Lassoed by the Would-Be Rancher--A Clean Romance

by Melinda Curtis

  Holden scowled at Shane, waiting for him to add something.

  But it was Ella who spoke next. She was only a Monroe by marriage, but as Bryce’s widow and her daughter’s guardian, she had a say. “Harlan wanted us to remember the importance of family.”

  Holden didn’t deign to look at her. He checked his watch instead. “Get to the point, Shane.”

  Shane nodded, holding back a lecture about the nature of family heritage and legacy. It would be breath wasted on his unfeeling cousin. “On the day Grandpa Harlan’s will was read, six of us decided to challenge the will and six decided to come to Second Chance and honor his wishes.” He gave hard looks to the two who’d bailed on that promise—Cousin Jonah and Shane’s brother, Camden. “Now there are eight of you wanting to contest the will. How will it look if all twelve of us aren’t united?”

  “How does it look that our own fathers fired us?” Holden countered. He’d been a Wall Street honcho before Harlan’s death, managing millions for the family. Like Shane, his image and prestige were everything to him. Like Shane, he’d been positioning himself to ascend to the throne. Unlike Shane, he wanted to use the courts to take down the man who’d built it.

  Shane kept his cool. “If you contest the will, Holden, you’ll need medical records and testimonials. You’ll need to prove Grandpa Harlan wasn’t thinking right a decade ago.” Thank you, Mitch, the Lodgepole Inn’s manager and one of Shane’s new inner circle in Second Chance, for that information. “And the four of us will testify against you.”

  The eight family members willing to shred Grandpa Harlan’s reputation to gain a share of his wealth fidgeted. They knew the press would have a field day with it. With them. It was probably the only reason they’d kept quiet so long.

  “What are you proposing?” Holden demanded.

  Shane made sure his feet were firmly planted. “I’m suggesting you respect Grandpa Harlan’s last wishes. This town is like everything else the old man purchased. An investment. Bought low. And what we need is to shine it up to make it pay.” Shane glanced at his allies—Laurel, Ella, Sophie. He hadn’t told them what he was going to say next. “You come here and contribute something to this town. And after that, on the anniversary of Grandpa Harlan’s death, if you all still want to challenge the will, we’ll stand with you.”

  Ella gasped.

  Laurel sat back down.

  Sophie adjusted her glasses to glare at him.

  “And just what are we supposed to contribute?” Holden asked in a sour voice.

  Shane looked at each of the eight in turn. “If you think on it long enough, you’ll figure it out.”

  When the eight dissenters had filed out the door, Laurel grabbed Shane’s arm. “What are you doing?”

  “He’s gambling,” Sophie said flatly, still glaring.

  “But...” Ella looked like she might cry. “Why?”

  “Other than the fact that I’m from Vegas?” Shane shifted his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “Because I have a hunch.”

  * * *

  “I HEAR YOU had a war council.”

  The familiar baritone had Shane turning abruptly on the Lodgepole Inn’s back porch.

  A thousand retorts came to mind at the sight of the man emerging from the shadows, but the singular word that made it from Shane’s mouth was “Dad.”

  “Fantastic view here.” His old man settled his elbows on the porch railing, as comfortable in his fine wool suit in the Idaho mountains as if he was standing in the boardroom in Las Vegas. “Thousands of stars in the sky. Moonlit meadow. Sawtooth Mountains silhouetted in the distance and...I smell money.”

  Shane sucked in cold, sharp air. “You would, seeing as how you inherited millions.”

  And disinherited me.

  Despite Shane playing this meeting time and again in his head, he didn’t sound much more composed than an angry teenager, the one who’d been torn between the taciturn man who’d fathered him and the loving grandfather who’d brought out the best in him.

  “People...” Dad cleared his throat. “People we know would pay through the nose for a piece of property up here. Fresh air. Pristine vistas. I’m assuming you’re planning to parcel and develop the land.”

  The cold in Shane’s throat and lungs spread to his fingers and toes. If his grandfather would have wanted to tear down Second Chance—his hometown—and rebuild, he’d have done so ten years ago, when he’d bought it.

