As sleep began to tug at his mind and emotions, Roan smiled, inhaling her scent. There was such hope for both of them. They had a future together. And this morning, making love with Shiloh, he could see the promise of things to come.
Kissing her tangled, silky hair, Roan felt Shiloh sigh contentedly against him. Her slender arm was draped across his waist, her leg tangled with one of his own. Their hips rested against each other, a reminder of what they’d just shared. “Go to sleep, Darlin’,” he murmured against her hair. Because Roan knew every day from here on out was going to get better for both of them.
Shiloh’s writing ability was back and Roan felt as if they’d turned a corner with each other. It was a part of her healing process, a trusting of him in her life, knowing that he really was there for her. As he relaxed and felt her begin to sag against him, telling him she had fallen asleep, Roan wondered about the love her parents had held for each other. They had been artlessly in love with each other. And that love had grown and bloomed between them. And Shiloh had been the rest of it.
Intuitively, Roan sensed that their relationship, and later, their marriage, would be just like that. His own parents had that deep, abiding love for each other. He’d grown up seeing it deepen and widen, become more enriched over time. And he knew Shiloh and he were capable of the same kind of love. What they had was so special. He had the right woman to take both of them to that heady height of lifelong love. Together. Forever.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at
WIND RIVER RANCHER
by Lindsay McKenna.
* * *
Coming to your favorite bookstores and e-tailers in January 2017.
Click here to get your copy.
Reese Lockhart’s stomach was tight with hunger as he stood at the outskirts of a small Wyoming town called Wind River. The sign listed a population of two thousand. He’d gone a month without decent food. Six inches of snow stood on the sides of the road where he’d walked the last ten miles on 89A north. It headed toward Jackson Hole, where he was hoping he might find work.
The town, for a Monday afternoon, was pretty slow. A few pickup trucks came and went, fewer people along the sidewalks. He halted outside Becker’s Hay and Feed Store, the aged red brick building standing two stories high. The red tin roof was steep and reflected sunlight off it, making Reese squint. Bright lights now hurt his eyes.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, feeling humiliated and fearful of rejection once again, he pushed the door open to the store. Would he get yelled at by the owner? Told to get out? It was early May but snow had fallen the night before, and the sleepy town of Wind River still had slush on its streets midday.
The place was quiet, and smelled of leather. He saw a man in his sixties, tall, lean with silver hair, sitting behind the counter. He was sitting on a wooden stool that was probably the same age as he was, an ancient-looking calculator between his work-worn hands as he methodically punched the buttons.
Girding himself, ignoring the fact he hadn’t eaten in two days, Reese automatically swung his gaze around the huge establishment. A hay and feed store was something he was familiar with. Maybe the owner needed some part-time help? If so, he could make enough money to buy a decent meal. Shoving away the shame he felt over his situation, he saw the man lift his head, a set of wire-rim spectacles halfway down his large nose, blue eyes squinting as he watched Reese approach the long, wooden counter.
“Howdy, Stranger. Can I help you?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Reese said. “I’m looking for some outdoor work. I saw you had several big barns out back and a granary. Do you have any openings?” Automatically, Reese tensed inwardly. He knew he looked rough with a month’s worth of beard on his face and his clothes dirty and shabby. At one time, he’d been a Marine Corps captain commanding a company of 120 Marines. And he’d been damn good at it until—
“I’m Charlie Becker, the owner,” he said, shifting and thrusting his hand across the desk toward him. “Welcome to Wind River. Who might you be?”
“Reese Lockhart,” he said, and he gripped the man’s thin, strong hand. He liked Charlie’s large, watery eyes because he saw kindness in them. Reese was very good at assessing people. He’d kept his Marines safe and helped them through their professional and personal ups and downs during the years he commanded Mike Company in Afghanistan. Charlie was close to six feet tall, lean like a rail and wearing a white cowboy shirt and blue jeans. Reese sensed this older gentleman wouldn’t throw him out.
