by Loree Lough
He can say no to everything but her…
Nate Marshall used to be a yes-man…until being so agreeable cost him dearly. But Eden Quinn has a way of getting him to reconsider his “just say no” policy. Which is how a bunch of troubled teens end up at his ranch for the weekend. The boys in Eden’s care are a handful, and Nate can’t help but be attracted to the feisty, independent woman who keeps them in line. This cowboy knows Eden’s no damsel in distress, yet it’s clear hers isn’t a one-woman job. If she’s determined to do everything on her own, how can he help her…let alone get her to fall for him?
Nate slid the envelope over to Eden.
“I don’t know what to say.”
He lifted her chin. “Say okay. And that you’ll find a safe place to keep it until you need it for a contractor, new appliances and whatnot.”
“A safe place?” Eden sighed. “Is there such a thing these days?”
“Would you feel more comfortable if I held on to the money? Say the word and name the amount you need, and I’ll be right over to deliver it.” He grinned. “Probably at mealtime.”
“Thank you doesn’t begin to cover what I feel.” Eden focused on something beyond his left shoulder. Nate couldn’t pinpoint the change in her expression. Anger? Fear? Disgust?
“No thanks necessary. I like those kids.” And I like you. “I’m glad I can help out a little.”
“A little?” Eden laughed. “I took a writing class a few years ago,” she said, “and the instructor stressed two things over and over.”
“Oh?”
“One—don’t undervalue your contributions.”
She leaned in close, real close.
“And what’s number two?”
“Show,” she whispered, “don’t tell.”
Eden pressed her lips to his, a lingering, heart-pounding kiss that left him breathless, wanting more.
When it ended, he looked into those striking storm-gray eyes and found a word to describe the subtle shift in her mood, and it hurt like a roundhouse punch to the gut: obligated.
Dear Reader,
At one time or another, we’ve all recited the adage, “You can’t judge a book by its cover” and the ol’ Will Rogers quote, “You’ll never get a second chance to make a first impression.” Put the two together and we’d sound a little like my secondary character Shamus Magee: “You’ll never get a second chance to judge a book by its cover.” Not even Eden Quinn, who relies on his grandfatherly insights, knows if Shamus’s mixed metaphors are deliberate or just a facet of his quirky personality. She has a surrogate mom of sorts, too: Cora Michaels, who teaches Eden that sometimes even the best mothers raise not-so-good kids. It’s a particularly tough lesson for Eden, whose life and career are dedicated to helping troubled teen boys…
Surrounded by a loving, tight-knit family, Nate Marshall doesn’t need surrogate relatives. His raised-as-brothers cousins, Sam and Zach, know when things aren’t right and have no trouble doling out much-needed advice—whether Nate thinks he needs it or not!
As an avid reader, you’ve no doubt figured out that secondary characters are integral to a story’s design…and the main characters’ development. Secondaries serve as sounding boards, advisors, even comic relief, and their interactions with the main characters allow readers to see deep into the minds and hearts of a book’s stars, too.
After you’ve finished reading Sweet Mountain Rancher, I’d love to hear which secondaries were your favorites!
Meanwhile, here’s hoping your life is filled with caring, helpful “secondaries”!
Wishing you only the best,
Sweet Mountain Rancher
Loree Lough
Loree Lough once sang for her supper. Traveling by way of bus and train, she entertained folks in pubs and lounges across the USA and Canada. Her favorite memories of “days on the road” are the hours spent singing to soldiers recovering from battle wounds in VA hospitals. Now and then she polishes up her Yamaha guitar to croon a tune or two, but mostly she writes. Her past Harlequin Heartwarming novel, Saving Alyssa, brought the total number of Loree’s books-in-print to one hundred (fifteen bearing the Harlequin logo). Loree’s work has earned numerous industry accolades, movie options and four-and five-star reviews, but what she treasures most are her Readers’ Choice awards.
Loree and her real-life hero split their time between Baltimore’s suburbs and a cabin in the Allegheny Mountains, where she continues to perfect her “identify the critter tracks” skills. A writer who believes in giving back, Loree donates a generous portion of her annual income to charity (see the Giving Back page of her website, loreelough.com, for details). She loves hearing from her readers and answers every letter personally. You can connect with her on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.
Books by Loree Lough
Harlequin Heartwarming
Saving Alyssa
Devoted to Drew
Raising Connor
Once a Marine
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
This story is dedicated to all the good-hearted people who see to the needs of helpless kids when their loved ones can’t…or won’t. There’s a special place in heaven for all of you!
Acknowledgments
A huge and heartfelt thank-you to those of you who took time from your busy schedules to answer my lengthy list of questions involving the foster care system, halfway houses and shelters that provide for kids in need. I admire the dedication that pushes you far, far above and beyond the bounds of your assigned duties—even when facing seemingly insurmountable odds. Though I respect and understand that in order to protect the kids in your care you must remain anonymous, I will remember your names and your deeds with fondness and gratitude!
