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

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Lassoed by the Would-Be Rancher--A Clean Romance Page 11

by Melinda Curtis


  At the mention of bad endings, the shaking grew more severe.

  Franny paced in a small circle and shoved her cowboy hat more firmly on her head. Began talking in the hope that words could help her return to a normal state so the boys wouldn’t see her like this. “I grew up on the other side of the valley. Our ranch wasn’t as large as the Bucking Bull or as high-profile,” she told him. “We raised Black Angus. I know my dad wanted to have boys—lots of boys to ease the workload and eventually inherit the place.” She shrugged. Still loaded with adrenaline, her shoulders practically bounced off her ears. “All they got was me. Mom was thrilled at having a girl. Dad made do. I was taught how to apply makeup with a steady hand.” Life on the Bucking Bull had taken that skill away from her. “Noticing that steady hand, Dad taught me how to shoot, ride and rope. And here’s the thing about roping...” She settled her hands on her hips, gripping the denim to hide the shaking. “It’s all about instinct. Oh, there’s rhythm. There’s grip-and-release.” There was the pressure of the knees and legs around your horse. “But it all comes down to gut feel. When you feel the bull will stay the course. When you feel you’ve got the arm strength to handle the distance of the throw.” When you feel luck is on your side. When you’re certain you won’t miss because you’ll disappoint your father if you do.

  “Instinct?” Shane huffed harder than the bull had on the mountain. “You’re calculating odds in your head the same way professionals count cards dealt and played.”

  “I’ll go with instinct, thank you very much.” Why wouldn’t her hands be still?

  “Instinct,” Shane huffed again, staring at her. And then he closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around her.

  They were strong arms. She leaned into him and he was like a rock. Her arms slid around his waist as she drew a shuddering breath and admitted, “It was scary, but everything’s going to be all right. All I need to do is prep them for the rodeo.”

  “Them?” Shane drew back and tilted up Franny’s chin so he could see her face.

  “You didn’t see? There were two bulls with horns in the pasture.” Bradley Holliday was going to be pleased with that. “I need to bring them to the arena, dehorn and deworm them, and get them used to captivity.”

  “A move that’s simultaneously hazardous and brilliant. Franny...” There was wonder in his voice. And then he was kissing her as if they’d survived the sinking of the Titanic but might not make it out of the lifeboat.

  He was right, of course.

  But she rather liked the image of herself as the “Unsinkable Molly Brown.”

  And she rather liked the intensity of his kiss. It reminded her of who she used to be.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “DID YOU GUYS have a good time?” Shane asked his nephews as he slowly navigated the Bucking Bull’s repaired driveway.

  Franny had contacted a neighbor with heavy equipment and arranged to have him repair the washed-out sections of the private road in exchange for beef or manual labor. Someone had called as they returned from mending fences to say her driveway was as good as new.

  “I had the best time,” Andy said from his car seat in the back.

  “Being a cowboy is almost as much fun as being in school.” Alex built on his twin’s review.

  “Better,” Andy said. “Did you see any bulls, Uncle Shane?”

  “Yes.” Oh, Shane had seen a bull, all right. He’d had a front-row seat as Franny had faced down that monster, knowing she needed the bull for the stockman. Shane would’ve shot the darn thing. Instead, he’d kissed her.

  That wasn’t what Zeke had in mind when he asked me to help her.

  Guilt had its hot hand pinching the base of his neck, right next to where regret was clasping him.

  Not that the kiss had gone poorly. They had chemistry to spare.

  But that hadn’t been the right place or the right time. Possibly not even the right woman.

  “I wish we lived on a ranch.” Andy yawned his words. “I could ride Stormy whenever I wanted to.”

  “We’d wear cowboy boots all the time,” Alex said through an equally deep yawn.

  “There’s no falling asleep in the car.” Shane eased around a corner. If they fell asleep during the ride to town, it would throw off their bedtime tonight.

  Speaking of sleeping, he’d been unable to ask Gertie about seeing double in Harlan’s photograph because she’d been napping when he and Franny had returned from mending fences.

