The Promise of Love

by Lori Foster

  Hell, she’d have to be deaf not to. She opened her mouth to tell Frank exactly what she thought of him, thought better of it, and flushed the toilet instead.

  The pounding stopped. A final loud thunk rattled the door in its frame. Probably owing to contact with the toe of a worn-out cowboy boot.

  A loud crash outside sent a crack racing through the steamy bathroom mirror. That had to be the door to the motel room slamming shut. The deep rumble she recognized for sure—Frank’s old Chevy truck revving up in the parking lot.

  Tires squealed for what seemed like forever. She almost laughed at how much rubber the damned clown left as he spun out of her life—for the second time. Once again, she’d pulled a really stupid move. The fog slowly cleared from the cracked mirror. Betsy Mae stared at her battered face. “You dumb shit. Aren’t you ever gonna learn?”

  How the hell was she going to convince Will and Annie to let her come back home.

  Again.

  MARK Connor squinted against the glare of early morning sunlight careening off a high-rise apartment window. He checked his watch and glanced once more at the matched set of Hartmann luggage piled at his feet.

  A month’s rent for his first apartment had cost less than the carry-on bag alone. How the hell had his life come to this?

  “So, you’re really leaving, eh Mr. Connor?” The burly doorman added one last suitcase to Mark’s stack. “Never thought I’d see the day you’d trade in those fancy loafers of yours.” He slapped Mark almost affectionately on the shoulder and then took up his post in the foyer.

  Mark sighed. What did it say about a man that the only person seeing him off as he made a life-altering move like this—quitting a longtime job, selling the once-coveted Manhattan apartment, and giving up everything familiar—was the doorman to his apartment building?

  Mark glanced down at the scuffed toes of his cowboy boots poking out beneath faded denim jeans. He’d considered showing up dressed like this for his last day as editorial director but figured the publishing world wasn’t ready for the shock. He thought of the simplistic excuse he’d given his publisher when he’d handed in his resignation—that sometimes a man just knows when it’s time for a change.

  He hoped like hell he knew what he was talking about, but damn it all! He was almost forty and his life was a book filled with blank pages. There had to be more.

  He let out a long gust of air, then glanced east where sunlight rose through the filtered haze of another Manhattan morning. Then he turned his eyes to the west.

  To possibilities. Possibilities he’d never dreamed of until a couple of years ago, when he’d spent two of the most amazing weeks of his life at the Columbine Camp dude ranch in Colorado. Nothing had been the same since. New York suddenly felt monochromatic and quiet while his memories of Colorado were high-def color and surround sound.

  The place called to him as nothing had ever called before, and the time was perfect for a change. His favorite author, the one he’d started his career with, was retiring. Michelle Garrison had happily chosen motherhood and life with a cowboy—in Colorado, of all places. An omen? Maybe.

  Mark slowly shook his head and flashed a grin at the doorman. “I’m not getting any younger, Lester. There’s a lot I still want to do.”

  “Yeah. I know.” The big man laughed. “Places to go, people to see. I understand, Mr. Connor.” Lester shrugged one massive shoulder and grinned. “It’s just not easy to picture you on a horse, if you catch my drift.”

  “You might be surprised, Les.” Mark glanced up as the deliveryman from the car dealership pulled up in front of the building and carefully parked Mark’s brand-new shiny red Jeep Wrangler. Mark grabbed a couple of his suitcases while Lester helped with the rest. “Very, very surprised.”

  one

  “Mark, I feel just terrible about this, especially after promising you a room here at the Double Eagle. Maybe next week, when the babies are over whatever bug they’ve got?”

  New York Times bestselling author Michelle Martin, née Garrison—once Mark’s lead author and fashionista extraordinaire—wiped at a nasty stain on her faded cotton T-shirt as she juggled a screaming baby girl on one slim hip. An identical-looking little boy cried steadily from his seat in a high chair, and the odor of diapers in need of changing warred with the foul stench of baby barf.

  After two days driving straight through to get here, Mark had to fight the urge to let loose with a little screaming of his own. Instead, he smiled calmly and stepped back a distance he hoped was well beyond projectile vomiting. “I’d offer to stay and help, Michelle, but . . .” He shrugged helplessly.

  Michelle laughed so hard she snorted. “Men. You’re all alike. Tag discovered a job up on the summer range he just had to do about the time little MC started tossing his cookies. He was out the door before Niki got sick, but don’t you worry your purty blond head about us,” she drawled. “I’ll manage.”

  In spite of the mess and the stink, Mark was glad Michelle hadn’t lost that familiar twinkle in her eyes.

  She juggled the now-silent Niki in her arms. “I called Will Twigg. He said he’d get a room ready for you at Columbine Camp, but once everyone’s healthy again, I want you back here.” She smiled. “I’m so glad you’ve left that rat race. I’ve missed you, Mark. Even Tag’s been looking forward to your visit.”