  “This valley could be very lucrative for development given the right direction,” Shane’s father continued. “Have you considered a small airfield in that meadow across the river?”

  “Have you?” There it was again. That bitter resentment. Shane pressed his lips together.

  “Of course you have.” Dad chuckled. “You never met a loose end you didn’t tie up or a stray cat you couldn’t find a home for. You’re more like my father than I am. Used to make me jealous.”

  Inwardly, Shane reeled. From the cold. From the shock of his father’s admission. He gripped the railing.

  A coyote yipped in the distance, its call answered by the rest of the pack.

  “Coyotes howl and gripe until they out their nervous prey,” Grandpa Harlan had once said as he sat at a Utah campfire surrounded by his twelve grandchildren. “It’s when they’re silent that you’ve got to worry.”

  Shane’s father had been silent after Grandpa Harlan died. He was yipping now, trying to throw Shane off balance.

  And succeeding.

  “Not that my coldheartedness couldn’t use a dose of compassion now and then,” Shane’s father said. “A man with your experience and skill set won’t be satisfied hanging around this one-horse town.” Dad tapped his palm on the porch railing like he used to dismissively pat Shane on the head when he was a boy. “Make me an offer after January first, Shane. It should take you about that long to come to your senses.” He disappeared into the night.

  Was he implying...?

  Did this mean...?

  Shane sucked in cold mountain air until his lungs were burning.

  He doesn’t think I can turn things around here.

  Shane heard a car start and drive away, listened to the ensuing silence.

  He thinks the soul of Second Chance is for sale. Shane shook his head. Never. The coyotes had gone quiet. The silence...

  It made Shane wonder...

  What game was being played? Was Shane one of the pack? Or prey to be gutted?

  Along with Second Chance.

  * * *

  FRANNY WAS UP before dawn.

  Feeding livestock. Mucking stalls. Moving fast to keep warm. Juggling her to-do list in her head, which was better than thinking about Monroe men or bulls, branded or otherwise.

  The heater in the chicken coop was on the fritz. She tightened the electrical connections to get it running and then stopped at Buttercup’s enclosure to stare into his rheumy old eyes.

  “You made it through the winter, old man. You can make it through another spring and summer.” Or at least the next two weeks. The Bucking Bull’s fortunes rode on Buttercup’s back until she captured another fierce bull.

  Buttercup, once known as the baddest bull on the northwest rodeo circuit, snorted his amusement. Buttercup, once part of the feral herd to the west, turned his back on her. Years on the rodeo circuit had broken him, made him soft.

  A horse nickered in a nearby stall. Danger, the once-headstrong black gelding Franny used to ride on the rodeo circuit, whinnied impatiently. Years of semiretirement had undermined his spirit, made him soft.

  Franny used to ride Danger without concern for angry, charging stock. She used to stand in the saddle during a gallop and throw a lariat over a racing bull’s head. Back in the day—before kids—she’d thought she’d been invincible.

  Years at the Bucking Bull have made me soft.

  Franny buri
ed the thought. She wasn’t soft. She was smart. Smart didn’t quit. Smart found solutions. Smart won the race.

  All I need now are the smarts to kick in.

  When Franny returned to the house with the morning’s bad news—no eggs because of too-cold chickens—coffee was brewing, and bacon was sizzling in the pan.

  Granny Gertie sat at the kitchen table setting up the Scrabble board. It was Sunday. The family played games on Sunday and listened to Gertie tell stories from the old days just as she used to on cattle drives all those years ago. Well, not exactly the same. She didn’t laugh as much and there were gaps in her storytelling.

  “Okay, then. Bacon and biscuits, it is.” Emily stirred the biscuit batter like she was at the rodeo tying a calf’s legs together with a short pigging string. A wayward dollop flew into the frying pan. She fished it out and gave Franny a sheepish look. “I’m thinking about my new job. This is the right thing, isn’t it? Me working in town? You here alone?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She’d do what needed to be done for two weeks. Responsibility had a way of wrestling fear to the ground. And she wanted Emily to be happy.