  His nephews were eerily quiet.

  Shane glanced back. They were both asleep. Snoring.

  “Just my luck,” he muttered as they reached the main highway.

  A truck and trailer were parked alongside the road. And a man wearing a straw cowboy hat was securing a very muddy tractor with a scoop onto the bed of the trailer.

  Shane got out of the SUV and approached him. “Hey, thanks for fixing the driveway for Franny. Can I give you gas money or something?”

  The man spared him a glance, which turned into a curious stare. It was the older cowboy he’d seen in the diner. Rich, Franny’s father. He stopped ratcheting the broad straps and looked Shane up and down with cold gray eyes. “Are you coming from the Bucking Bull?”

  “Yes, we...” Shane reached for the smile he used with dissatisfied high rollers. “My sister married Zeke Roosevelt, who works at the Bucking Bull. I brought my nephews over yesterday to ride their ponies and we got trapped by the rain. I’m Shane.” He held out his hand.

  Rich chewed on his answer, likely searching for bones to pick. “Huh.” He went back to tightening the straps without introducing himself or shaking Shane’s hand.

  “You know, Franny needs help with those bulls. She’s got a stockman coming and—”

  “Francis chooses to run this ranch on the backs of mongrels and strays.” Rich moved to the next strap.

  “My grandfather used to say there’s a market for everything.” Who cared if Franny made a living selling feral bulls? “If you think about it, she’s running a bit of an animal rescue. Those bulls will get good medical care and guaranteed meals.” A stretch, but hey. He had to say something in her defense.

  Rich scoffed. “You’re a Monroe.”

  “Yes, sir.” Shane wasn’t going to apologize for that.

  “I have no gripe with Francis selling bulls to rodeo stockmen.” Grunting, he struggled to lock the ratchet in place. “It’s her breeding practices that dilute stock. Crossbred bulls don’t produce stronger cattle.”

  “Aren’t they breeding for rodeo purposes? To produce a meaner bull for the circuit?”

  “No.” Rich scowled, pulling off his work gloves and slapping them against his palm. “Don’t get me wrong. You have to introduce crossbreeds into your lines every few generations to prevent inbreeding and defects. But you do it through the crossbred cow, not the bull.”

  Shane didn’t pretend to understand the man’s diatribe. “If that’s the case, why is that part of her business so lucrative?”

  “Because some ranchers assume a bigger bull will produce bigger calves, meatier calves. They don’t study ranching. They just plunk some cattle in a pasture and hang a shingle.” Rich shook his head and pushed past Shane, opening the door to his truck. He tossed his gloves inside and turned around. “Ranching is about sustainability and responsibility, not just of one ranch, but of the industry.”

  “So you won’t help Franny train the stock she needs? And all because you disagree with one aspect of the way she puts food on the table?” Didn’t he care about his grandkids?

  “Mr. Monroe...” Rich tipped back the brim of his hat and glared at Shane. “Everyone has to decide how they want to live and what they believe. They have to draw the line and decide how far is too far.” He pointed his finger at Shane. “Your grandfather knew that. It was the one thing I respected about him.” Rich climbed in his truck
and drove away.

  Leaving Shane to wonder what line Grandpa Harlan hadn’t crossed.

  * * *

  “WHAT’S TROUBLING YOU?” Gertie came through her bedroom doorway into the kitchen and rested on her walker.

  “Nothing.” Skin chilled, Franny closed the freezer door and set the roast on the counter to defrost.

  Gertie wasn’t buying it. “You were staring into that freezer for a good minute or two before you noticed me.”

  “I was distracted.” Huge understatement. “I need to bring the ferals in the pasture to the ranch proper.” Brand, tag, inoculate, deworm, dehorn. “I need someone with better arm strength than Emily or I have to do it properly.” The dehorning tool was like a heavy branch trimmer and required leverage.

  “There are sturdy men in town.” Gertie settled on the walker’s seat. She wore a stretched and faded red sweater, loose pants and slippers. “Not to mention Shane.”