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER ONE
NATE RESTED GLOVED hands on the gatepost and watched the long green van pull up to the barn. Over the past few days, he’d spoken several times with Eden Quinn, who’d called to ask if she could bring the teen boys in her care to the Double M for a weekend of communing with nature.
Right off the bat, he translated “boys in her care” to mean juvenile delinquents, and issued a matter-of-fact no. If they weren’t trouble, they’d be home with their parents or guardians instead of some county-run facility. Nate had to hand it to her, though, because after she repeated her spiel three different ways, he gave in. It was Memorial Day weekend, after all, and the ranch hands had scattered to the four winds, leaving him and Carl to hold down the fort. Once he’d taken the boys’ measure, he’d decide whether or not he could trust them alone in the bunkhouse. But no need to worry about that just yet, since it wasn’t likely they’d last until dark. In his experience, city folk shied away from work—the good old-fashioned hard work that involved powerful animals and manure.
As the van came to a stop, Nate thumbed his tan Stetson to the back of his head. The boys, staring out the windows, did their
best to look older and tougher than their years. To date, his only experience with young’uns of any kind involved his cousins’ kids, all happy, well-adjusted and under the age of ten. Nabbing sweets without permission was the worst crime any of them had committed. Something told him this hard-edged bunch was long past lifting cookies before dinner, and he hoped he hadn’t made a gigantic mistake inviting them to the family’s ranch.
The noonday sun, gleaming from the windshield, blocked his view of the driver. After seeing the boys’ sour expressions, he half expected someone who resembled Nurse Ratched to exit the vehicle. Instead, a petite woman in a plaid shirt and snug jeans hopped down from the driver’s seat and slid the side door open with a strength that belied her size.
“Okay, guys, everybody out!”
Nate recognized the husky-yet-feminine voice from their phone calls. He’d been way off base, thinking she’d look like a burly prison guard. He guessed her age at twenty-four, tops. But she had to be older than that if she’d passed muster with the state officials who’d hired her.
One by one, the teens exited the van and stared gap-jawed at the Rockies’ Front Range. As Eden walked toward him, he noticed her high-topped sneakers that would probably fit his eight-year-old niece. Nate grinned to himself, wondering how feet that small kept her upright…and how long the shoes would stay white.
“Hi,” she said, extending a hand, “I’m Eden Quinn.”
The strength of her handshake, like everything else about her, surprised him. She pumped his arm up and down as if she expected water to trickle from his fingertips.
“Nate Marshall said I should meet him here at noon. If you’ll just tell me where to find him—”
“I’m Nate,” he said, releasing her hand. “Good to meet you.” He’d uttered the phrase, but couldn’t remember ever meaning it more.
Eden tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “I expected you’d be, well, older.”
“Ditto,” he said, grinning.
Eden rested a hand on the nearest teen’s shoulder. “This is my right-hand man, Kirk Simons, and these are our boys.”
Nate followed Eden and Kirk down the line, shaking each boy’s hand as she introduced them.
“Is that a Stetson?” one asked.
Nate smiled. “Yep.”
“Cool.”
At the other end of the line, Eden clasped her hands together and faced Nate. “So where do we start?”
He searched each boy’s face to single out the troublemakers. One or two gave him pause, but none showed any signs of blatant mutiny. He hoped the same would be true when the green van drove back down the driveway.
“Leave your gear in the van for now,” he said. “Let’s head on into the barn. Once we’re saddled up, I’ll give you the nickel tour of the Double M.”
“Saddle up? None of us ever rode a horse before.”
The kid looked sixteen, maybe seventeen, and spoke with an authority that seemed out of place, given the fact that he lived in a place like Latimer House.
“Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine,” Nate assured him.
“Can we pick any horse we want?”
Eden had told him the boys were fifteen to seventeen. This one, Nate decided, must have a growth hormone problem.
“Why don’t we let Mr. Marshall choose this time,” Kirk said. “He’ll know better how to match you up with a horse that isn’t a runner, or worse, one that isn’t of a mind to move at all.”
The suggestion satisfied them, and like mustangs, the boys charged ahead, laughing like four-year-olds as they raced toward the barn.
“Hey, fellas,” he called after them, “hold it down, or you’ll spook ’em.”
Instantly, they quieted and slowed their pace. This might not be such a bad weekend after all. If they survived the ride—and what he had in mind for them next.
As the assistant joined the boys, Eden fell into step beside him. “This is really nice of you, Nate. Not many people are willing to give kids like these a chance. I hope you’ll consider inviting them back. At your convenience, of course. Because being out here in the fresh air, learning about horses and cattle…” She exhaled a happy sigh. “I just know they’re going to love this!”
