Where Wishes Live: A Contemporary Christian Romance

by Dora Hiers

ROPING the

  COWBOY

  byTori Kayson

  Fargo Kester nudged the screen door open with an elbow and winced as the hinges squawked in protest, slicing through the early morning stillness.

  The ranch’s herd dogs, a pair of Australian Koolies, muscled between him and the frame like two youngsters wrestling for the prized passenger seat.

  “Slow down, boys.” He chuckled and shuffled outside to wait for them to do their business. If he didn’t, Hope and Charity would be barking furiously at the door, anxious to get to their food dishes before he even made it back to the kitchen. Juggling a giant mug of coffee, he draped his forearms along the rail and squinted against the bright morning sunlight.

  The pair thundered down the porch steps, zigzagging across the yard until they finally marked the perfect spot in the parched grass.

  Hay and freshly mown grass lingered in the slight Texas breeze that kissed his cheeks, a remnant of yesterday’s welcome rain shower. Today, not a single rain cloud marred the horizon, stretching as far as he could see.

  Not good. If the clouds didn’t open up soon, the summer would be much like the one from five years ago where drought had claimed fifty or so of their cattle. A rancher couldn’t afford to lose one cow, let alone fifty.

  And this time Dad wouldn’t be around to offer advice.

  How will I ever manage this ranch without you, Dad? I miss you something fierce.

  His gut tightened with the pang of loss still so raw and painful after three short months. Three short months, maybe, but each day had stretched out like an overextended rubber band, threatening to snap. He couldn’t ride the ranch without thinking of his dad just about every other second, missing the easy smile underneath the beaten, chewed up Stetson and that deep-throated chuckle at one of Uncle Chips’s jokes.

  He could deal with the extra workload. But that looming balloon payment scared him, kept him awake at night. Six months. That’s all you got to make this work.

  He pressed a finger and thumb against his eyebrows and massaged his temple, then scraped his palm across the heavy stubble covering his jaw. He huffed, irritated with this show of weakness.

  This little pity party wouldn’t bring his dad back. Eventually, they would all move out from under this dark cloud of grief and find a new normal. Until then, he’d get by.

  He took a noisy slurp of coffee. He could call Maverick and order him to get his sorry butt home. To be fair, Mav had offered, but the Deputy US Marshal star pinned to his chest kept him plenty busy. Besides, his brother’s heart wasn’t in ranching.

  No, he would just have to gut it out. Because what was the alternative? Uprooting his entire family and disappointing his mother and sister, crushing their dreams? That was unconscionable, especially since Kierra had sunk her entire savings into this new venture at the ranch. However harebrained he considered her idea, he wouldn’t sabotage it.

  Majesty’s soft whinny drew his gaze to the pasture. The horse’s tail swished back and forth. His head whipped up and down then voluminous brown eyes stared directly at him as if the creature was inviting him to come out and play.

  “I wish, buddy.” Fargo smiled. What would it be like to live somewhere without this view? This is all he’d ever known. All he ever wanted to know.

  He took another sip of the strong brew, the warmth sliding down his throat, the caffeine beginning to work its magic, a peace about the situation calming his weary spirit.

  They’d make this events gig work. If only the guests would stick close to the big house and not invade his and Jayce’s private domain, he’d be hap—

  “Yes, I’m here.” A voice, a bit muffled but definitely female and definitely not his sister’s, disturbed the peaceful morning aura.

  Here?

  Like right in front of his house here? Coffee practically snorted from his nose, and his head whipped toward the voice.

  A woman carved a path in the stretch of grass along the pasture line with her pacing, a cell phone attached to her ear. One of Kierra’s new Kester Ranch for every special event ceramic mugs perched on a nearby fence post.

  What? One of the ranch guests from the corporate retreat was already up and out so early? And…trespassing.

  His jaw clamped and locked.

  Obviously, some high level executive with a phone always glued to her ear who didn’t notice or care if she encroached on someone else’s property. Couldn’t she see the billboard-sized sign pointing the way to the big house? Her hip practically brushed it every time she switched directions.