  “Please. Let’s give the idea of Shane a rest.” They’d kissed. And then things had gotten a little awkward between them. They’d returned to the ranch house walking at least six feet apart. And he’d shaken her hand when he left. She hadn’t even merited a hug or a kiss on the cheek. If that wasn’t writing on the wall, she didn’t know what was. “I’d rather not lean on a man who has no experience on a ranch.”

  And yet, Shane had promised to return tomorrow with his cousins.

  “Pfft. No experience on a ranch? That sounds like your father talking.” Gertie thrust her hands in the pockets of her sweater and worried whatever was inside.

  “No. It’s me who’s talking.” The woman who was so flustered she couldn’t remember what seasonings went in pot roast. “It gets harder every year to run this place.”

  “You’re only saying that because it’s been a difficult two years. I felt the same way after Percy died. But I had you and Emily, and the boys here every day, giving me a reason to push on. And, of course, there’s Merciless Mike Moody.”

  A shiver went down Franny’s spine at the irrationality of Gertie’s reference to the bandit. Why would he give Gertie the will to live? Franny refused to acknowledge her grandmother’s mention of the myth, which meant she couldn’t chastise her for telling Shane about those photographs in the trees. “Maybe we should sell. The Monroes might buy us out. And if we lived in a city, Davey would have a better support system.”

  “No!” Gertie looked horrified. “Davey has the best support system any kid could ask for. You’re just restless.” She tugged out whatever she’d been worrying in her pocket. It was something wrapped in a white embroidered handkerchief. She clutched it with both hands. “You need a man, if only for his biceps.”

  “Let’s not start with Pauline Willette’s nephew’s grandson.” The man Gertie tried to push on Emily all the time.

  “That wasn’t what I meant.” Gertie’s voice had turned gruff. “You need a little influx of money, is all. I told Kyle as much.” She stared at her handkerchief.

  Kyle. He wouldn’t want Franny selling his heritage.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Gertie continued. “A little romance with a Monroe would do you no harm, but you need a temporary man to help you find Merciless Mike’s gold.”

  Merciless Mike’s gold?

  Franny gripped the counter and hung her head, convinced that Gertie’s stroke had short-circuited a part of her brain. The woman believed in Merciless Mike. Really believed. For her, it was no longer just a beloved story with a family connection.

  “I...” Franny couldn’t look at Gertie. “Excuse me. I need to check on the boys.” She raced upstairs, sat on her bed and put her head in her hands.

  Emily was going to leave the ranch. Gertie was becoming unstable.

  The clock was ticking on the Bucking Bull’s future.

  Franny had one hope of continuing. Shane Monroe.

  She only hoped her trust wasn’t misplaced.

  * * *

  “WELL, WELL, WELL.” Shane held his sleeping nephews in opposite arms and kicked the Lodgepole Inn’s door closed with his foot. He couldn’t as easily kick closed the memories of Franny’s kiss or the danger of those large bulls on the slope. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Bo and Jonah lounged on the couch in the common room. They were staring at the latest sports update on the television mounted over the fireplace, and looked bored. He’d known they’d arrived. Laurel had called him last night. But he couldn’t quite believe it until he saw it for himself.

  “We could say the same for you.” Bo grinned broadly, taking in Shane’s mud-stained attire. “You look like the cat dragged you through the nastiest mud puddle in history.”

  “You dared us to come.” Jonah closed his laptop and considered Shane while he stroked his goatee. “At least give us some respect for showing up. Unlike you, we showered and everything.”

  “We gave Laurel moral support at her little shop across the street.” Bo stood and stretched. His cowboy boots rang on the wood floor as he closed in on Shane. “But other than that, I don’t see how we can do anything here that increases the town’s value. It’s not as if they have an oil rig that needs fixing.”

  He was right. The twins felt heavy in Shane’s arms.

  Bo needed something concrete, an achievable goal that he could see and measure. Shane wasn’t sure he had that where the town was concerned. As for what Franny needed...

