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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520
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Second Chances
Copyright © 2008 by Denise Belinda McDonald
ISBN: 978-1-60504-359-3
Edited by Tera Kleinfelter
Cover by Natalie Winters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: October 2008
www.samhainpublishing.com
Second Chances
Denise Belinda McDonald
Dedication
For Oscar and Imogene Head who gave me my love for all things horses and cowpokes—I miss you both terribly!
To: Sandy Jones for arguing with me over words—even if I win—and still being my (BFF) friend. Amie Stuart for always making me write. Lynn Matherly who will talk even when Amie is giving us “the eye” for not writing. The Faulkners, Sharon Rowe, Bev Vines-Haines: love y’all. Write on ~ Chicas! And C.C., my inspiration—even if you didn’t know—here’s to a night on the country.
Alan, as always my hero, and the boys, I love y’all more than I can say. Thanks for always cheering me on.
Tera Kleinfelter—super-editor—thanks for all you do! You rock!
Chapter One
“Hey, darlin’. I hear you’re waiting for someone,” a deep male voice rumbled right beside Zan Walter’s ear, much closer than she preferred. “Could that be me?”
After the sixty-eight hour drive from Texas and not finding her aunt at the diner, Zan was in no mood for pickup lines—cheesy or otherwise. She turned, expecting to find a dumpy, balding man in overalls standing behind her, maybe missing a tooth or two. Instead he looked like he’d just stepped out of the pages of American Cowboy or Country Music Weekly. Was he someone famous? With his tanned good looks he could be, but she didn’t recognize the man with his perfectly straight white smile and a blond goatee.
The man was hot and from the smirk on his face, he knew it.
He leaned on the counter, edging closer to Zan. She could smell steak and onions on his breath. Any appetite she had disappeared as she tried to scoot away from him, but her rear was already half off the vinyl padded stool. Every eye was on her. She could jump off the seat altogether, making a fool of herself… However, that was not the way to end an already miserable day.
“Nope, sorry,” Zan said sweetly, but firmly. “I’m waiting for someone else. But I appreciate the offer.”
The men down the counter nudged each other.
“Aw, c’mon, darlin’.” He reached up and fondled the ends of her newly short hair, his knuckles grazed her face.
Zan narrowed her eyes and pushed his hand away. “I am not your darlin’.” Who the hell does this guy think he is? “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish my coffee. Alone.”
Someone gasped and someone else snickered. The genial look on the man’s face disappeared so fast a tinge of fear shot through her. She wasn’t so much worried she couldn’t handle him—even at thirty-two her brothers had given her a refresher course on how to defend herself before she’d left home—but she didn’t want to get branded as a troublemaker her first minute in a new town.
“Leave her alone, Da—” the waitress started.
“Butt out, Missy.” He turned his attention back to Zan. “You’re new here, so I’ll let that go this time.”
“Oh, how kind of you.” She tilted up her mouth in a saccharine smile and lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “Does this mean the next time I turn down your unwanted advances you won’t be so nice?” Zan fisted her hands at her sides. “Why don’t you go milk a cow or something?”
“Why, you little…”
“Check, please.” Zan raised her voice back to normal and glanced at the stunned waitress.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the color rise in the egomaniac’s cheeks. She’d probably gone too far. Please, does he honestly think he can go around intimidating everyone who doesn’t drop to the floor and lick his boots?
His hand clamped on her arm.
Zan slapped a ten down on the counter with her free hand. She sure as hell wasn’t in Texas any more. “You’d better let go.” She wasn’t sure why she was surprised when the man dug his fingertips into her arm.
“Or what?”
———
Jacob Bowman stepped inside the Paintbrush Diner just in time to hear Missy say she’d called the sheriff.
Sheriff, huh?
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure Conan and I are through,” a woman said in a voice that showed no sign of intimidation.
Jacob raised his eyebrows. She was bold. Not many people, men or women, would stand up to Dale.
“I…I’ll just get your change.” Missy walked over to the pair and reached for the money on the counter.
“No.” The woman jerked her arm free. “Keep the change. Since we made such a ruckus.”
The woman picked up her purse and headed to the door. Her hips sashayed from one side to the other. Judging from the anger which still played across her face, she had no idea every man in the room watched her sexy strut as she headed his way. He was disappointed not to be on the back end of her storming out.
The view from the front wasn’t too bad. She was a shapely thing, for sure, curves in all the right places. Then Jacob noticed the freckles. Freckles colored every bit of her face and neck, down under the collar of her shirt. What other parts of her body were freckled? Why he suddenly wanted to give her his is vital statistics… “I’m thirty-four. Very single. And I’d like to see where your freckles stop.” He tried to shake his thoughts loose when she was about even with him—Lord help him if she read his mind.
She paused as if just realizing he blocked her escape route. Her gaze lifted. The slate gray eyes shined with tears and electricity zipped through him like the time he accidentally grabbed the old electric fence on the back end of the ranch.
Damn, what was that all about?