Since losing Miranda, Nate had made a habit of saying no. But there stood Eden, blinking up at him with long-lashed gray eyes. He couldn’t say, “Let’s see how the rest of the weekend goes,” because yet again, his brain had seized on the “kids like these” part of her comment. What had they done to earn the title?
“I wasn’t the best-behaved young’un myself.” He hoped the admission would invite an explanation.
“That’s true of most of us, don’t you think?”
Nate noticed that Eden had to half-run to keep up with his long-legged stride. Slowing his pace, he said, “So how did you hear about the Double M?”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you when we spoke on the phone?”
She had, but he wanted to see her face as she repeated it.
“We have a mutual friend. Shamus Magee. He suggested this might be a good change of pace for these city-born-and-raised boys of mine.”
His grandfather often referred to Shamus as “good people,” and that was good enough for Nate.
“And I asked for you, specifically,” she continued, “instead of your dad or one of your uncles.”
“Why?”
“I read all about you in Sports Illustrated. You know, the issue where they featured major leaguers who…”
She trailed off, telling Nate she didn’t know how to broach the subject of the accident that ended his pitching career—and killed his fiancée—two years ago.
“Does the shoulder still bother you much?”
“I can predict the weather now,” he said, grinning, “but that’s about it.” It wasn’t, despite months of grueling physical therapy. And the head shrinker that’d helped him come to terms with his Miranda issues. But he had no intention of dredging up bad memories with someone he’d just met—and would likely never see again.
“They’d never admit it,” she said, using her chin as a pointer, “but they were more excited about meeting a baseball star than spending the weekend at a ranch.” She paused for a step or two, then added, “Think you’ll ever go back? To baseball, I mean?”
“No. Too much damage.” He reflexively rotated the shoulder and winced at the slight twinge. “But it doesn’t keep me from doing things around here, so…”
He’d never seen eyes the color of a storm sky before. Funny that instead of cold or danger, they hinted at warmth and sweetness. He hadn’t felt anything—anything—for a woman since the accident, and didn’t know how to react to his interest in her. Nate tugged his hat lower on his forehead. Unfortunately, it did nothing to block his peripheral vision.
“And anyway, that was then, and this is now.”
She leaned forward slightly, looked up into his face. “Ah, so you’re one of those guys who isn’t comfortable with compliments?”
Nate only shrugged.
“The boys were fascinated when I told them about your baseball history.” She glanced toward the barn. “Something tells me when they get to know you better, they’ll have an even bigger case of hero worship.”
Hero worship. The words made him cringe. Before every game, fans from four to ninety-four lined the fence beside the outfield, waving programs, caps, even paper napkins in the hope of acquiring a signature. He’d taken a lot of heat from teammates when a kid in the autograph line slapped the label on him. “We’re not heroes,” he’d blurted, thinking of his cousin Zach, who’d served multiple tours of duty in Afghanistan, and his cousin Sam, a firefighter in Nashville. “Fans oughta look to soldiers, firefighters and cops as their heroes, not a bunch of overpaid athletes like us.” The beating he took from the media had taught him to let his teammates do the talking from that point on, but it hadn’t changed his mind on the subject.
“I hope they know what a bunch of garbage that is…and how t
o recognize a bona fide hero when they see one.”
Confusion drew her eyebrows together, and he pretended not to notice by focusing on the boys, who stood just inside the barn. A few still looked bored, but most seemed excited about saddling up. And then there was the smallest one, with that deadpan expression. He’d have to keep an eye on that one.
Using Patches as his example, Nate showed the teens how to approach a horse and where to stand, and after saddling each horse, he explained how their attitudes would put the animals at ease—or rile them. Before long, the group was ambling single file on the bridle path that ringed the Double M pond before meandering into the woods beyond the corral, doing their best to stay upright and in control of their mounts. “I’m just so proud I could cry!” Eden said, bringing her horse alongside his. “They’ll remember this for the rest of their lives. I can’t thank you enough, Nate. You don’t know how much good you’ve already done them.”
He was too busy wondering what her hair looked like under that Baltimore Orioles baseball cap to answer. Was it long and thick? Or did it just seem that way because of the curly bangs poking out from under the bill?
She quirked an eyebrow, proof that she’d caught him staring.
“What’s with the hat? You’re not a Colorado Rockies fan?” With any luck, she’d believe it had been the Orioles logo that had captured his attention, not her pretty face.
“I was born in Baltimore, and my dad held season tickets. He took me and my brother to nearly every home game.” On the heels of a wistful sigh, she added, “I sure do miss him…”
“How long ago did you lose him?”
She waved, as if the question was an annoying mosquito. “My folks were killed nearly fifteen years ago.”
Her tone told him something more sinister than an accident had been responsible for their deaths. But how her parents had died was none of his business. Maybe he’d ask Shamus.