Ryan insisted he didn’t mind the sparse conditions or having to use the bathroom in the clubhouse. According to him, the accommodations were luxurious compared to some places he’d lived. As long as he had his microwave, he’d be fine. Besides, the arrangement would hopefully only last a month. Two at the most. He was already working with Cheryl-Anne on finding a new property to flip.
Naturally, Bridget made sure he didn’t go hungry. After three days, sharing dinner with the family every evening, along with breakfast, had become a routine.
Grandma Em didn’t mind. If fact, she seemed to accept Ryan’s constant presence in the ranch house as normal. Their morning meetings continued, with Molly and Bridget often joining them.
Business had slowed this month, a nice change after their whirlwind of weddings during June. Summers, it seemed, weren’t the most popular time of year to get married. Too hot, for one. People on vacation, for another. The cabins remained occupied, but with more tourists and less honeymooners.
The monthly hayrides and square dances continued to be a hit and well attended. Bridget was using the slight lull in weddings to expand her catering efforts, and her hard work was paying off. She’d even recruited Ryan’s help, teaching him the proper way to serve. He’d delighted the Literary Ladies at their last luncheon with his charm and humor.
Bridget was also now hosting monthly dinner meetings for the local business owners’ association. The same one her grandmother, Owen and Cheryl-Anne were members of.
To her incredible surprise, she was in talks with Gregory about an annual employee function for the clinic staff. She’d heard from his sister at her wedding a few weeks ago that, as Bridget had predicted, he was already seeing someone new.
She and Ryan slowed to a stop at the light in front of the library. The café was one block up the road. It was now or never.
Gathering her courage, she asked, “Do you mind if we make a detour first?”
“No.” Ryan turned to look at her, the sexy grin she so adored lighting his face. “Where to?”
“Keep heading through town. Stay on the main road. For now,” she added.
He laughed. “You aren’t going to tell me?”
“Not yet.”
“Ah. A woman of mystery. I’m intrigued.” He pulled forward when the light turned green. A mile outside of town, he asked, “How far?”
“Gold Dust Lane. It’s just before the cutoff to Rio Verde.”
Five minutes later, Ryan was taking a right onto a dirt road. If not for the street sign, most people would pass by.
The truck bumped over ruts and potholes, and the tires left a long plume of dust in their wake. Bridget held on to the door handle when Ryan slowed to navigate a bone-dry wash cutting diagonally across the fence-lined road.
To the south, the McDowell Mountains rose majestically, their tips swallowed by the clouds. To the east, glorious desert terrain stretched as far as the eye could see. Every half mile or so, they passed a house, often with barns and horses. To their left, a scattered herd of grazing cattle could be seen in the distance.
“It’s pretty here,” Ryan commented. “I’ve never driven this far off the main road.”
“This is actually the oldest part of Mustang Valley. The cattle ranch over there belongs to the Peralta family, one of the first families to settle here back in the 1800s.”
“No kidding!”
Bridget pointed, her stomach a ball of nervous energy. “See the turnoff ahead?”
Ryan swung the steering wheel, and they ambled along the poorly maintained dirt drive. A moment later, a ramshackle two-story house came into view that looked like the only inhabitants were ghosts.
Ryan pulled into the semicircle driveway and parked. “Where are we?”
“This belongs to the Ruiz brothers. They inherited it from their dad, who passed away last year. It’s been empty almost four years, which is when he had a stroke and they moved him to a nursing home. He let the property go long before then, obviously, and no one’s done anything with it since. The brothers couldn’t agree. Until now. They’ve decided to unload it. That’s the term the family’s attorney used when I spoke to him.”
Ryan climbed out of the truck and started walking toward the house.
Bridget hurried to keep pace. “There’s acreage. Not much, but enough to run twenty or thirty head. The attorney says the brothers are very eager to sell and are getting ready to list it.”
“Did he happened to mention the price?”
She told him.
Ryan whistled. “Not cheap.”
“There aren’t many places for sale in Mustang Valley with this kind of acreage.”
“The house is no more than a pile of timbers. It needs to be leveled and a new one built.”
“But look at the barn!” Bridget grabbed his hand and pulled him with her around the side of the house. “It could have come off the pages of a calendar. With a little work, it’ll be spectacular.”
“It is nice.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Let me guess. You think I should buy the place.”
“Well...” She smiled.
“It needs a ton of work. We’re talking years.”
She curled into him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Wouldn’t that be fun? Building a house from the ground up?”
“Honey, I can’t afford it. The asking price is three times what I have in my account. And there’d be nothing left over for remodeling, much less building a new house. I’d have to take out a mortgage.”