  He muted his scoff, not wanting to draw attention his way. In the month that Kierra had opened the ranch to guests, already he’d seen too many of this type. They couldn't even enjoy a cup of coffee on a beautiful spring morning without work interfering.

  So much for the magical java!

  The woman turned to pace in the other direction, but her head flicked toward Majesty and she hesitated for a second then switched course.

  Don’t do it, lady! Don’t do it!

  His fingers gripped the porch rail, splinters from the wood rail digging into his skin. His stance shifted to offensive mode, his brain kicking his legs into gear. His horse didn’t let just anybody—

  One of her hands disappeared into a pocket and then her arm snaked out in slow motion to reveal an open palm.

  Hair cascaded over her shoulders in luxurious waves, rich molasses highlights dancing with the sun’s rays. Words gurgled from her throat, soft and mellow, meant for his horse and maybe whoever was on the other end of the phone.

  Heaven help him, her voice flowed over him, too. Clear and pristine as the creek at the edge of the property, expanding and filling all the cavities as water shimmered and rippled over sturdy rocks.

  As if she was capable of filling all the hollow spaces in his heart.

  He sucked in a breath, counting out the beats until surely he depleted his oxygen supply. Get a grip, Kester! Your horse is about to scare this woman into the next county and you’re—

  The beast snorted and threw back his head then stomped at the ground with a hoof.

  Here it comes! If he allowed Majesty to frighten her, he wouldn’t need to worry about anymore trespassers. But if his sister got wind of it, she’d shred him to pieces. Indecision held his boots hostage on the porch.

  Majesty high-stepped closer to the fence, hoof twitching, teeth bared. And then…nibbled at the bribe she offered. Traitor!

  The lady cradled the phone between a shoulder and an ear, and wound an arm around Majesty’s neck, even sliding up to scratch behind an ear.

  The ornery beast hung his head, shuttering long lashes over contented eyes.

  Well, if that didn’t beat—

  He didn’t realize he snorted until her head snapped around. Her startled gaze landed on him, one arm still curled around the horse’s neck, the other steadying her phone.

  Eyes, vibrant and even darker than the occasional espresso he craved, met his for an instant. Then she turned sideways and burrowed her face into Majesty’s neck, the collar of her ruffled blouse fluttering with the slight breeze, her full, pink lips still moving.

  Strength and beauty exalted by the sun. Length and duty. Done. Fun. Run. Words jumbled through his brain like a giant puzzle, screaming for a notepad and pencil, so the poem could take shape on the page.

  No!

  The words skidded to a stop.

  He tamped down the groan that threatened to emerge and rammed fingers through his hair, frustration tightening his chest. Man, he was an idiot. He didn’t have time for this, and more importantly than that, what was he doing gawking at the ranch guests? He couldn’t believe Kierra even allowed this group on the property considering Dad’s opinion of oil companies.

  Maybe he’d just been so far removed from the dating game, that’s why attraction reared up and bucked him into tomorrow. But it wasn’t like he had the time or inclination for romance, not with a ranch to run and a son sneaking up on the teen years. And especially not s
ince Jennie—

  A feminine gurgle interrupted his tirade. Then, a muttered, “I’ll call you later.”

  Fargo stole another glance at the woman.

  The phone dangling from one hand, she sidestepped Hope and Charity, the fragile looking soles of her sandals practically bending in half as she strained to tiptoe, dancing between the dogs. Australian Koolies were naturally bred to herd, but they usually formed a wide circle around the cattle. They’d never attempted heading anyone to the house. His house.

  Shoot the deuce! He surely didn’t want his dogs herding the ranch guests their way. They’d never have a moment’s peace.

  “Hope, Charity, come!” he commanded.

  Charity’s ear perked in his direction, but neither dog obeyed or showed any inclination to stop winding around the woman’s legs, forcing her in his direction.

  “Crazy dogs,” he muttered, plunking his mug on the porch rail. Hot liquid splattered against his bare chest, but he barely noticed the sting as he took the steps two at a time.

