by Tawna Fenske
“And it’s so quiet, no horns or traffic or blinking lights or sirens or crowds, or people for that matter. No background hum of chatter all around you. It’s so…serene.”
Yes. Exactly. Serenity. Something Su-sahn Saan Meeshell had pierced in about two seconds. Grady strapped on some mental Kevlar.
Suddenly, she turned back to face him with those startling blue eyes, pulling her woolen hat from her head. Fine, almost white-blond hair cascaded around her shoulders like a flurry of snow.
Yep…there went his serenity.
“So…” She inspected his face before dropping her gaze to take in his plaid flannel shirt, his well-worn Levis, and his even more worn boots. “You’re, like, a…cowboy? The real deal?”
Grady was silent for long moments. Was that another rhetorical question? When she continued to look at him expectantly, he answered. “I’m a rancher.”
She wrinkled her nose in concentration. “What’s the difference?”
“Ranchers ranch. Cowboys wrangle cows.”
“Kinda like a shepherd?”
Grady blinked. “Sure.” In the way a shark was kinda like a fish.
She was looking at him expectantly, those blue eyes trained on him as if she was waiting for him to elaborate, but Grady had just about surpassed his quota of words for the day.
“Okay then,” she said after several awkward seconds of silence that she—hallelujah—didn’t feel the need to fill up. “Your uncle said you’d show me the cottage?”
Grady nodded, grateful for something to do even if it did mean extending his time in Little Miss Chatty’s company. He glanced at the van and tried not to wince. “Drive your…vehicle round back.”
Thankfully she didn’t talk anymore—no more questions or inane observations—she just took the two paces to the stairs and headed down. Maybe she’d used up her quota of words for the day, too? The thought cheered him as he followed behind her, his gaze looking anywhere but at the swing of her ass.
…
Van Gogh’s wet dream? What the hell, Suzanne?
She cringed. But she’d always been the same when she was nervous, even as a kid. Filling silences with pointless chatter. And Cowboy Surly or Rancher Surly had gotten the full verbal-diarrhea treatment.
As soon as she was done unpacking, she was calling Winona to demand an explanation. Her friend, who’d come to Credence after the first single-women campaign had gone viral and decided to stay, had convinced Suzanne a change of scenery would be good for her muse and, god knew, a Christmas away from her parents’ sterile, minimalist brownstone had been too good to pass up. Hell, she would have visited Winona on Mars. But her friend really should have warned her about Grady.
Suzanne wasn’t used to speak-as-little-as-possible-while-looking-all-sexy-and-brooding men. Men in jeans with hats and big-ass belt buckles who had rough hands and looked like they knew how to chop down a tree, ride a bull, deliver a calf, light a fire, and build a rudimentary shelter.
All before breakfast.
Men with rugged faces and beautiful lips, who looked like they’d forgotten more things about the birds and the bees than she’d ever learned.
She was going to need a handbook for Grady, and hopefully Winona had a copy.
But Winona had been right about one thing. Her muse was definitely stirring. It had crept up on her as she’d stared out over the field at the grazing horses. That itch, that…compulsion to put the scene down on canvas. To memorialize it in oil. And it had positively slammed into her like a sledgehammer as her gaze had connected with Joshua Grady.
Everything, from the way his height and breadth had dominated the porch, to the squareness of his jaw, the worn leather of his boots, and that shiny belt buckle riding low between his hips, had been inspirational. Suzanne hadn’t painted anything original in well over a decade, but those first few seconds she’d clapped eyes on Grady had been an epiphany.
Now there was a subject to paint.
It was as if the heavens had opened and glories had streamed down and a giant hand with an extended index finger had pointed at Grady and whispered, “Him,” in Suzanne’s ear.
The prospect had been equal parts titillating and terrifying because landscapes were easy, portraits not so much, and she hadn’t been able to decide whether to throw up or run away and hide.
The universe, however, had delivered verbal diarrhea.
Pulling her trusty old transport van up outside the cottage, Suzanne slipped out of the car as Grady was stomping his feet on the welcome mat and taking off his hat. Opening the door, he said, “Ma’am,” indicating that she should precede him.