The last place he’d gone into to try to find some work, they’d called him a druggie and he was told to get the hell out. He smelled. Reese, when walking the last ten miles to Wind River, had stopped when he discovered a stream on the flat, snow-covered land and tried to clean up the best he could. The temperature was near freezing as he’d gone into the bush, away from the busy highway, and stripped to his waist. He’d taken handfuls of snow and scrubbed his body, shivering, but hell, that was a small price to pay to try to not smell so bad. He hadn’t had a real shower in a month, either.
“You a vet by any chance?” Charlie asked, his eyes narrowing speculatively upon Reese.
“Yes, sir. Marine Corps.” He said it with pride.
“Good to know, Son.” Charlie looked toward a table at the rear of the store that held coffee, cookies, and other goodies that he offered his patrons. “Why don’t you go help yourself to some hot coffee and food over there?” he said, and he gestured in that general direction. “My wife, Pixie, made ’em. Right good they are. I usually get a stampede of ranchers comin’ in here when word gets ’round that Pixie has baked goodies,” he said, and chuckled.
Reese wanted to run to that table, but he stood as relaxed as he could be, given the anxiety that was tunneling through him constantly. “I’d like that, sir. Thank you . . .”
“Don’t call me sir,” Charlie said. “Americans owe so much to ALL of you men and women who have sacrificed for us. Now, go help yourself. There’s plenty more where that came from. Pixie usually drives in midafternoon with a new bunch of whatever she’s been inspired to make in her kitchen that day.”
Reese needed something worse than food right now, so he hesitated. “Do you have any work I might do around here, Mr. Becker?”
“Call me Charlie. And no, I don’t need help, but I got a nearby rancher who is looking for a hardworking wrangler type to hire. You look like you’ve worked a little in your life,” he said, and he grinned, standing, pointing to Reese’s large, callused hands at his side. “I’ll call over there while you grab yourself some grub,” he added, and he waved his hand, urging him to go eat.
Nodding, Reese rasped a thank-you and felt his stomach growl loudly. He hoped like hell Charlie didn’t hear it. But judging from the man’s facial expression, he had heard it as he picked up the black, ancient-looking landline phone sitting on the counter to make a call to that ranch. As Reese halted at the long table against the back wall of the store, his mouth watered. He was chilled to the bone, his combat boots wet, his socks soaked, toes numb. The coffee smelled so damned good and he poured some into a white Styrofoam cup with shaking hands. He took a cautious sip, the heat feeling incredible as it slid down his throat and into his shrunken, knotted gut. God, it tasted so good!
Reese kept one ear cocked toward the phone call Charlie was making. Let there be an opening for me. He worried because even though he no longer stank, his clothes were dirty and long past a washing. He knew he looked like a burned-out druggie or a homeless person, his hair long, unkempt, his black beard thick and in dire need of a trim. Reese didn’t have a pair of scissors on him to do the job. His scruffy dark green baseball cap was frayed and old, a holdover from two years ago when he was a Marine.
He eyed the box of colorfully frosted cupcakes and his mouth watered. He wanted to grab all of them, but his discipline and his sense of manners forced him to pick up just one. His fingers trembled again as he peeled the paper off the pink-frosted cupcake.
&nbs
p; Swallowing the accumulated saliva, Reese bit into the concoction, groaning internally as the sweetness hit his tongue and coated the insides of his mouth. For a moment, he was dizzy from the sugar rush, his whole body lighting up with internal celebration as the food hit his gnawing stomach. Standing there, Reese forced himself to take slow sips of the coffee. It tasted heavenly. He heard Charlie finish the call and his footsteps came in his direction.
“Hey, Mr. Lockhart, good news,” Charlie said. “The owner, Shay Crawford, is still in need of a wrangler. She’s coming into town in about two hours, going to be dropping by here to pick up some dog food and such. Said she’d meet you at that time.”
“That’s good to hear,” Reese said. “Thank you . . .”
Charlie nodded. “I have a bathroom with a big shower in back, over there,” he said, and he jabbed his index finger toward the rear corner of the store. “It’s got some shaving gear and such in there, as well. On your way there, pick out a pair of jeans, a work shirt, boots, and whatever else you need before she arrives.”