  A somewhat rusty sounding laugh jingled across the short space, the feminine sound coming from his yard strange, but not at all awkward. Then, peals of laughter when the woman closed her eyes and lifted her arms, spinning like she was rolling down a hill, blindly letting the dogs direct her course.

  “Hope, Charity, come!” he repeated, in a firm no-nonsense voice, but it didn’t appear that the dogs or the female took notice. Maybe the woman’s name was Hope or Charity, and she was only following directions, but what was up with his dogs? They’d never acted this way before. At least, not off the range. With humans.

  The lady kept spinning, her laughter growing in intensity and volume, her joy bubbling over, almost as if she’d finally let down her hair after years of wearing it up.

  He could relate. Not to the woman or letting down his hair, but to the lack of laughter. The absence of joy in his heart. The constant ache of loneliness.

  The dogs guided her closer, and she still hadn’t opened her eyes. Hadn’t she seen him? Or was she just so trusting of the canines—

  Oomph! The soft, curvy female smacked into his bare chest. Suddenly, he felt very exposed. And…hungry.

  Especially when her palms landed on his chest, her touch sending electrifying tingles to torment him. He sucked in a breath, but all he breathed in was her sweet fragrance, a heady combination of roses and mandarin, jasmine and springtime, resurrecting emotions long dead and buried deep, so deep he never expected they’d find their way to the surface. And it didn’t help matters when her head lifted, giving him a close-up of her eyes.

  Yep. Just as he’d imagined. Warm and velvety and soft. And just a bit…amused?

  He cleared the rustiness from his own throat and tried to settle the unfamiliar stirrings churning in his gut.

  “I’m sorry about that. They usually reserve their herding skills for the cattle. I don’t know what came over them.” He shot a glare at the dogs, now behaving, sitting nicely at his feet, staring up at him with innocent expressions. Any other morning and they would have been racing to get to their food dishes by now.

  “What? You mean you didn’t train them to do that?”

  He gulped, not sure how to respond to the teasing glint coming from her eyes or the amusement in her clear voice, or how to douse the fire racing through his veins. Somehow, he managed to shake his head.

  “I’m not sure what that says about me, especially since they’re girls.” She grimaced, looking just a tad embarrassed as she disentangled herself from his chest, her gaze stuck on his shoulders.

  Thank heaven! The fire burning his skin cooled immediately. He sighed, a combination of regret and relief.

  He slid one hand in his jeans pocket while the other raked through his hair. If he kept his hands busy, they couldn’t do something stupid like curl around her arms, just to verify that her skin was as smooth as it looked.

  Kierra would get all over him if she saw him half-naked, chatting with a guest. He was the one who should be embarrassed, but for some reason, he couldn’t scrounge that up.

  “Actually, they’re males. And, apparently, males with good taste.” He cocked his head to the side and regarded her, doing his best to ignore the ache of loneliness that welled up soul-deep and dismissing the crazy thought that she might be someone who could actually fill that hole.

  “Males?” Her voice echoed disbelief. Her smile was gentle, faint, as her gaze jerked to the ground. Suddenly, she was crouching in front of his dogs, dangling that soft looking hand in front of their snouts.

  Charity and Hope sniffed, but Charity licked the woman’s hand first. Then, both dogs practically shoved her backwards, vying for her attention.

  He groaned, knowing he wasn’t far beyond that himself, and grabbed their collars, restraining them from mauling her while she petted them.

  “The original owner was a preacher. He gave the whole litter names like that, and by the time we picked them up, they were already attached.” He’d never really given their unusual monikers too much consideration. They were working dogs, but suddenly, he regretted his decision to keep the somewhat feminine titles. “Not sure why the man couldn’t give them more masculine names like Brutus or Popeye or even Samson. That’s biblical, right?” He wagged his head in mock displeasure.

  She chuckled, burying that cute little nose in Charity’s neck and then doing the same with Hope. “Oh, but they’re perfect, just the way they are, and so beautiful!”

  So was she. He slid an appreciative gaze over her while she focused her attention on the dogs. Beautiful. Delusional. Unsuitable.

  Stop! He needed to find the off button for the poetry bouncing around his head lately.

