No Ordinary Cowboy

by Mary Sullivan

  The loop settled over Amy, but also caught Hank

  The rope tightened around them with the gentle persuasion of a mare nudging her colt home….

  She’d raised her arms when he’d pulled her toward him and her hands rested high on his chest. They rose and fell with his quick breaths, branding him.

  The sounds around him drifted away. He lost himself in Amy’s green eyes. His hands held the back of her waist, drifted down to her hips. He thought of ripe pears and his blond guitar.

  She smelled warm, like the sun, like mango and papaya and coconut. Her skin looked soft enough to lick.

  What if he did what he wanted and rested his head on her golden hair, felt the soft glide of it across his cheek? What if he leaned down to press his lips to her eyelids to close them, so she couldn’t see all of those handsome cowboys crowding around her? What if he kissed her until she was aware of only plain Hank?

  Before he could act on the crazy impulse, she did the oddest thing. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, then smelled him with a delicate sniff.

  She opened her eyes and smiled into his. “Soap. Nice.”

  Dear Reader,

  What is a born-and-bred city girl of Irish descent, who grew up in Toronto eating Greek pastries on the Danforth, noshing on grapes from her Italian neighbor’s vines and drinking Turkish coffee with her Macedonian friends, doing writing romance novels about cowboys and cowgirls?

  They fascinate me! I admire the committed work ethic that compels them to raise cattle under the toughest conditions, to battle summer droughts and winter blizzards to maintain a way of life that has been bred into their bones.

  I also love horses, love reading about them and watching them in movies. Sadly, I’ve never been on one. A hopelessly inept athlete, I never stop trying. Recently I went dogsledding for the first time and came home bruised and euphoric. Rock climbing is next. After that…horseback riding? Maybe it’s time to get up close and personal with a real live horse and even, gulp, ride one. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

  I hope you enjoy my debut novel of a rugged cowboy who falls hard for a beautiful city girl.

  Mary Sullivan

  NO ORDINARY COWBOY

  Mary Sullivan

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  When Mary Sullivan picked up her first Harlequin Superromance novel, she became hooked on romance. She wanted to write these heartfelt stories of love, family, perseverance and happy endings, about heroes and heroines graced with strength of character and hope. Mary believes that whether we live in the country, the city, or somewhere in between, home is where the heart is, with the people we choose to love.

  To Kelly.

  Home is where the heart is.

  My heart is with you.

  To Maureen, Michele, Molly, Sinead and Teresa.

  I couldn’t have done this without you.

  Thank you.

  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 ONE

  “HANK SHELTER, if you’re there, pick up!”

  Hank ignored his sister’s order and strode from the desk to the window, putting distance between him and the telephone.

  “Leila,” he muttered to his empty office, “I don’t feel like tangling with you today. The answering machine can deal with you.”

  He leaned against the wall beside the open window, his arms crossed, staring across his fields to the distant hills. June in Montana. Was there anything on this earth more beautiful than his ranch?

  Correction. Not his ranch. Leila’s. Another of Dad’s crazy decisions, to leave the ranch to her. It should have been Hank’s. He pounded his fist on the windowsill.

  “Hank,” Leila continued, “you can’t stick your head in the ground like an ostrich and ignore reality.”

  What reality? Things on the ranch were rolling along just fine.

  Leila’s sigh over the phone line held a world of frustration.

  “Okay, this is the deal. My friend, Amy Graves, is on her way to go over the books. She’s an excellent accountant.”

  An accountant? Hank straightened and uncrossed his arms. What the heck for? He turned to stare at the machine.

  He could run this ranch fine on his own, and had been doing so since Dad died.

  He’d stopped in at the bank only yesterday and no one had said a word about any problems.

  “Wipe the scowl off your face, baby brother,” Leila continued, but her tone held a hint of worry under her usual brusqueness. “Cooperate. After the letter I received from the bank this morning, I’m deeply concerned. The situation might have reached the point of no return.”

  Letter? What letter? Point of no return? His heart pounded. Had the bank somehow figured out—They couldn’t have. He’d been so careful.

  “Someone needs to take control of the ranch’s finances before the whole enterprise goes down the toilet.”

  The toilet? As in losing the ranch? His breakfast threatened a return journey up his throat and he swallowed hard.

  Dad’s voice echoed through his memory. “You’ve screwed up again, boy. Keep it private. We don’t need the whole world to know our business.”

  Shame rushed up from his chest, leaving his cheeks hot enough to melt bullets.

  “Hank—” Leila hesitated before saying more. Hank cocked his head. Strange for her to be unsure of anything.

  “Amy’s fragile these days.” Leila’s voice held an uncharacteristic softness. “Take care of her.”

  The solid click of his sister hanging up followed her “goodbye.”

  Hank clenched his hands and rested them on the windowsill, digging his knuckles into the wood, hoping the pain would eclipse his panic. Even the scents of dust kicked up by horses’ hooves and the damp humus of Hannah’s garden couldn’t calm him now.

  Cripes almighty, Leila’s sending an accountant to the ranch.