  “This isn’t as straightforward as picking up roadside trash or cleaning up an old lady’s garden,” Shane explained. Not the usual charitable contribution. Just like Franny wasn’t an average woman. She’d kissed him as if he was her lifeline. She hadn’t been put off by his need to hold her close and reassure himself she was safe. If anything—

  “Your point?” Bo approached and took Andy from Shane’s arms.

  “I’m not sure he has one.” Jonah drummed his fingers on his laptop case.

  “Ice cream,” Alex murmured, drooling on Shane’s neck.

  “Hold that thought, everybody.” With Bo’s help, Shane got the sleeping boys upstairs and settled on his bed. A quick shower. A set of clean clothes. A loose plan to pitch his cousins, with the hope that his proposal would go better than the one to the town council the other day, and he was back in the main room.

  Shane sipped at a cup of coffee from the inn’s kitchenette and picked up the contribution conversation where he’d left off. “I have a little project for you two.”

  Closing his laptop again, Jonah eyed him suspiciously. “Your little projects are never little. The last time you had a little project for me, you asked me to write a script for a Vegas cabaret.”

  “Which was a hit and bulked up your résumé.” Shane sat on the hearth and got down to business. “I received a report from a consultant I hired with recommendations concerning improving the town’s economy and long-term viability. The first option was long-term—develop this into a luxury destination.”

  “There’s little about this place that seems luxurious.” Smirking, Bo gestured toward the log walls of the inn.

  “Not to mention, it would take more capital from the twelve of us and it would be a gamble.” As a storyteller, Jonah knew how to play out the thread of possibility. “And the alternative?”

  Shane liked how Jonah segued for him. “Earn the historical-significance label for most of the downtown area. Make it a walkable tourist stop. Charming shops. A range of dining experiences. All kinds of field trips that would involve highlighting local history and legends.”

  Jonah’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Ah, you need another script.”

  “This town needs lots of elbow grease. The diner. The stores.” Bo shook his head. “I can’t help you with any of this.” He headed toward the stairs. “Pack up, Jonah. We gave it our best shot.”

  “Wait.” Shane’s neck tweaked, just as much a product of his stress as his night spent on the couch.
“There is something you can do.”

  Help Franny with the bulls. Keep her safe.

  Shane knew he couldn’t ask Bo outright. He’d need another goal, one that mattered to the Monroes.

  “Keep looking for pictures,” Gertie had said. “Everywhere.”

  Of course!

  “What do you need us for, Shane?” Bo asked impatiently, arms crossed, a wall unto himself.

  “There are loose ends.” Shane told them the legend of Merciless Mike Moody, adding the part about the pictures in trees being bread crumbs. He didn’t tell them his theory that Grandpa Harlan had found the gold because the existence of the pictures called his hypothesis into question. Who left bread crumbs leading to nothing?

  “You want us to go on a scavenger hunt?” Jonah sat on the edge of his seat on the couch, looking suspicious. “Searching for markers in trees?”

  Shane nodded.

  “How big is this town again?” Bo came to stand behind the couch, then leaned on the back and faced Shane, studying him as if this was a high-stakes poker game and he was looking for tells. “The part we own?”

  “Two thousand acres.” Shane tried to act as if this wasn’t a daunting task.

  “Have you made a search grid?” Jonah asked. Apparently, writers were just as interested in logistics as hotel-chain managers.

  “I haven’t. But I have the perfect place to start.” Shane kept his expression neutral. “The Bucking Bull Ranch.”

  Bo frowned. “Do we own that?”

  “No.” Avoiding a stare-down with his cousin, Shane set his mug on the coffee table and put a small log on the fire.

  “Why would we start our search at this ranch?” Bo’s scrutiny tried to poke holes in Shane’s motives as much as his question did.

  “A ranch we don’t own, by the way,” Jonah added. He may have been intrigued by the story of Merciless Mike, but he didn’t seem to be eager to join in.

  But they were interested. And they hadn’t walked away.

  So Shane kept at it. “I’m betting it’s there because Grandpa Harlan didn’t buy the ranch. It’s the perfect place to put something you don’t want found.”

 

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