the Fourth of July; the walk along the creek, which edged the little town with its metal, inlaid stars, denoting the names of rodeo queens all the way back to 1968. Yup. It was a great place to live.
What am I going to do?
Passing the lane to the Riggs place—she could hardly stand to call it Serenity Ranch, and it sure didn’t feel like Cooper Ryan’s spread yet—Sammy Jo slowed to a stop, letting the engine idle. As she recalled that last conversation with Cooper, she actually shuddered, still acutely embarrassed. Why had she smiled? She knew why. She’d found him attractive in an untamed, hard sort of way.
“Blast it,” she cursed softly, remembering how she’d kicked herself for not accepting his dinner invitation, how she’d lain awake all night, tossing and turning and worrying and thinking about her new neighbor. He’d looked so taken aback and kind of cute when she’d flat-out refused him, as if he’d never been turned down by a woman before.
And what if she had gone out with him? He’d said it was just a thank-you. Why hadn’t she agreed to go? Hell, she could use a free meal, if nothing else.
Because he’s trouble. I feel it already.
Sammy Jo threw the pickup in gear and bumped onto her own lane. She wasn’t superstitious or particularly religious, but she trusted her instincts implicitly. And man trouble she didn’t need.
Halfway down the lane, she yanked the wheel and screeched to a stop beside the gnarled oak tree. Climbing out, she closed her eyes and took several long breaths. She had spent half her childhood, it seemed, high up in the sky, safely concealed within the oak’s spreading branches. When other girls’ mothers helped out at school and crowded together, chatting and familiar with one another, giving Sammy Jo a glimpse into the kind of dream family she constantly wished for, she ran from the school bus for the oak tree. When she heard the girls whisper about her tomboyish ways and laugh and giggle and point, she learned to answer with flying fists instead of tears, and as soon as she was alone, she beelined for the oak tree.
Sammy Jo had spent hours in the tree, working through some of her loneliest, most miserable moments. Silly though it might seem to others, this therapy still worked, and now and again she simply sat down on the root-bumped ground and leaned against the trunk, content to let her friend, the oak, comfort her.
Today, however, she stood to one side, just looking at the tree. There were too many problems at the ranch to waste time soothing her tired emotions. After several minutes, she climbed into the pickup and headed for the house.
When she pulled to a stop, she saw Doc Carey’s familiar white horse trailer pulled up next to the gate at the side of her house.
“Well, it’s about time,” she huffed, venting her fury on the unsuspecting veterinarian. She’d called the man this morning when Tick-Tock, her pregnant mare, had taken a turn for the worse. Off her feed for the better part of two days, the animal had gone head-down and listless this morning, looking for all the world as if she were about to give up and die. In a panic, Sammy Jo had phoned the vet who’d been up to his elbows in surgery in Bend. His assistant had been called to some emergency, as well, so Sammy Jo had stood on one foot, then the other, and tried to make the mare comfortable while she waited. The appointment at the bank had been, in its way, a welcome diversion, but now her worries rushed back, and she barely threw the truck out of gear before racing pell-mell toward the barn.
Doc Carey, sixty, white-haired and the most notorious gossip in the county, had a hand against Tick-Tock’s sweaty neck. His expression was grim.
“Well?” Sammy Jo asked. The mare’s head was even lower and she shifted her weight constantly. Sammy Jo swallowed, thinking of the unborn foal.
“Looks like some kind of bowel obstruction.”
“Serious?”
He grimaced. “Gonna take surgery to get it out.”
“Oh, God.”
“She’ll have to go to the hospital in Bend, but Sammy Jo, her chances aren’t so good. And it’ll be risky and expensive.”
“Everything is,” Sammy Jo answered bitterly.
Silently, Sammy Jo weighed the alternatives. The procedure would undoubtedly cost thousands of dollars, and she could still lose the horse and the unborn foal. Tick-Tock wasn’t worth that much to the ranch.
But the mare was a personal friend of Sammy Jo’s.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, Sammy Jo strode to the other end of the barn and gazed unseeingly across the fenced paddock. Several horses stood together, flicking flies away with their tails. Tick-Tock was only one of several mares due to foal. The Triple R could absorb the loss.
Except…
Doc Carey came up behind her, dropping a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I could handle another surgery today if Tick-Tock can handle the ride to Bend.”
“Thanks.” Sammy Jo swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.
“No problem.”
Twenty minutes later, Tick-Tock was bumping her way down the lane and getting ready for the hour’s drive to Bend. It was lunacy to think she would pull through. Sheer madness to even try to save her, especially given Sammy Jo’s financial situation. But what was life for, if not to try for something better and hope for the best? Quitting seemed so wrong.
Tick-Tock’s situation threw Sammy Jo’s problems in her face. Hard. She had to come up with an alternative. She had to save the ranch.
As Sammy Jo stood at her bedroom window and glanc
ed across her property to the fence that divided her land from the Riggs place, she chewed on her lower lip. No matter what she thought of Cooper Ryan as a man, he’d been friendly enough, and he sure as hell had enough money. He’d talked Matt Durning into giving her some extra time to get back on her feet. Maybe he’d help her some more, if she asked. Tess sure seemed to think so. Maybe he got off on that damsel-in-distress stuff.
“Don’t be crazy,” she reproved herself, but the wheels in her mind kept turning right along. She wasn’t exactly the damsel in distress type, but hey, it was worth a try, wasn’t it? She didn’t have to actually like the man, and she never planned on trusting him. But if he could get the bank off her back, she’d give an Oscar-winning performance.
With that in mind, she strode determinedly toward her antique cheval mirror. A little lipstick? Some blush, perhaps?
Moving closer, Sammy Jo critically examined her skin. She was deeply tanned from working outside all summer, and tiny freckles dotted the bridge of her nose. She’d showered right before heading to the bank, so there were no visible dirt smudges, but she considered showering again. A second later, she snorted at herself. What was she trying to find, an investor or a suitor?
“Get over yourself,” she muttered, brushing her fine blonde hair with vicious abandon until it flew and crackled around her head. Dropping the brush, she swiped at the strands that practically stood on end around her face, uttering imprecations all the while. A second later, she’d snapped another rubber band around the mess and was stomping to the door. She stopped herself, infuriated, then reluctantly turned back. Checking her appearance in the mirror once again, she pulled out the rubber band. With difficulty, she tamed her blonde hair, then added that blush and a bit of mascara. The clothes would work. She looked feminine and that was a first order of business for this plan.
She actually chuckled as she climbed into the pickup. Immediately, she sobered. This Cooper Ryan fellow might toss her out on her ear. The plan wasn’t foolproof.