“Excuse me, please.” Her low, whispery voice quavered slightly, in contrast with the self-assured gruffness she’d used with Dale. A faint tint of pink washed under the freckles.
Unable to find his voice, he nodded and held the door open for her. She passed through quickly, leaving only her scent. A light fragrance tickled Jacob’s nose and reminded him of something, but he couldn’t place it.
He watched until her taillights faded and chatter resumed in the diner. Jacob warded off the odd disappointment which suddenly engulfed him and let the door swing shut before heading to the counter.
Dale, being Dale, had to get the upper hand in front of his pals. “…and did you see the way she ran out of here with her tail tucked between her legs?”
“The way I saw it—” Jacob moved to stand next to Dale at the counter, “—she saved you a visit with Sheriff Reese. Something your daddy wouldn’t like too well.”
Dale turned and glared at him. “This has nothing to do with you, Bowman. Aren’t there some stalls you need to muck?”
Jacob bit back a smile. The woman had knocked Dale down, made him revert to childish barbs. Something many people in Paintbrush wo
uld have paid to see. Jacob laughed to himself but made no further comment, just shifted his eyes to Missy. “I’ll take some of Clara’s pot roast. To go.”
Jacob could feel Dale’s gaze boring into him. The man must be seething. A woman talked back to him and he couldn’t bait Jacob into an argument. No one to argue with, Dale and his men left without another word.
Jacob’s day had turned out okay after all.
———
“How in the world did you ever find me?” Bonnie Carmichael asked her niece.
“Really, Aunt Bonnie. How many PT Cruisers do you think are in Paintbrush? Or the entire state of Wyoming, for that matter?” Zan hugged her aunt. She had driven street after street—all three of them—not exactly sure what she would do, until she finally spotted her aunt’s car.
She should have waited at the diner, if nothing else in her car. But she hadn’t wanted to hang around after her run-in with Mr. Ass, and the last thing she needed was the sheriff involved her first day in a new town. She was a big girl. She’d managed to live several years in Dallas and never once needed police intervention. Shoot, even Fort Worth was wild compared to Paintbrush, despite Conan or whatever the hell his name was.
Sucking back tears of embarrassment, which belied her resolve not to let the man get to her, she’d pasted on the best smile she could muster and found her aunt inside the convenience store.
“I’m sorry I missed you.” Her aunt pulled away from the embrace and looked Zan over. “Since you were running late, I decided to pop over to the grocers and get you a few things.” The older woman’s eyebrows drew together. “Why didn’t you wait for me at the diner?”
“I had a run in with some jerk.” Zan shivered at the memory of his big hands touching her. “Some blond Adonis with biceps and ego to spare.”
Bonnie nodded. “That would be one of the Holstrom boys.”
“One? There’s more?” Zan groaned.
“Yes. Three. Bart, Dale and Cade.”
“This one had a goatee and acted like God’s gift to women.”
“That’s Dale. Unfortunately, Bart’s the same way. But Cade’s a sweetie. I think they must have switched him when he was born, but those other two are trouble with a capital… Oh hi, Barry.” Bonnie squeezed Zan’s hand. She turned to find a man walking toward them. He had the same chiseled cheekbones and blond hair as the egomaniac.
“Daddy Holstrom?” Zan whispered to her aunt.
“Yep.” Bonnie pasted on the fakest smile Zan had ever seen. “What brings you to town?”
“This and that.” He sauntered over to the two women. “Is it true? I heard tale that you moved to Sheridan to shack up with an Injun.” A sneer contorted his face.
Injun? No one spoke that way, did they?
Her aunt took a step forward and propped her hands on her hips. “Yes. Gene and I are living together. I just came into town to help my niece get situated. Now, if you’ll excuse us.”
Barry eyed the two for a moment, as if weighing whether another word was worth more of his precious time then passed and walked to the cashier carrying a steaming cup of coffee.
“Pompous ass,” Zan said when the man was out of earshot.
“Like father, like son.” The women laughed as they proceeded down the next miniature aisle.
Chapter Two
The small, two-bedroom cottage Bonnie had found for Zan to rent had a generous living area and suitable kitchen to fit her needs. After the breakup, she’d let Charles keep most of the furniture they’d accumulated. She didn’t want the memories of him. Aside from a few sentimental trinkets, she hadn’t had much of her own anyway. Which spoke of how lost she’d been with him. So little of her had been brought into the relationship that she didn’t think it had made a big dent when she left. He sure as hell had already filled their bed. Of course, that had been what had prompted their break-up in the first place.
She’d left, simplified her life and started over fresh.
In the days that followed, she spent time touring the quaint town and fell in love with the rustic buildings. In a town as small as Paintbrush, she thought she may have met each and every one of the touted population, though she knew she hadn’t—one man in particular had eluded her. Most were older folks born and raised there. She was hard pressed to find many who didn’t have a mile-long ancestry back to the town’s foundation in 1897. Given a chance, they would recite their family tree, nuts, knotholes and all. Still, she loved it, despite the fact Dale Holstrom and his clan lived within ten miles of her. The only downside to living in Paintbrush, Wyoming.
