Harlequin American Romance May 2014 Bundle: One Night in TexasThe Cowboy's DestinyA Baby for the DoctorThe Bull Rider's Family

by Linda Warren

  Colt’s chest tightened. What he knew about women and babies wouldn’t fill a feed bucket, but he’d seen cows go down with eclampsia. If a rancher knew about it in time, he called the vet. Even then, everybody had to step mighty lively or they lost both the cow and the calf. His face warmed. Here he’d been bellyaching about skipping a meal when his own brother faced the prospect of losing his wife and unborn child. He pulled himself straighter in his saddle.

  Whatever it took, he vowed, he’d do his part to make sure his mom could stay with Garrett and Arlene for as long as she was needed.

  Even if it meant putting up with a few hunger pangs.

  * * *

  FROM SOMEWHERE NEARBY, a throaty engine roared to life. Emma slung an arm over her head, but quickly realized she could have saved herself the effort. With no curtains to block it, sunlight seeped beneath her eyelids, invaded her sleep and chased away the image of a dark-haired man whose lips had been created for kissing.

  Not that she wanted another man in her life. Or her dreams for that matter. Not at all.

  She pried her lids open. Her vision filled with the soft buttery hues of gold and warm cinnamon. Momentarily disoriented, she focused on the smoothly finished wood ceiling, letting awareness of her surroundings gradually seep in, the way she’d done all too often during a rootless childhood.

  She was at the Circle P. In Colt’s room. In Colt’s bed.

  “Hey, lazybones,” she whispered, skimming a hand over the clean sheets she’d spread across the mattress before putting Bree down for the night.

  She smiled, pleased at the way Ty and Sarah’s son Jimmy had taken her daughter under his wing. Despite their age difference, the two had played together long past Bree’s usual bedtime. So long, in fact, that her little girl had fallen asleep before she’d finished her evening snack.

  Now, if only she’d been able to drift off as quickly, Emma thought.

  Truth be told, the fresh linens had done nothing to mask a distinctly masculine scent. It had tickled her nose, stirring an awareness of Colt that had kept her awake far too late after a day behind the wheel and her poorly timed arrival at the ranch. Unable to sleep, she’d sat up half the night, skimming through the Circle P’s cookbook, identifying favorite dishes by their dog-eared pages, by the number of stains and food splotches.

  Small wonder, then, that she and Bree had both slept in.

  Her fingers reached the end of the mattress without discovering her little girl’s warm, familiar shape. Emma scrambled from the bed.

  “Bree?” She scanned the thin blankets. No child-shaped lump hid beneath them.

  A hollow spot opened in the pit of her stomach. According to Bree, monsters lived under the bed. Doubting her daughter would hide under one, Emma peered beneath theirs just the same. A light coating of dust and nothing more covered the glossy hardwood. She crossed to the closet and flung open the bifold door. A fresh wave of Colt’s scent wafted out at her. She held her breath and poked through clothes on hangers, boots and a pair of men’s black dress shoes.

  No Bree.

  Her heart thudding, Emma thrust her legs into the jeans she’d discarded on a chair. She pulled yesterday’s T-shirt over her pajamas and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Her bare feet skimming over polished wood, she padded down the hall.

  “Bree,” she called, pausing to look over the railing into the great room. Her gaze swept past inviting leather couches, a scattering of chairs and recliners. Pillows lined the hearth, but Bree hadn’t curled up on one. Her dark curls weren’t bent over Mrs. Wickles in the rocking chair.

  Where is she?

  Emma raced down the stairs, crossed the great room on a dead run and headed for the kitchen. She skidded into the room, fear lodged in her throat. Spotting a head full of dark curls at the huge trestle table, she drank in a breath of pure relief. She let it out slowly, noting the empty grape stem and slice of toast on a plate.

  “Mommy, I saw cowboys. Lots of them. They came in for breakfast.” A milk mustache moved up and down above Bree’s lips. “Mr. Colt and Mr.— What was his name?” She looked across the table at Doris.

  “Garrett, honey,” Doris answered. Dressed in jeans and a shirt with Western piping, she looked as at home on the ranch as the cowboys Bree referred to.

