by Helen Lacey
She heard barks and yips and a low, mournful yeowing sound and quickly realized each of the stalls was occupied. There were four more horses and at least a dozen dogs, mostly in pairs. She went from stall to stall, visiting with the animals, reaching through the slats of plank siding to pet the ones that came forward to greet her.
At the end of the row of stalls were two rooms that had been built along the barn’s outer wall, and she held her breath as she carefully opened one door. The walls of the room were lined with wooden hutches, and a myriad of twitchy noses and bright bunny eyes greeted her.
“What kind of ranch is this?” she asked in a hushed whisper, but the bunnies only hopped back and forth in response.
She reached for the other door, curiosity building in her chest. What was next? Llamas? Alpacas?
Cats.
The second room was filled with cats.
Well, not exactly filled, but there were more than she would have expected, and while she was counting, a small black kitten darted out through her legs.
She closed the door and leaned over to pick up the wanderer, but he crawled under a wide wood shelving unit and out of her reach.
Lucy felt like she’d stumbled on something private here, the animal version of a secret garden or some fairy-tale beast’s private castle. She was no Beauty, but whatever this place was or whom it belonged to, she had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to be here without permission.
Still, she couldn’t leave until she saw the kitten safely back to his cat room, so she got down on her hands and knees and peered under the shelf to the corner where the kitten had lodged himself.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” she crooned. The little cat’s green eyes focused on her for a second. Then he lifted a leg and started grooming his man parts, which seemed to interest him far more than she did.
“Time for that later,” she told him and wedged herself farther into the space. “You look too tiny to be away from your mama, little guy.”
“He’s seven weeks,” a deep voice said from behind her. Startled, Lucy both cried out and lifted her head, banging it hard enough on the shelf above her to see stars.
The kitten dashed past as she struggled to wriggle out from where she’d squeezed herself. Head pounding and blinking away tears, she managed to back into the open space of the barn again. Still on her hands and knees, she looked over her shoulder to find the biggest, baddest-looking cowboy she’d ever seen staring down at her with a deep frown.
The wayward kitten was cradled in the crook of his elbow.
She hadn’t heard the man enter the barn but could see the play of light and afternoon shadows from the open door at the far end. Heat colored her cheeks as she realized that the whole time he’d been walking the length of the middle row, she’d been giving him a prime view of the faded jeans that covered her backside.
Way to make a first impression, Lucy.
“Hi,” she said, scrambling to her feet and holding out a hand. “I’m Lucy Renner. I’m—”
“The gold digger’s daughter,” he interrupted in a tone that reminded her of gravel crunching under tires. “You look like her, only not yet as ridden hard and put away wet.”
Lucy felt her mouth drop open as her protective streak exploded like a powder keg. Yes, she had problems with how her mother cycled through men, but this would-be Marlboro man, handsome as sin and clearly twice as dangerous, was way out of line.
The man nudged her out of the way as he opened the door to the cat room and dropped the kitten to the ground. “You’re also trespassing in my barn.”
“You’re rude,” she said through clenched teeth.
“Doesn’t make the words less true.”
Dusting off the front of her jacket, Lucy threw back her shoulders and glared at the man. “I don’t think Mr. Sharpe would appreciate you speaking about his soon-to-be bride that way.”
He started to turn away, and she grabbed his arm, refusing to be intimidated by his hulking physical presence. If there was one thing Lucy could do, it was appear more confident than she was. She had fake conviction to spare, and no way was she allowing some ranch hand to bully her or her mother.
“What’s your name?” she demanded. “I’m going to make sure this is your last day working for Garrett Sharpe.”
The man stared at her fingers, the pink polished nails so out of place on the dull brown canvas of his heavy coat. Then his gaze lifted to hers, those piercing green eyes as hard as granite.
“Caden,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “My name is Caden Sharpe. Garrett is my—” he paused as if the word was stuck on his tongue “—my father,” he said after an awkward moment.
“I thought Garrett’s son died a few years ago?” Lucy regretted the question when Caden flinched. Maybe her mother had gotten the story wrong or played fast and loose with the facts to elicit sympathy when she was trying to convince Lucy to make the trip to Colorado.
Family is important to Garrett, her mother had said. He was devastated by his son’s death, and I want to show him I value family the way he does.
“Tyson.” Caden’s lips barely moved as he said the name. “Tyson was my brother.”
Then, as if her touch was physically painful to him, he shrugged it off and stalked away.
Copyright © 2017 by Michelle Major
Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Helen Lacey for her contribution to The Fortunes of Texas continuity.
ISBN-13: 9781488014642
A Fortunes of Texas Christmas
Copyright © 2017 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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