  “Franny won’t be fine.” Gertie scowled, rubbing her forehead. “Why go fishing for a man in a dry watering hole?”

  Emily hissed, sizzling louder than the bacon. “You caught Grandpa Percy when you worked in town.” She flung batter into muffin tins.

  “Ladies...” Franny tried to calm them. They’d been at each other since the New Year.

  “There were men in town to catch back then,” Gertie huffed at Emily. “What are you going to do with a man just passing through? What are we going to do when you move?”

  “You’ll have Zeke.” Emily shoved the biscuits in the oven and slammed the door closed. “And the little man.” Which is what she called Davey.

  As was usual, Gertie wasn’t letting off Emily easily. “If you wanted to leave the ranch, you should have done so when you were—”

  “Younger.” Emily’s voice was harder than a layer of thick ice on the ranch pond. “You’ve made that clear many times.”

  “Ladies, please,” Franny begged.

  “There is much to be gained by staying on the ranch.” This was one of Gertie’s favorite refrains. She had something in her hand beneath the table and was working it nervously, like an artist molding clay.

  “Much to be gained? Like Merciless Mike’s cash box?” Emily rolled her eyes, but came over to hug Gertie in the first sign of a truce Franny had seen in months. “Granny, I’m not ten anymore. I want to chase a man, not a myth about lost gold.”

  “I never said Merciless Mike’s story was a myth.” Gertie blinked rapidly, patting Emily’s hand with her pale one. “If you want to chase someone, stay local. Pauline Willette’s nephew’s grandson is single. He has acne scars, but he’s got a job repairing the ski lifts in Aspen every winter.”

  “Not interested.” Emily returned to the bacon with a double eye-roll.

  “What about Uncle Ogden’s second cousin, Samuel?” Gertie was tenacious. “He works in road maintenance for the state.”

  “Ew.” Emily lined a plate with paper towels and transferred a strip of bacon to it. “Let’s not fish in the relatives pond. And please don’t say beggars can’t be choosers.”

  Gertie pressed her lips together and huffed. “When you harvest so late in the season, you can’t bank on the frog prince.”

  Franny and Emily laughed.

  “I’m trying to say that the Bucking Bull can draw more men to you than working in town.” Gertie fisted whatever she’d been holding in her right hand.

  “Percy and Kyle would let her go her own way.” Having broken ranks with her father to follow her heart, Franny didn’t want to judge Emily.

  “Percy and Kyle.” Gertie’s brow furrowed.

  Upstairs, Davey was getting his younger brothers out of bed. Their feet didn’t pitter-patter. They pounded their heels into the floorboards. Bolt, the family’s old, black Labrador, was curled up in a ball in front of the fireplace, eyes open, looking toward the stairs. One of Adam’s chores was to feed the dog.

  “I don’t have to be at the trading post until Tuesday.” Emily put the biscuits in the oven. “We can move cattle today and tomorrow.”

  Because Emily’s offer was so generous and unexpected, given her desire to put distance between herself and the ranch, Franny nearly overfilled her coffee cup in her rush to thank her.

  “And who knows?” Emily took more bacon from the pan. “Maybe we’ll net a couple of feral stragglers.”

  “Who knows,” Franny murmured, not putting any store in luck.

  Granny Gertie put more tiles on the Scrabble board.

  “Getting ready for a game with the boys?” Franny drifted over to see what the elderly dear was doing.

  Gertie turned the board, so Franny could see.

  LET MONROE HELP

  Elderly dear, my eye.

  Emily leaned over the counter to look. She gave Franny a puzzled glance. “Let Monroe help? Are you referring to Shane, Granny?”

  “I am.” The old woman’s pointed chin went up.

  Emily laughed and returned to the stove. “Glad to see I’m not the only target in the room.”