  Bree’s head bobbed up and down. “Mr. Garrett. They got on horses and went for a ride. Mr. Garrett and Mr. Colt are brothers. Did you know that, Mommy? Jimmy has brothers, too. Tim and Chris. Why don’t I have a brother?” She stopped for a breath.

  “Briana Elizabeth Shane, you scared me half to death,” Emma whispered. “You weren’t supposed to leave the room without me.”

  Her face all wide-eyed innocence, Bree protested, “But there were cowboys, Mommy!”

  A smile flitted across Doris’s lips. “Hard to argue with the child’s logic. Coffee?” She lifted a cup.

  “I’ll get it.” Padding past nearly empty pans of sweet rolls and coffee cakes on the counter, Emma frowned. A slice of melon and a couple of strawberries rested in the bottom of an immense bowl. She nibbled on her lower lip.

  “Looks like the cavalry came through. Do they usually get started this early?” She stifled a yawn. The restaurants where she’d worked in the past had opened late, and closed in the wee hours of the morning, another reason why the move to Florida had been a good one. But just how early did the day start on the ranch?

  Doris waved a hand, dismissive. “I probably shoulda mentioned that. Since I was already up, I threw enough together to keep the boys from starvin’ to death.”

  “You couldn’t sleep?”

  “Can’t get used to the quiet, I guess.” Doris stretched. “Seth snored like a band saw.” She blotted her eyes.

  Emma held her breath, wanting to give the new widow a chance to talk about her husband, but not quite sure what to say about the man she’d barely known. When Doris busied herself brushing a few crumbs from the table, she took it as a sign to pick up the thread of their earlier conversation.

  “What time do you usually put breakfast on the table?”

  Doris shrugged. “Depends. In the summer, we get an early start because of the heat. A little later in winter. Either way, before the roosters crow. Somewhere between six and seven. There’s a bell out on the patio. I ring it when the food’s ready, and they hustle in.”

  Six? Her internal clock was going to need a serious adjustment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing a mug. “I won’t let it happen again.” She tugged her hair out from underneath the back of her T-shirt.

  “Where is everyone?” she asked. Though they were alone in the room, the last thing she needed was for Colt to walk through the door and accuse her of slacking off.

  “Oh, they’re all busy. Garrett and Colt are checking the fence lines between us and Ol’ Man Tompkins’s place.” Doris hefted her coffee mug to the west. “Always a problem there.” She took a sip. “Randy and Royce took Tim and Chris with ’em to work on the little house. Ty and Sarah dropped Jimmy off to play with his friend at the Gillmores’. I think Sarah’s upstairs packing. Ty’s wrapping up things in the office. The others are out doing whatever they have to do to keep body and soul together.”

  It sounded as if everyone had a job and, except for her, they were hard at work doing it. Emma tugged her jeans a bit higher on her hips and wished she’d thought to put on a belt. “What can I do to help out?”

  “Nothin’ right now. Supper’s taken care of. Stacy Gillmore sent Ty and Sarah back with enough beef stew to feed an army. There’s still plenty of rolls and salads left over from yesterday.”

  A shadow passed over Doris’s face. She pinched the edge from one of the coffee cakes, and placed it on her plate but didn’t eat it. Before Emma could ask if she was all right, the older woman found her bearings and continued. “The men eat sandwiches for lunch—I usually pack them the night before so’s all they have to do is grab ’em and go. Peanut butter and jelly, mostly. You never know where they’ll be working. M
ight not have access to a fridge.”

  Emma nodded. Bagged lunches sounded easy enough and put her concerns about the lunch service to rest. She crossed from the cupboard to the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. “Sounds like we have a few things to go over,” she suggested. She cautioned herself to proceed slowly. For weeks after Jack’s funeral, she’d drifted through life in a fog. Just because Doris had rolled out of bed at her usual time and skipped the widow’s weeds, that didn’t mean she was operating at full steam.

  “I have a few things left to stash in my suitcase.” Doris drained the last of her cup. “Let me do that, and we can get started.”