“But a ranch like this is your dream.”
“Still out of reach.”
She extracted herself to face him. This was the moment of truth. The reason she’d brought him here. “Not if we did this together. Pooled our resources. We could build an apartment in the barn and live there until the house was finished. Then, your parents could move here and have the apartment, if they wanted.”
“Thought about this some, have you?”
“A little.”
Their gazes met. His was intense and unwavering. “That would require a big commitment from you.”
“You, too.” She held her breath. Waiting, hoping, praying.
He looked around, saying nothing, his features contemplative.
Bridget immediately worried she’d gone too far. He’d barely sold one property, and she was suggesting he buy a new one that was well beyond his price range. And she was throwing herself in as part of the deal. For someone supposedly willing to wait until he was ready to settle down, she was sure rushing him.
“Forget it.” She started to walk away. “I was wrong.”
He hooked her arm, preventing her escape. “I didn’t say no.”
“It’s too much. I overstepped.”
“What if I said I was willing to talk to the attorney?”
Excitement bubbled inside her. “Really?”
“On one condition. And it’s a big one. Huge.”
“What?”
Ryan let go of her and dug in his jeans pocket, withdrawing a small black velvet box. “If we do this together, and believe me, I want that more than anything, we do it as man and wife.”
Bridget’s heart lurched. “When did you...?” She couldn’t finish. Her jumbled emotions were interfering with her brain’s ability to form coherent speech.
“This morning. Before I picked you up.”
“Ryan! You shouldn’t have spent your money on a ring.”
He thumbed open the box lid. A stunning half-carat diamond solitaire caught the sun’s rays and reflected them back in a hundred shimmering slivers of light.
“Are you saying no?” he teased. “Because I can return the ring.”
“What! Absolutely not.” She squealed with delight. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
Laughing, he removed the solitaire from the box and reached for her
left hand. “Technically, I haven’t proposed yet.”
“You were taking too long.” She gasped when he slipped the ring on her finger and, after admiring it, threw her arms around his neck. “It’s gorgeous.”
“I love you, Bridget. I want to make a life with you. In this house, or another one. Anywhere. As long as we’re together.”
“I love you, too.”
They kissed, sealing their vows with a language known only to people in love. Bridget had to admit, Ryan was rather proficient at it.
When they finally separated, she reached into her pocket. She had something for him, too.
“Want to look inside the house?” She held up a key. “I drove into Scottsdale yesterday and picked this up from the attorney.”
He grinned. “Let’s go.”
Racing for the front door, they unlocked it and stepped across the threshold.
“Wait,” Bridget exclaimed. “I forgot my tablet in the truck. We might want to start a list.”
“Leave it,” Ryan said. “No lists. Not today.”
He was right. Besides, she had a feeling they’d be returning very soon.
* * *
Look for the next book in Cathy McDavid’s
The Sweetheart Ranch miniseries,
The Cowboy’s Christmas Baby,
coming November 2019,
only from Harlequin Heartwarming!
Keep reading for an excerpt from Hers to Protect by Catherine Lanigan.
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Hers to Protect
by Catherine Lanigan
CHAPTER ONE
VIOLET PEERED THROUGH her binoculars at the shower of apple blossoms fluttering onto the hood of her unmarked Ford Taurus squad car. Though she listened to satellite radio through an aux jack, she was waiting anxiously for a call from her superior, Detective Trent Davis. This was Violet’s first stakeout—though only an innocent-looking old farmhouse, it represented her superiors’ trust in her.
After six months on the ILPD force, she’d been handed every rookie assignment the chief couldn’t pawn off on one of the veteran cops. She was the greenie kid fresh out of the academy. Every one of her superiors had dodged giving her a real assignment. Until today.
She’d been walking past the chief’s office—okay, she’d been purposefully loitering there, eavesdropping on the conversation between Trent Davis, Sal Paluzzi and Chief Williams about a Chicago-based drug dealer moving into the area. She heard Chief Williams say, “All I’ve got is that this guy is in the area, drives an expensive sports car and a name. Miguel Garcia.”
Violet choked on the coffee she’d been nursing. Trent looked up and saw Violet on the other side of the open door. “Officer Hawks?”
Violet didn’t shy away. “Yes, sir.” She boldly walked across the threshold, but as she opened her mouth, an image of being fired for her impertinence invaded her thoughts. Risks were something an officer of the law faced every day. She took the shot. “It’s likely an alias. Miguel Garcia is a very common name. It would take more than searching databases to get a bead on this guy. Which would be the reason it was used.”