  “We’ve already talked about this.” Franny gathered the tiles into a jumbled pile, thinking about Shane and exchanged glances that made her pulse race in a way it hadn’t since she was in her twenties and drawn to any risky adventure. She didn’t have time for adventure or a man, much less a Monroe. “If you’re going to wish me a man, wish me a cowboy with plenty of experience with cattle.”

  Boyish feet pounded down the stairs.

  Franny boxed up the Scrabble game to free up space for hungry boys at the table. “I don’t need a matchmaker.”

  “That’s right.” Emily chuckled. “You could always settle for Pauline Willette’s nephew’s grandson.”

  The boys ran toward the kitchen table.

  Franny huffed. “I need cowboys and—”

  “I’m a cowboy,” Adam insisted from beside her, patting Bolt’s broad forehead.

  “You’re too little to be a cowboy,” Charlie teased, standing on his toes to look at Emily’s bacon. “You’re hobbit-sized.”

  “Cowboys come in small sizes, don’t they, Mom?” Adam’s lower lip trembled.

  “Cowboys come in all sizes,” Franny reassured him. “Besides, you’ll grow.” She paused, struck by the image of her three sons, grown and riding through the woods in the Clark tradition, seeking their fortunes and killer bulls. Was that what she wanted for them? She was no longer sure.

  “When’s breakfast?” Davey leaned on the kitchen table, not committing to a chair.

  “Another fifteen minutes.” Emily returned her attention to the bacon.

  “Can we play a game?” Davey very carefully did not look at the Scrabble box in Franny’s hands. He wanted to play a video game. Last summer, he’d gone to a camp with other children who were missing appendages or limbs. He’d come home with a special controller that adapted to his limitation of only having one hand. It kept him ahead of Charlie in skill level and enamored of video games.

  “You can’t play now,” Franny told him, raising her voice above her children’s ensuing protests. “I know you haven’t made your beds or brushed your hair or—” she ruffled Charlie’s scruffy locks “—brought down your dirty laundry. Now scoot.”

  They ran back upstairs, just not as quickly as they’d come down.

  “Used to be the Clarks turned to the Bouchards and Monroes for help.” Gertie looked just as somber as her words. “You still could.”

  “You know how Shane could help?” Franny’s patience was wearing thin. “He could invest in our ranch.” They could hire an extra hand, someone with experience capturing feral stock. They could pay off the first mortgage, and the second she’d tak
en out for the ranch’s roof, the cover for the arena Kyle insisted they build and Davey’s special summer camp.

  “No selling,” Gertie said firmly.

  “I’m not abandoning you,” Emily declared, although the opposite felt more like the truth, especially when she no longer met Franny’s gaze. “Once I’m married, things will be different.”

  Franny’s eyebrows went up. “Even if you snag a Monroe?”

  To that, Emily remained silent.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BIRDS SANG EXUBERANTLY in the trees bordering the upper pasture, oblivious to the grumble of thunder above the dark, cloud-covered mountain slope.

  Emily and Franny rode toward a cluster of cattle that were lingering half-in and half-out of the trees.

  “When was the last time you rode the fence line?” Franny asked, eyeing the field.

  “Last December. With Zeke.” Emily was a good cowhand. If ownership was earned by ability to work with their stock rather than financial investment, she’d be running the place. “Do you remember when we were kids and we rode everywhere?” Emily wore a cowboy hat and jean jacket, just as adorable now as she’d been when they were younger and both vying for rodeo-queen titles. “We overnighted at the scout camp by the lake.”

  “That was a lifetime ago.” Back when she’d felt invincible. Since her marriage, she’d limited her physical work on the ranch to a minimum—first because she was pregnant, then because she had babies to care for. Kyle’s passing only added to her reasons. Franny’s ponytail looped and twisted about her neck the same way fear looped and twisted inside of her.

  There’d been a forest fire in the mountains to the northwest last summer. So this year, the feral herd would most likely be looking for food in the lower pastures that bordered their property. Franny kept her eyes on the tree line, pulling the brim of her cowboy hat lower to shade her eyes.

  “We used to be giddy to see a bull on the wild side of the fence line.” Emily sighed as if missing the good old days.