  He walked to the desk and shuffled the piles of paper, read the numbers, tried to make sense of Leila’s distress.

  As far as he could tell, everything was fine. His system was working.

  Why would the bank send a letter to Leila, anyway? All the statements came here.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the bank, then asked for Donna. She had worked there since before Hank was born. She did Hank’s payroll taxes for him, would handle the year-end as she’d done for Dad. If Donna couldn’t straighten things out, no one could.

  Five minutes later, he hung up. Nope. No problem. The accounts were fine. The bank had no record of a letter being sent to Leila.

  Hank heaved a sigh.

  Leila was overreacting to something sent to her by mistake. Or whatever. He should call her and tell her what the bank had said. Honest, though, he didn’t want to tangle with her today. Once Leila got her mind on something, she was worse than a terrier for not letting go. Next thing, she would come down here to cluck around him like a mother hen, then order him around.

  The ranch hands, including Willie, hated taking orders from her. Best just to leave things as they were.

  A small voice in the back of his mind warned that Leila was not the kind of woman to run off in a panic for no reason.

  Well, he’d get the accountant to relay the message to Leila that all was well here.

  He stared at the piles of paper on the desk, on the floor, on every horizonta
l surface. He might have a great routine that kept things up-to-date and all bills paid, but his filing system was abysmal.

  “Keep it private, boy,” Dad whispered through his memory again.

  “All right,” Hank murmured. “I got it the first twelve hundred times.”

  Even without Dad’s harping in his memory, Hank was embarrassed to think of an accountant coming in to see this mess.

  He shook his head and returned to the window.

  Five of this month’s kids, the older ones, saddled horses in the yard for their overnight camping trip.

  Wish I could go with them. Next time.

  He’d tell the accountant Leila had made a mistake. There was nothing wrong at the bank.

  What if she made a fuss, insisted on seeing his books anyway? Damned if he was going to let some city accountant go through his personal stuff, mess up his ranch and his life over nothing. He’d find a way out of this himself—whatever this was.

  He slammed the window shut and strode to the desk. Dad used to keep a key in the top drawer.

  He walked out of the office, turning to lock the door behind him. It hadn’t been locked since Dad died. He slipped the key into his pocket.

  Down the hallway in the dining room, the younger five of this month’s kids, the six-to nine-year-olds, still lingered over breakfast, their chatter mingling with the scents of bacon, eggs and hot chocolate.

  Hank peeked in on them. Their baseball caps hung from the backs of their chairs, leaving their delicate scalps exposed.

  He clapped his hands. “Who wants to go see the horses?”

  They jumped out of their seats and swarmed him, laughing and talking.

  He ran a hand over Kyle’s soft head, fuzz like freshly seeded grass making a hesitant show.

  “Hey, Hank,” Jamie yelled, “I can ride a horse good.” Some kids did everything full blast, even talking.

  Hank grinned.

  Quiet Cheryl patted his arm for attention and he picked her up. Her hair resisted regrowth, leaving her skull as bare as a newborn’s.

  His heart swelled to bursting.

  This was what mattered—these children, and keeping the ranch alive for them.

  TOO SOON, Amy Graves’s twitchy stomach told her she’d arrived at the Sheltering Arms ranch. When she stepped out of her car into the dry heat, a breeze kicked up her bangs and sent them flying around her forehead. It ruffled the feathery branches of a weeping willow that beckoned from the front lawn. A shady refuge.

  She took a breath of clean, pure air and tried to calm her nerves. She could do this. She could face this ranch and what it meant to her.

  Dust settled on the stretch of dirt road she’d just driven in on from the highway. The driveway bisected golden fields of…what? No clue. Amber waves of grain. But what kind of grain? One of the things she’d have to find out. What was it and how much profit did they make on it? Or did they feed it to animals, an expense they could claim?

  Meadows of green and gold stretched as far as she could see, changing into rolling hills on the horizon.

  Above it all, white puffs of cotton candy dotted the huge bowl of brilliant blue that earned Montana the moniker Big Sky.

  She sucked in a breath. “Beautiful.” She listened to the gentle breeze carrying the distant sounds of children’s laughter and her heartbeat slowed, her shoulders relaxed. Calmness crept through her.

  A sigh slipped from her lips.

  Not fifty yards away, a flock of birds waddled through the grass, older birds leading the flock and young furry chicks following behind. Ducks? Geese? She didn’t know the difference.

  She was out of her element here. Once a city girl, always a city girl.

  The ranch house stood wide, white and placid in the late morning sun. Blue shutters framed windows on the second floor, flower boxes brightened windowsills with yellow pansies. Wicker chairs on the veranda beckoned. Come and rest a spell, put up your feet, unburden your weary shoulders. Welcome.

  Pretty. She’d expected something rugged, made with logs and adobe or whatever materials people used in the country.

  She stepped onto the veranda and heard a cacophony of children’s voices approach from the side of the house. A big man with kids dangling from his back, arms and legs rounded the corner of the house. Muscles on top of muscles bulged in his denim shirt and jeans.