  “Great. We’ll get washed up—” Emma nodded toward Bree’s milky mouth “—and be right back down.” She topped off her mug and held out a hand to her daughter. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go get dressed.”

  The little girl scrambled down from her chair. “Will we see horses today, Mommy? Can I ride one?”

  The thought of her child sitting astride a big horse was enough to send concern shivering down Emma’s spine.

  “On a ranch like the Circle P, everybody has to be able to handle a horse,” Doris said quietly. “It’s practically in the job description.”

  Maybe, but Emma waved a hand toward a sink full of dirty dishes. “For now, I think I’d better concentrate on all this.”

  Minutes later, while she brushed the sleep tangles from Bree’s hair, Emma used the time to impress on her four-year-old the importance of following the rules.

  “Remember how, in the city, you weren’t allowed to cross the street without holding my hand?”

  Bree nodded solemnly. “Always watch for the blinking man. He’ll tell you when it’s safe. Look both ways. And hold Mommy’s hand or the cars will knock me down.” She tipped her head up at Emma. “But, Mommy, there aren’t any cars here. Just cowboys.”

  “On a ranch, we have different things to watch out for. Horses weigh a lot. If one of them stepped on your foot, it’d hurt. Cows—you saw those sharp horns. A little girl like you could get poked.” She prodded Bree’s ribs and listened to her daughter laugh. She took a breath. “So never wander off on your own.”

  Making a rule for her four-year-old was one thing. Trusting her daughter to obey it was something else. While she brushed her own hair into a no-nonsense ponytail, Emma wondered if she’d done the right thing by moving them to a place where she hardly knew what was safe for herself, much less for her child.

  She blinked slowly. New York had a lot to offer, but she’d been hemmed in by tall buildings, crowds and traffic. In a city known for its five-star restaurants, the chance to run her own kitchen had been at least ten years in her future. Worse, her twelve-and fourteen-hour days began at noon and stretched into the wee hours of the morning. Which meant, other than on her days off, she rarely caught more than a glimpse of her daughter.

  Was that the kind of future she wanted?

  Here, she’d barely stepped on the premises before she’d been handed the chance to be her own boss. True, the hours were long, and she still hadn’t seen the little house they kept saying would be hers and Bree’s, but even in the middle of a funeral, everyone had gone out of their way to give her and her daughter a warm welcome.

  She stared out the immense picture window overlooking the front yard. Beyond the barn, flat land stretched for more miles than she could cover in a day’s walk. There were trees for Bree to climb, grassy lawns to play on and room for an active four-year-old to romp.

  The only fly in the ointment was Colt. The altercation with the tall rancher still rankled. She was certain their problems were far from over. And, once Doris and the Parkers left, there’d be no one to run interference for her with the handsome man who oh so obviously didn’t want her on his ranch.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight filtered through the kitchen’s screened door. Declaring the oasis the perfect spot, Bree dumped an armload of doll clothes in the puddle of sunshine.

  “Mrs. Wickles and me are gonna watch for cowboys.” She pressed her nose against the wire mesh. “I want them to come to my tea party.”

  “Stay inside.” Emma placed her own supplies on the kitchen table. “Ms. Doris said everybody went to work early this morning. They won’t be back again till dinner.”

  Though she doubted Bree would wander off—not so soon after their talk—Emma reached past her daughter to hook the latch. Beyond the patio, an old dog lounged in the shade beneath the oak tree. A black bird larger than any crow she’d ever seen pecked at the grass. A distant pond glistened, and she wondered if it held fish. Fresh-caught and grilled to perfection, almost any kind of seafood made a nice meal. She crossed to the table, where she added a note to a list she’d started while looking through the Circle P’s treasured cookbook the night before.

  Mission accomplished, she tugged on the hem of the simple floral blouse she’d chosen instead of her chef’s whites. With Bree playing quietly, Emma plunged a sticky pan into an immense copper sink that made her fears of rusty appliances and warped counters seem silly. There were changes to make, of course. Storing dishes in the cabinet opposite the fridge meant having to cross the kitchen every time she reached for a glass. The battered thirty-cup percolator was older than she was. It would have to go. The bread box sat too close to the stove. But, all in all, things were in far better shape than she’d expected.