“I don’t have the money to pay you,” Reese said, hating to admit it. But he understood what Charlie was really saying. The woman owner of the Bar C would probably NOT want to hire him the way he looked and smelled right now. The guy was trying to help him out.
Charlie gripped the arm of Reese’s damp, dark olive green military jacket. “Come this way. Just consider my offer as grateful thanks from this nation of ours for your sacrifices, Mr. Lockhart. You pick up what you need. It’s free to you. It’s the least this nation can do for our vets.” Charlie drilled a look into his eyes that told him he wasn’t going to budge from his position or offer to him.
Reese was going to say no, but the man’s face turned stubborn. He felt like he was in a dream instead of a nightmare. “Tell you what,” Reese said, his voice suddenly thick with emotion. “If I get this job, I’ll pay you back every cent. Fair enough?”
Charlie smiled a little. “Fair enough, Mr. Lockhart. Now, eat all you want and once you’re filled up, choose your clothes, find a good Stetson, work gloves, and anything else you might need. Bring it to the counter and I’ll write it up for you.” Charlie studied his sorry-looking boots. “And get a pair of decent work boots to replace those guys.” He gave Reese a grin. “They look like they need to be permanently retired.”
One corner of Reese’s mouth twitched. “Sort of like me,” he admitted, more than grateful to the man. He felt like he was being treated like a king.
“Son, you’re just having a bad streak of luck, is all. We all go through them at some point in our lives. You’ll get through it too.” Charlie released his arm and patted it. “I think your streak is gonna end right shortly. Miss Crawford is an angel come to earth. If you present yourself well, I’m sure she’ll hire you. She’s a good boss to work for. The people she hires stay and that says everything.”
Reese watched Charlie walk back to the counter. Hot tears pricked the backs of his eyes. Reese swallowed hard several times, forcing them away. He ate four more cupcakes, and had three more cups of hot coffee, and felt damn near human in the next fifteen minutes. He found the jeans, work shirts, thick, heavy socks, a couple of pairs of boxer shorts, two white T-shirts, and carried them up to the counter.
Charlie scowled. “Where’s your work gloves? You need a good, heavy Carhartt work jacket, too. Your Stetson? Get a pair of snow gloves. It stays winter until mid-June around here. And don’t leave out getting a good, heavy knit sweater you can wear under that winter coat of yours,” he said, and he pointed in another direction where a turnstile of men’s sweaters hung with a spring for sale sign on top of it.
Chastened, Reese nodded, his throat locked up with shame.
“Oh, and serious work boots, Son.” He shook his finger in another direction where the footwear department was located. “Get a darned good pair. Don’t skimp on quality because of price.”
Reese wished he could turn Charlie’s name into the White House and he be lauded as the hero he was to him. There should be recognition to civilians who helped out vets who were faltering or who had walked away from society. Charlie deserved a civilian medal of the highest order.
Once Reese located the rest of the gear, he brought it up to the counter.
“Grab your new duds and take a good, long, hot shower, Mr. Lockhart. There’s razors, a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet should you want to trim that beard and long hair of yours a bit.”
* * *
Later, Charlie smiled from behind the counter as Reese approached it. In his hands, he held his old clothes. Reese smelled food. Real food. And then, he spotted two large Styrofoam boxes near Charlie’s elbow.
“You clean up real good, Mr. Lockhart,” Charlie said, rising and taking his clothes. “I’m assuming these are DOA?”
Reese nodded. “Yeah, pretty much. Thanks for your help here,” he said, and he motioned to the clothes he now wore.
“Like I said,” Charlie murmured, dumping the clothes into a huge wastebasket, “our country OWES YOU.”
Charlie gave him the Styrofoam boxes, and told him the owner of Kassie’s Coffee Shop had sent hamburgers over for Reese. Then Charlie showed him to a spot where he could eat the food. It was delicious.
