by Peggy Jaeger
In her mind she’d pictured the house as resembling the one from the 80’s show Dallas. The Dixon house was nothing like that iconic structure.
Three stories high and filled from side to side with gabled windows, the house was composed of multicolored gray slab in a patchwork design, Ionic columns shooting up from the wraparound porch to the second story across the front of the building, and a set of double front doors made of solid, unstained oak.
Several American model trucks and cars littered the gravel road up to the house but Stacy’s gaze zeroed in on three huge box vans parked off to one side with the initials EBS blazoned cross them. Satellite dishes covered most of the three vehicle’s roofs. Several smaller box trucks surrounded them, all belonging to the network.
“The television trucks and crew arrived a week ago,” Beau said.
“Did Mr. Stamp arrive with them?” she asked.
“No, Ma’am, uh, I mean, Stacy.”
She was charmed when his cheeks reddened.
“Got here three days ago. He’s been out with daddy, scouting locales for filming. They’ve been gone most of every day since.”
When his lips pulled back into a dry grin, she asked, “What’s funny about that?”
“Not funny, like you mean, Ma—Stacy. It’s just Daddy’s been as ornery as a hungry mountain cat. He likes to order people around, does Mr. Stamp. Daddy doesn’t take kindly to following other people’s commands.”
Great. Now she not only had to try and control her dictatorial director, but she probably had to smooth the waters with their host as well.
The rumbling sound of a large vehicle coming up the drive had them both turning to the sound.
“Here they come now, in fact.”
Stacy’s gaze tracked the truck as it pulled in and parked. The driver’s door pushed open and she got her first view of the ranch’s owner, Amos Dixon. Put thirty years and fifty pounds on Beau and you had his father, right down to the Stetson on his head and the well lived-in jeans covering the yards of leg.
Dixon’s eyes zeroed in on his son and then trailed to Stacy. A slow, steady and welcoming smile drifted across his mouth as he boldly stared at her. She was about to return it when the passenger door slammed, its occupant pushing around from the front of the truck.
His height mimicked the man next to him at about six-one. The similarities ended there. Where Amos Dixon was stockily built and barrel chested, his physique laying claim to the fact he labored hard for his living, Dominic Stamp was lithe and athletic, narrow hipped, but broad shouldered. Clad in jeans under a pure-white collared shirt, the last thing anyone would take him for was a rancher.
His eyes were hidden behind dark aviator sunglasses, his head hatless. Thick and wavy jet black hair tinged with white at the temples and hairline framed a face that could never be called soft. Angular planes cut into his high cheekbones, deep corrugations running down from the corners of his thick lips to his chin. Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew they were locked on her, just as she knew behind those sunglasses, heated antagonism was focused on her face.
Stacy had prepared what she was going to say when they finally met. Her little rehearsed speech died a horrible death before she was ever able to utter it as the director stomped toward her, his mile long legs eating up the dust and gravel beneath his feet, an angry scowl darkening his features. The hostility blowing from him sliced through her the closer he came.
Stacy took a deep mental and physical breath. She’d known his reputation before agreeing to take this job and had decided to do it anyway. Working with him was going to be difficult and the biggest professional challenge she’d ever set herself up for, but if there was one thing Stacy knew about it was she was determined to never quit. Anything. No matter what—or who—the challenge was.
With her mouth pulled into a determined line and her spine as straight and hard as a steel-forged rod, she moved toward the director, one hand extended.
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary endeavor. Thankfully, I have a huge support system who check on me frequently to make sure I exercise, eat, and have some form of human contact. That support system consists of people with skills—serious skills—who answer me when I have questions, and allow me to pick their brains when I need to learn new things.
So, for helping me learn about photography, thank you Jill Hart and Stephanie Krist. Just watching you two take pictures is like attending a master class in photography.
For several years, my husband and I, plus our daughter, were privileged to study karate with Sensei Rick Wilmott. For almost 10 years we got tossed to the floor more times than I’d like to remember when we sparred and grappled, and learned innumerable ways to defend ourselves against physical attacks. Many of the maneuvers we learned I incorporated into Gemma and Ky’s story, so thank you, Sensei, for giving me that foundation of knowledge.
I want to acknowledge my husband, here. Two years ago he had the idea that it might be a fun thing for us to do as a couple to learn to shoot. City slickers though we were raised, we now live in a rural area where guns are not uncommon. He felt it would be wise—plus fun—for us to learn about gun safety and to take shooting lessons. When I envisioned Gemma, I truly saw her as a warrior, so since she could defend herself with her martial arts skills, it made sense she could shoot a gun as well. I would never have known the terminology to use, or what it actually felt like to hold a gun had my hubby not pushed for us to learn those skills. Taking those lessons helped me walk the walk and talk the talk of shooting.
Lastly, my continued thanks to my wonderful editor, Esi Sogah, and all the marvelous, smart, sassy, and book-market savvy professionals at Kensington/Lyrical. Your persistent encouragement and support has made me the writer I’ve always longed to be.
About the Author
Peggy Jaeger is a contemporary romance author who writes about strong women, the families who support them, and the men who can’t live without them. Peggy holds a master’s degree in Nursing Administration and first found publication with several articles she authored on Alzheimer’s Disease during her time running an Alzheimer’s in patient care unit during the 1990s. A lifelong and avid romance reader and writer, she is a member of RWA and is the Secretary of her local New Hampshire RWA Chapter. When she’s not writing she can be found cooking. With over 100 cookbooks, dog eared and well loved, her passion for writing is only seconded by her desire to create the perfect meal for those she loves. Visit her at www.peggyjaeger.com.