That one person she hadn’t seen again—the one she couldn’t stop thinking about—she hadn’t run across even once. Every night as she drifted off, she could still almost smell the leather and hay that had clung to the dark-headed cowboy when he stopped her at the diner. She chalked it up to living in a farming town. Though there was something different about his tangy scent—a musky quality which tightened her stomach and shot chills along her spine.
She hadn’t worked up the nerve to ask Missy who he was, since she was sure word would get back that she’d asked. After two weeks, she’d seen neither hide nor sexy hair of the man.
She was beginning to wonder if he’d been a figment of her imagination.
Despite all that, Zan had taken to her new life. In the evenings, she’d sit on her back porch. Crickets chirped and trees rustled in the breeze. She hadn’t missed the sound of the city. Even a city as small and low key as Keller, the small suburb north of Fort Worth, had all sorts of noise. Never far from the airport or military base, planes constantly flew over and highway traffic echoed from miles away. In Paintbrush, she heard none of it and got the most restful sleep she’d ever had.
Her job was going well, too. She adored her new boss, Dr. Abby Jensen, whom everyone called simply Doc. Being a secretary for a vet was busier than Zan had anticipated. Doc was responsible for all the local pets as well as the livestock at the surrounding ranches. Zan’s secretarial skills, honed at Charles’s dermatology practice, fell far short. As Doc’s assistant, she did more than file and take phone calls; she was more or less the woman’s right-hand man. She loved every feet-aching, learn-as-you-go minute of it. Even scrubbing the floors after a long day. She’d finally found a place where she was part of a team, pulling her own weight, not the boss’s girlfriend, hired because he liked to have her close.
Late one afternoon, Doc rushed from her office and past Zan, case folder in one hand and cell in the other. She paused on her way through the front door. “I have to run out to the Saddle Creek Ranch. They had a dog get trampled by some cattle.”
“I thought those dogs knew what to do.” Zan tried not to imagine the poor pup mangled and injured.
“It wasn’t a herd dog. He belongs to the owner’s daughter. They just got him from the pound. Got loose and ran into the corral.”
“Oh.” Zan didn’t know what else to say. Not that she’d had a chance because Doc turned and left without further comment.
———
An hour later, the phone rang. In her haste, Doc had forgotten to pack the doggie cone to keep the pup from chewing on his stitches.
After getting the directions to the ranch, excited to see her first cattle farm up close and personal, Zan locked up the office. It was half an hour out into the country down small farming roads. With the afternoon sun already starting to set, she savored the ride. The best thing she’d found in Wyoming was the clean, clear air. She couldn’t seem to fill her lungs enough.
The cool October day turned the air brisk, but despite the chill, she kept her window down until she turned onto the dirt road which led into the ranch. As she parked behind several trucks, dust kicked and she closed the windows and looked around.
The Saddle Creek Ranch was one of the few working cattle farms in their small area that didn’t offer tourist vacation packages. She’d learned, even in only two weeks, that Willard Cates had been born into the legacy of cattle ranching, as were most
men in this part of the world. He preferred to run his spread the same way his father, grandfather and so on had.
According to the town gossip, Lisa Cates was the sparkle in her daddy’s eye, and he was determined to leave her a legacy even if she professed loud and often her want to be rid of the small town—there were no secrets sacred. Zan had seen her a time or two in town. Her long blonde hair and chocolate brown eyes mirrored her mother’s own beautiful features.
As if Zan’s memory conjured up the girl, Lisa, dressed in a hot pink T-shirt and jeans, stood with someone in front of the huge, red barn double doors. At fifteen, the young girl was tall, close to six feet, and thin like her mother, but even still, she had to crane her neck to look up at the man in front of her. She had her finger shoved in his chest and was apparently yelling at him for all her worth, judging by the frown and ever-waggling mouth.
Neither spared Zan a glance as she got out of the car, dragging the bag for Doc behind her. As she drew closer, she could hear the girl’s tirade.
“…shouldn’t have left the door open in the first place. Daddy told you I got a new puppy and now he may be lame thanks to you.”
With a final huff, the girl turned and stomped off. She threw a quick wave to Zan, but instead of a smile, her face had a pout like a four-year-old as her boots slapped the gravel drive.
Zan shook her head. Teenagers.
Back at the barn, the man stood with his hands on his jean-covered hips and his head hung low. He dug the toe of his cowboy boot into the ground until he wedged a rock loose. His denim shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows, exposed strong, muscular forearms. Muscles that came from hard, backbreaking, work—not some air-conditioned weight room. His dusty, black felt hat sat low on his head. He seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
Before she could reach him, though, another man came out from the barn doors. An older man dressed in similar jeans, but his thin frame made them hang with little appeal. His tan shirt had seen better days as his boney elbow poked out from a thread-worn hole. He carried his straw cowboy hat in his hand, ventilating the bald spot on the top of his head.
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