As he bit into the burger, he closed his eyes, made a low sound of pleasure in the back of his throat, slumping against the metal chair. Reese knew if he gulped it down, he’d more than likely throw it up, so he tamped down on his animal desire. He chewed it slowly, savoring every last taste and bit of the lettuce, tomatoes, onion, cheddar cheese, and bacon on it. It took him thirty minutes to clean up everything. The apple pie was melt-in-your mouth, reminding him of his mother’s own home-cooked pies.
An old ache centered in his heart. His parents wanted him home, but God, that had been a disaster. Reese wasn’t going to make them pay for his PTSD and they didn’t understand why he had to leave. He wasn’t the best at expressing his shame over symptoms that he couldn’t control. And he’d refused their money. His father, a hardworking mechanic, had saved all his life for their retirement and Reese wasn’t about to let him give it to him. He had to stand on his own two feet, pull himself up by his bootstraps, and not accept handouts.
As he rose and placed the chair against the wall, he saw the door open. A young woman with light brown hair, slightly curly around her oval face, walked in. She was wearing a black baseball cap, a blue chambray shirt the same as he wore, a heavy Levi’s jacket, and a pair of loose-fitting jeans that told him she had a lush figure hidden beneath them. His heart jolted as their eyes met briefly. She had sky blue eyes, just this side of turquoise, wide set, intelligent, and Reese sensed the same primal instinctive-ness that he possessed. She was attractive, wearing no makeup, but her high cheekbones were flushed, as if she’d been running or working out hard.
His stomach clenched, and suddenly Reese worried that if she was the owner of the Bar C, she’d be afraid of him like so many other women who saw him were. In the Corps, wearing his uniform or utilities, women always gave him a pleasing look, scoping him out, their gazes telling him they’d like to know him a lot better. He almost laughed as he struggled to get his anxiety corralled. Since he’d fallen from grace, his scruffy, bearded homeless look scared the hell out of all females. Reese knew he wasn’t a bad-looking man, but somehow, no woman could look beneath his present state of dishevelment and see the real him. He would NEVER hurt a woman or child. But the look in their eyes spoke of exactly that: that he was capable of violence against them. It was a bitter pill to swallow to be judged by what he wore instead of who he really was.
“Hey,” Charlie called, twisting his head in Reese’s direction, “Miss Shay is here. Come on up and meet her, Reese.”
God, this was like a firing squad. All his life, he’d drawn straight As in school and in college. Always a winner. Always successful at whatever he tackled. He was first in everything he’d ever tried. And now, he was last. Dead last.
Squaring his shoulders
, Reese walked toward the counter and watched as the young woman who was about a head shorter than him, maybe around five foot eight or nine inches tall, assessed him critically. Reese could feel the heat of her blue gaze stripping him from his uncovered head down to his boots as he rounded the corner of the counter.
“Shay, meet Reese Lockhart,” Charlie said. “Reese, this is Shay Crawford, owner of the Bar C.”
Reese saw a shadow flit across her eyes for just a moment, and then it was gone. Her mouth was full, lush just like her breasts and hips. A hum started low in his body, appreciating her purely as a woman. When she extended her slender hand, he engulfed it gently within his. Reese tried to keep the surprise out of his face as he felt the calluses along her palm and the roughness on her fingers, telling him she worked hard.
“Ma’am,” he murmured, “nice to meet you. I asked Charlie if anyone needed a wrangler and he said you did.” Reese released her hand, albeit reluctantly. To his surprise, she stood her ground even though he was a good six inches taller than she was. He didn’t scare her and that made Reese sag inwardly with relief. Those fearless-looking blue eyes of hers were direct and he held her gaze, understanding she was feeling him out on an instinctual level. In the kind of black ops work he had done, instinct is what had saved his life so often. Reese sensed strongly she possessed the same powerful intuition herself.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Lockhart.” She glanced over at Charlie. “He said you were a vet? That you were a Marine?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her lips twisted and she smiled a little. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
Her lips pulled faintly at the corners. “You’re right. You’re still a Marine even if you’re now a civilian. Call me Shay, Mr. Lockhart. I was in the service too. I’m fine with less protocol.”
Reese nodded. “Manners are hard to erase,” he noted, a slight, teasing note in his voice. “But I’ll try.”
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