Trent folded his arms over his wide chest. The chief narrowed his eyes, while Sal sought refuge in his coffee mug. He was waiting for her to trip up. Again.
“You’re correct on that, Officer Hawks,” the chief said. “Any suggestions?”
Fast thinking, intuition and the ability to piece together unrelated clues and fragments of information had served her well since the first time she played board games, or watched television mysteries with her siblings. “Over Easter dinner at my mother’s house, which is out on the north side of the county, Mom said she’d seen an expensive sports car racing down 1000 North. She said it came out of nowhere and had to be going over one-fifty. It was so fast she didn’t remember the color. For my mother, an architect and designer, who sees every tone and hue of color, that’s fast.”
“Your point?” Trent challenged.
Her thoughts fell into place like lightning strikes. “It’s been ILPD experience that drug dealers around here tend to have fast, expensive cars. They also comb the county roads around Indian Lake because that’s how they traffic their shipments and avoid us. Er, the authorities. I’ve lived in the north of the county all my life. I know every road, farmer’s access road and gully. I’ve picked strawberries at Paulson’s Farm and peaches at Brown’s Orchards. The tourists don’t usually head out that way. Superfast cars aren’t the norm out near my mother’s house. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to say that speeding car belonged to someone who was up to no good, someone who might be part of this new dealer’s network or even the dealer himself.”
Her mouth had gone dry. Had she done the right thing? This wasn’t her meeting. She’d been hired as a traffic cop, though all she’d ever dreamed about was becoming an investigative detective on a major city’s police force such as Chicago or New York.
The truth was, Violet wasn’t good enough for big city forces. She’d applied in Indianapolis, Evansville and South Bend. They’d all turned her down. Being the second youngest Hawks kid, she’d wanted to get out of Indian Lake and make her mark elsewhere. Anywhere. But since drug use and trafficking in small towns and rural areas throughout the Midwest was on the rise, towns like Indian Lake needed cops. Trent Davis knew her sister, Isabelle, and Isabelle’s husband well, so he recommended Violet to the chief. She got the job.
Violet knew she had dues to pay. She was okay with that. Still, she would have rather done so in Los Angeles or Chicago where her detective skills would have been tested nearly every day and advancement would have been faster. Or so she thought. Trent Davis’s Drug Task Force had made significant inroads and arrests last year. Isabelle’s husband, Scott, had written a prize-winning newspaper article on his eyewitness report to Davis’s bust bringing down the notorious and elusive Le Grand gang. Now a new gang was taking over. If she could contribute to this investigation, she could become a permanent member on Davis’s team. After that? The possibilities were endless.
Trent rubbed the pleased smile off his face and turned to Violet. “Did your mother have an idea what kind of car it was?”
“She said Maserati. My brother Eric always had posters of Italian race cars in his room. She said it was something like that.”
“It could be anything,” Sal interjected.
Trent unfolded his arms. “How many Maseratis have you seen around here? Even in tourist season, Sal?”
“None.”
/>
Chief Williams pointed at Violet. “Hawks, I’m ordering you on a stakeout. Davis, you get her outfitted with what she needs. If something is going on up there on or around 1000 North, I want to know about it. This makes sense. It’s close to the Michigan state line. The interstate is a stone’s throw away. Those county roads up there are a spiderweb. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed my turn and ended up in Three Oaks, Michigan.” He cleared his throat.
Trent rose and walked toward Violet. Sal was behind him. He lowered his voice as they headed toward Trent’s desk. “Congrats, Hawks. But, while I’m ordering up a car for you, I want you to search that database.” He pointed to the computer on his desk. “Don’t look for Garcia. Look for Maserati sales in the tristate area.”
* * *
AS SHE SCANNED the early May orchards, she savored the sweet taste of satisfaction on her lips. She’d stepped up to the plate, and finally, she felt she was part of a team.
The radio chirped.
“Hawks?”
She grabbed the square shoulder mic. “Sir?”
“What have you got?” Trent asked.
“Nothing.” She sat up straighter. Her ears pricked as she heard the sound of an engine. This wasn’t a tractor or a slow-moving old truck taking fruit saplings out to plant. It was something she’d never heard before.
Holding the binoculars again, she saw a streak of blue through a blind of windbreak trees to the far south.
“Are you still there?” Trent asked.
“I got something.”
“What?” His voice pitched with interest.
“I don’t...know...but it’s moving like a bullet train.”
“Use your radar gun. How fast?”
She snatched the radar gun from the passenger seat, aimed and tagged the vehicle, whose make she still couldn’t identify. “Holy crap. Sorry, sir.” She turned on her car’s engine already anticipating the chase. “Two zero two.”
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