Hot damn. He’d ma’amed her. It wasn’t the first time she’d been ma’amed in her almost thirty years, but it had been the first time her clothes had almost fallen off at hearing it. There was something about the way this man ma’amed that made Suzanne aware she had ovaries.
She walked into the cozy, open-plan cottage dominated on the far side by two large windows just as Winona had indicated. She knew instantly where she would set up her easel. Crossing to the windows—drawn as only an artist can be to light—she stared out over acres and acres of brittle winter pasture and, in the distance, a large section of wooded land.
“Bedroom’s that way,” he said from behind.
She turned to find him standing in the doorway, obviously not planning to enter. He pointed with the hand that held his hat to the left where she could see a bed through an open door.
“The heating”—he swiveled his head in the opposite direction, using his hat to again point to the far wall and the modern glass-fronted freestanding fireplace—“is gas.” Switching his gaze to the kitchen area situated between the two windows, he said, “Kitchen should have everything you need. You have bags?”
Suzanne blinked at his obvious desire to be gone. It made her curious, and hell if it didn’t make her want to paint him right now. From her vantage point, with the light behind him, he wasn’t much more than a tall, dark shape taking up all the space in her doorway, but his presence was electric, looming.
But not in a threatening way. It was…spine-tingling, and her pulse skipped a beat, which made her feel like an idiot. She’d just met the guy. How freaking embarrassing.
“I…have so much stuff.” Suzanne crossed to where he stood, determined to be businesslike to cover for her ridiculously juvenile response. “A couple of bags, a dozen canvases of varying sizes, about a zillion different paints, a box of books because there’s nothing quite like the smell of a book, don’t you think? My pod coffee machine because I’m such a caffeine junkie, and heaven help anyone who talks to me before my coffee every morning. Some CDs and a player, which I know is a little old-school, but Winona said the internet can be pretty spotty out here, and I have to paint to music because silence drives me nuts. Some groceries I picked up in Credence and—”
Suzanne stopped abruptly, aware suddenly by the ever-flattening line of his mouth that she was babbling. He was staring at her with an expression that left her in little doubt a simple “yes” or “no” would have sufficed.
He gave a brief nod and shoved his hat on his head. “I’ll give you a hand.” Then he turned on his heel and strode to her van.
It took the two of them fifteen minutes to unload everything. Fifteen long, silent minutes broken only by Suzanne occasionally directing him as to where to put something down. Sliding the van door shut with a muffled whump, he turned, his gaze settling on her face. The brim of his hat threw his face into shadow, which made him hard to read. But this close, she could see he had light-green eyes and some stubble. Short but enough to still feel rough.
“If that’s all, ma’am, I’ll be going?”
If that was all? Joshua Grady really did not want to stick around. Suzanne knew she was an average woman. Average height, average looks, average size fourteen who could probably stand to lose a fe
w pounds from her ass and thighs—she was more pear than hourglass. Good teeth, nice smile, clear skin. She was…attractive at best. A six who could push herself to a seven, maybe an eight for a gallery opening or one of her mother’s exhibitions.
She’d had boyfriends both casual and longer term—she was no blushing virgin—and she got along well with members of the opposite sex. But she wasn’t the kind of woman to whom men flocked. She was pretty sure this was the first time she’d actually repelled one, though.
If only that turned off her muse. Unfortunately, she was a fickle little tramp and always had been. And she’d been MIA for a good ten years while Suzanne had reproduced other artists’ works in the very lucrative field of museum and insurance-required reproductions.
Until today.
“Thanks so much, Joshua,” Suzanne said. It would have taken her much longer to unpack the van without him, and it was appreciated. “May I call you Josh?”
The angle of his jaw tightened. “No.”
Suzanne blinked at the blatant rebuttal and the morphing of his face from craggy and interesting to bleak and forbidding. But even more intriguing were the mental shutters slamming down behind his pale-green eyes. Shooting him her best flirty smile, she attempted to make amends. She could flirt with the best of them if required, and she’d never met a man who didn’t appreciate being the object of a little flirting. “Well…anyway…I’d like to make you dinner to thank you for everything. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
Grady clearly did not appreciate the flirting.