  With a sigh, she stretched to her full height, the top of her head only reaching his nose, and stuck out a dainty, slender hand. “Darby Brewster.” Her dark head flicked toward the ranch house. “I’m here for…the retreat.”

  Just as he’d suspected. Reality slapped him in the face again.

  So she worked for an oil company, but at least she seemed down to earth, tangible and authentic. Unlike the last guy who’d shown up at the ranch, a corporate suit hiding behind a fake smile and toting a briefcase of forms that would never be signed.

  His gaze skittered across the lawn. No briefcase.

  Smiling, he slipped his giant paw over her delicate one, masking his shock at her firm grip by clearing his throat. “Fargo Kester. Welcome to Kester Ranch.”

  “Fargo Kester.” The way she said his name sounded like a caress. “Now that’s a masculine name. It’s great to meet you, Fargo Kester.” A dimple came out of hiding when her lips curved in a smile, something sweet and genuine.

  And totally dangerous to his heart.

  Available now

  ROPING the

  MARSHAL

  byTori Kayson

  “This is not how I expected to spend my weekend.” Maverick Kester lowered himself into the Adirondack chair facing the pool.

  “I bet.” Fargo nodded, cradling baby Shiloah against his chest. “Or the next six weeks.”

  Shiloah punched miniature arms through the air. Smiling, Fargo made some clucking noises and kissed the top of her head. Before she could belt out her displeasure, he slid a bottle into her mouth.

  Fatherhood came as natural to his brother as ranching. Maverick tamped down the envy that slithered into his gut. For years, Fargo had blamed himself for his first wife’s death, so he deserved every ounce of happiness. It had been a long time coming.

  “Six weeks of torture. Don’t remind me.” As soon as the callous words slipped from his mouth, Mav wanted to drag them back. He had no right to complain.

  He was alive. That was more than he could say for his partner, Sam.

  Mav blew out a breath. Tossed his hat on the square patio table and lifted his face for the warm Texas sun to kiss his cheeks.

  Some days —like today— wearing a Deputy US Marshal badge stunk worse than mucking a horse stall.

  Mav rol
led his neck, grimacing at the screaming muscles and stiff joints. He stared at the pool where azure sparkles glinted in the late afternoon sun.

  “Come on now. Living on the ranch isn’t all that bad. It could be worse. Much worse.” Fargo’s words held a little bite and a lot of pride. Soft sucking noises came from the contented bundle in Fargo’s lap.

  If only life could be so peaceful, so pure.

  “I know,” he said, scrubbing his jaw to hide the twitch that started after the accident.

  “I’m sorry about Sam, Mav.” Fargo draped a towel over his shoulder and repositioned Shiloah against his chest, tapping out the rhythm of a country song on her back. He stretched long legs out on the deck, his boots worn and rugged in contrast to Maverick’s new ones.

  He’d had to get new ones. His others had been coated in blood.

  “Yeah. Me too.” Maverick took a long slug of sweet tea to chase down the heavy emotion clogging his throat. The doctor had said it would take six weeks for his fractured ribs to heal. How much longer would it take the other brokenness to heal, the parts the doctors would never see? Not on any x-ray anyway.

  “But I’m glad you’re here. Even if you’re not,” Fargo said. A loud burp shattered the silence lingering from his brother’s comment. Two dogs lifted their heads.

  “Whoa! I know where she gets that from,” Maverick teased, grateful for the interruption.

  “Good girl,” Fargo cooed and stood, practically shoved the squirming infant into Maverick’s chest. “Your turn, Uncle Mav.”

  “What?” he sputtered, searching for an excuse. Any excuse.

  He handled weapons, handcuffs and thugs. Not something so precious or fragile. What if he dropped her?

  Tiny eyelashes batted. Gold specks twinkled from sweet green eyes and then…

  She smiled, and his insides got all soft and mushy.

  “You don’t play fair, do you?” Chuckling, he nestled the little one in the crook of his arm and resumed feeding her.

  “About as fair as her mama. One smile from Darby and I was a goner,” Fargo agreed and tilted his hat low over his face. Probably hoped for a few extra winks.