  Amy smiled. This must be Hank Shelter. Leila said her brother always had children hanging on to him. Amy hadn’t known she’d been speaking literally. She counted five children clinging to the man.

  Hank leaned down to talk to the two sitting on his feet. “You kids are comin’ in for lunch whether you want to or not.” His voice, as rough as cowboy boots shuffling on gravel, sent sexy shivers running through Amy.

  She rubbed goose bumps from her arms.

  The kids answered Hank in varied chirps, “No, Hank, not yet.”

  “We want one more ride around the house.”

  “Now kids, we’ve been around this veranda three times already this mornin’ and old Hank ain’t gettin’ any younger. I gotta wet my whistle and fill my grumblin’ belly.”

  Amy rolled her eyes. Corny. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

  The man looked up from under the brim of a dusty white cowboy hat. Eyes that shone with the warmth of aged scotch widened when he saw her.

  His average-looking face—large nose and strong jaw—would never grace a magazine cover, but a face as bracketed by creases as Hank’s was spoke of character.

  He snatched the hat from his head, exposing a thick mass of glorious brown hair. One streak of caramel ran across the top of his head from a widow’s peak.

  Then he smiled and Amy’s breath caught. The world was suddenly a brighter place. Good thing he lived under the open Big Sky. He’d eclipse the sun in any other state.

  Warmth and sincerity shone from his broad white smile and she felt an answering smile creep across her mouth.

  His hazelnut and whiskey eyes sparkled. My, my. With only a handful of grins, this man could chase the devil out of a witch’s den and have the old crones eating out of his hand.

  Crones? Where had that come from? It certainly wasn’t a word she ever used in the city. She’d been on the ranch less than five minutes and already she was relaxing into a different lingo.

  Amy’s hands itched to trim Hank’s ragged mustache. Don’t hide a smile so beautiful. Flaunt it.

  Hank Shelter, aren’t you a surprise?

  One little girl let go of his biceps to wrap her arms around his waist. “I love you, Hank.” She gazed up at him with adoring blue eyes.

  “Thank you, darlin’,” he answered. “A man needs to hear that every so often from a beautiful woman.” He rubbed his hand across the child’s neck with such tenderness that Amy felt a longing rise in her.

  Do that to me.

  The young girl giggled and hid her face against his shirt.

  When Hank removed his big hand from the back of the child’s head, Amy gasped.

  From beneath the girl’s baseball cap, a bare skull peeked out above a baby-chick neck. A cancer survivor.

  Her brief moment of peace shattered. Amy rubbed her chest.

  She’d known that the Sheltering Arms ranch took in poor, inner-city kids who were recovering from cancer, and she thought she’d prepared herself for them.

  So wrong.

  They all wore ball caps with no hair peeking out below. Nothing but more of those delicate bare necks.

  The hands Amy wiped on her thighs shook.

  The girl turned her face toward Amy. Sallow skin, dark circles under her eyes, thin to the point of pain.

  Gulping deep breaths, Amy washed herself with icy aloofness. Rise above it. Come on, you can do it.

  She turned away and stared hard at the fields, digging deep for strength.

  Amy’s glance returned to the children against her will, like a tongue probing a sore tooth to see whether pain lingered.

  It did.

  A boy sit
ting on Hank’s foot pointed to her and asked, “Who is she, Hank?”

  HANK’S TONGUE stuck to the roof of his mouth. What was this curvy female, the most beautiful one he’d ever seen, doing on his ranch?

  Blond hair. Green eyes. Perfect body. Made a man want to…what? Where were his treasured words when he needed them?

  “Exquisite,” he whispered. His favorite word. Damn. Hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

  For a second, he thought she might be mother to one of the children, but he’d met them all in the city a few weeks ago.

  “Can I help you, ma’am?” He tried to clear the battery acid out of his voice.

  “Are you Hank Shelter?” she asked and her voice washed over him like a Chinook melting February snow. Awareness hummed along his nerve endings.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am.” Nerves—or the kid clinging to his throat—made him sound rougher than usual.

  “I’m Amy Graves, Leila’s friend. How do you do, Mr. Shelter?” She extended her right hand toward him.

  Leila’s friend? “You’re the accountant?”

  Leila was in her early fifties. Amy didn’t look a day over thirty. Didn’t that just knock the wind out of him?

  He realized his mouth was hanging open and he clamped it shut.

  His fingers tingled and his heart pounded. Slow down, he warned his treacherous libido.

  His body wanted to jump a few fences, but his heart balked at the gates.

  He set down the two girls hanging from his right arm, then wrapped his fingers around Amy’s hand. It nestled as soft as a calf’s ear in his big-galoot palm and started long-forgotten urges. He dropped it like a hot cow pie.

  He cleared his throat. “Ma’am, if you’ll give me your keys, the kids and I will get your luggage.”

  The woman nodded.

  She’s fragile these days.

  She looked fit, but he understood what Leila meant about the fragility. Emotional, maybe.