His brows beetled together, a deep V forming between them. “Look, lady.” He paused and drew in a breath. “I know there was a whole single-women thing that happened here over the summer and that a lot of dudes around these parts are looking to get hitched, but I’m not one of them. I don’t know what my uncle told you, but I am not in the market for a woman. Not for dinner or dating or a relationship or even a quick tumble in the sheets. I like peace and quiet. I like solitude. I’ve said more words today than I have all week. So you stay here”—he cocked his head at the cottage—“and I’ll stay there”—he pointed at the back porch of his place—“and we’ll get along just fine.”
He drew a breath again, and Suzanne could do nothing but stare. It was the most animated his face had been since her arrival, and it was a thing to behold, his square jaw working, his eyes glinting with cold steel.
Suzanne blinked as realization cut through her artistic drive. Did he think she was here to…ingratiate herself with him? To…date him? Have sex with him? Did he think his uncle had pimped her out?
Did he think she was here to get herself a husband?
Jesus, what kind of Dark Ages bullshit was this? Sure, six months ago, the town may have been awash with single women looking for love, but Suzanne wasn’t any part of that, and she most certainly wasn’t here for a man.
A spike of indignation quickly flared into a slow, steady burn of anger. This dude’s ego was as big as the whole damn ranch. And, flash of pain or no flash of pain, he could go and do something exceedingly sexual and anatomically impossible to himself. Suzanne narrowed her eyes, better to aim her death rays at him.
“Look, mister. This whole brooding cowboy act might work on some women, but I think I can contain myself around all your manly man bullshit, and here’s a newsflash for you. I’m here to paint not hook up or trap some…cowpoke into putting a ring on it. All this y’all have”—she went deliberately southern as she gestured wildly around her—“is real charmin’, but I’m a New Yorker. So yeah, you stay over there, and I’ll try and resist the urge to leave love letters on your porch every morning.”
She was breathing hard by the time she stopped, and her pulse was thumping like a jackhammer through her ears, but man was she ticked. He, on the other hand, appeared to be unaffected by her vitriol. Giving her a barely there nod, he pulled down on the brim of his hat.
“Ma’am,” he said, then calmly walked away.
Suzanne watched him go, so damn pissed at him and his assumptions and how good his wide shoulders looked as he strode toward his cabin, she could barely see straight. Her muse, however, was popping champagne corks.
Which did not bode well.
Not for her or Joshua Grady.
When a shy woman inherits a ranch, she’ll have to find an inner strength to succeed—and open herself up to love—in this heartwarming novel from New York Times bestselling author Victoria James.
Sarah Turner has led a very sheltered life. So when her mother passes away after a long illness, suddenly she’s left in charge of the family ranch with little know-how but plenty of will to keep it afloat. Determined not to lose her parents’ legacy or newfound independence, she needs a hero fast—not to save her, but to show her how to save herself. But she’s unprepared for the ruggedly handsome cowboy who answers her ad.
“Cowboy for Hire,” the ad said, and Cade Walker is quick to respond. Betrayed as ranch manager by his former boss, he’s looking for a new place to put down roots—without the pressure to prove himself again. Except when he meets his new boss, it’s clear he’s not only there to run a ranch but to also teach Miss Independent how to run it. But as they struggle to make the land flourish, they’ll both need courage if they hope to find a family...together.
From the author of The Last Letter, a gripping, emotional story of family, humanity, and faith.
REBECCA YARROS
How do you define yourself when others have already decided who you are?
Six years ago, when Camden Daniels came back from war without his younger brother, no one in the small town of Alba, Colorado, would forgive him—especially his father. Cam left, swearing never to return.
But a desperate message from his father brings it all back. The betrayal. The pain. And the need to go home again.
But home is where the one person he still loves is waiting. Willow. The one woman he can never have. Because there are secrets buried in Alba that are best left in the dark.
If only he could tell his heart to stay locked away when she whispers she’s always loved him, and always will…
Great and Precious Things is a heart-wrenching story about family, betrayal, and ultimately how far we’re willing to go on behalf of those who need us most.