  She finished washing the pan and set it aside to drain. Deciding the best way to preserve her job was to avoid another run-in with Colt, she vowed to keep her distance from the imposing cowboy. Besides, she had other, more pressing, problems. Last night, she’d scratched her head over the oldest recipes in the Circle P’s cookbook. Some of them were little more than a list of ingredients. She supposed niceties like temperatures and cooking times had been handed down from one generation to another. While she loved the idea of being part of that tradition, those other cooks had worked together for years. She needed to learn all they’d absorbed in just one day.

  One day. How was she ever going to do it?

  When Doris returned just as she was drying the last of the dishes, Emma opened her laptop and found her notes.

  “Okay, so biscuits.” Her fingers poised over the keyboard. “From all accounts, they’re your specialty. Several former guests even mentioned them on the website.” She squeezed her eyes closed and swallowed. “I have to admit, that’s something I’ve never quite mastered.”

  Doris sipped from an ever-present cup of coffee. “The secret to a good biscuit is a light touch. I mix up all the dry ingredients and keep them over there.” She motioned toward a large ceramic bowl on the dry sink. “There’s oil in the cupboard overhead. Add it and the milk at the same time. Don’t stir any more than you have to. Pat out the dough. Don’t roll it.”

  Emma typed furiously, stopping only when Doris pushed her coffee aside and stood.

  “Or you can do what I’ve done the past ten years.” She crossed to the big Sub-Zero and pulled open the lowest storage bin. “You can use these.” She held up a popular brand of canned biscuits.

  Stunned, Emma sat back in her chair. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Doris pointed to an age-lined face. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Emma searched the woman’s blue eyes for a hint of humor and found none.

  “But—” she protested. “But what about the traditions Colt said were so important?”

  “Honey, Colt’s just like you—brand-new to the job and eager to make an impression. My advice? Don’t waste time on the small stuff. I’ve been serving store-bought at the house for the better part of a decade, and nobody’s been the wiser.” She gazed through the window over the sink. “I’d do it on the trail rides, but the cans are a mite harder to hide out there.”

  Emma blew out a long, slow breath. Learning the older cook had a few ready-made tricks up her sleeves took some of the stress off her shoulders. Her confidence bolstered, she returned to the task at hand.

  “Okay,” she said
, “what’s next?”

  For hours, they pored over the cookbook while Bree chatted with Mrs. Wickles and played with her dolls.

  “I’ll never get all this right,” Emma mused when they finally took a break.

  Menus at the Circle P were at once simple and challenging. According to Doris, oven-fried chicken and mashed potatoes were nearly as popular as swamp cabbage, a dish Emma had never heard of, much less prepared. Apparently, it involved harvesting the hearts from palm trees.

  How was she supposed to do that, she wondered.

  “You’re gonna make mistakes. Everybody does,” Doris soothed. “The first time I fixed meat loaf, I was so proud of it. When I took it out of the oven, the bacon and tomato crust on top was perfect. The edges, dark and crispy. Seth said it was so pretty, it set his mouth watering. That was before I sliced into it.”

  She slapped the table, tears and laughter sparkling in her eyes. “It literally poured out of the pan. Seth ladled it over his mashed potatoes and said it was the best gravy he’d ever tasted.”

  Her laughter faded and she wiped her eyes with the edge of her apron. “I’m sure gonna miss that old man.”

  “I’m not sure Colt would think a ruined meal was something to laugh at,” Emma mumbled. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture the big man smiling about...anything.

  “My boys—they all have their moments—but I couldn’t ask for better sons.” Doris slanted her head to the side. “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his mother. Take my Seth, for example.” The older woman’s face crinkled. “Oh, that man. I was a sales clerk at the five-and-dime in town when he came in to buy a birthday present. For his mother, as it turned out.”

  Emma smiled at Doris’s meaningful glance.

  “One look at him, and I just knew I’d found the one I’d spend the rest of my life with.” She sipped her coffee. “You’ll see. It’ll happen for you, too.”