  “Yeah, right.” He laughed, but it was bittersweet, thinking of Michelle and her handsome cowboy husband. Mark hadn’t realized what he might have had with his bestselling author until it was too late. Still, in spite of the tangled ponytail and dark circles under her eyes, Michelle looked happier than ever. Colorado had done this for her. Colorado, falling in love, and two beautiful—if stinky—little babies.

  As Mark headed out to his dusty red Jeep, he wondered if Colorado could do the same for him. Then he thought of those two screaming babies and shook his head. Maybe not exactly the same.

  He was still grinning when he drove through the gates to Columbine Camp. Love? After two failed marriages and numerous halfhearted attempts at relationships, that was the last thing he needed.

  Leave the love to men and women like Michelle and Tag—youngsters who still had stars in their eyes. He knew better. It might work for some guys, but not for Mark Connor.

  Relaxing, getting back in tune with the man he’d almost lost over the years—that was his goal. And maybe a romp in the hay with a willing cowgirl. He might not want love and marriage, but he certainly wasn’t a monk.

  With the radio set on a good, loud country-western station, he drove up the front drive of Columbine Camp with the unexpected sense of coming home. Small log cabins for guests were tucked in amid a grove of aspen trees, cows grazed beside the big red barn, and a corral held at least a dozen good-looking stock ponies. Blue skies sparkled overhead, the air was redolent with the scent of newly mown hay, and birds twittered in the trees along the drive. It just felt right.

  Mark crawled out of the Jeep and stretched his arms up over his head. This might work even better than staying with Tag and Michelle—and the twins. The cabins were set far enough away from the main house where he was sure to get some quiet time and a chance to reassess his life. Just thinking of sitting out on the front porch with a cold beer in his hand and his feet up on the rail had the stress of the past few months fading away.

  Then the front door slammed open and Will Twigg stalked across the big front porch. He had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and his arm wrapped protectively around a tall, obviously pregnant redhead. Mark recognized Annie—he’d met her slimmer version less than a year ago.

  She was crying, Will was cursing, and neither acknowledged Mark. He leaned against the Jeep and watched as Will tossed the bag into the back of a Ford truck parked beside the barn and carefully helped Annie into the passenger’s seat.

  A loud crash had Mark’s head snapping around in time to see a gorgeous cowgirl in skintight jeans and tank top. Her tangled blond curls bounced as she came barreling out the front do
or.

  “Damn you, Will Twigg! Get back here. You can’t leave now!”

  The big man turned and glared at the blonde. “I can and I will, Betsy Mae. All your rantin’ and ravin’ isn’t good for Annie. She needs a break and so do I. You, my dear little sis, are on your own.”

  “A break from what?”

  “A break from you, damn it!”

  Betsy Mae lurched back as if she’d been kicked. Then she snarled and balled her hands into tight little flsts. “All you two do is moon over each other. You’re making me sick!”

  “Good. Then you won’t miss us. We haven’t had a honeymoon, so we’re taking it now. It’s time you got back to pullin’ your weight around here. Don’t forget to check the heifers. There’s calves due and you’re gonna be full up with two weeks of payin’ guests startin’ this weekend.”

  He glanced at Mark, with a definite twinkle in his eyes. “Hey, Mark. Michelle said you were coming. It’s good to see you. Don’t take any crap off Betsy Mae, ya hear?” Then, obviously trying not to grin, he climbed into the truck.

  Mark waved at Will. Then he turned his head and studied the blonde. So this was the infamous Betsy Mae. She stared at the departing pickup with a look of utter disbelief on her face. Then she glared at him, as if all of this was somehow his fault.

  He stepped up to introduce himself as she moved out of the shadows. Whatever Mark had planned to say died in his throat.

  Her left eye was swollen shut and a huge, purple bruise fading to yellow covered the right side of her jaw. She glared at Mark, silently daring him to say a word. When he merely nodded in greeting, she jerked her head toward the house. “When you’re through staring at the freak show, meet me inside so we can get you registered.”

  Then, without another word, she turned and stalked back inside. Mark glanced longingly at the little log cabin set farthest from the main house. Sighing softly, he followed Betsy Mae inside.

  two

  Betsy Mae stomped through the front door, planted herself behind the desk, and grabbed the registration book before that damned drop-dead gorgeous dime store cowboy started asking questions. He had to be wondering what happened to her face.

  Well hell, so was she. When her ex had called and apologized and asked if she’d be willing to give it another try, Betsy Mae’d honestly thought he’d turned over a new leaf.

  Big mistake. And she’d almost rather eat dirt than have to come crawling back to her brother and best friend now sister-in-law, especially after they’d warned her this was going to happen, but damn it all, she’d had nowhere else to go.

  No one else to care. And no matter how pissed Will might be with her for going back to Frank in the flrst place, her brother had still welcomed her back. Sort of.

  A big shadow blocked the light from the front window. She looked up, blinking, and wondered how long tall, blond, and gorgeous had been standing there staring at her. Embarrassed to be caught woolgathering, Betsy shoved the registration book across the counter. “Here. Sign in.”

  His eyes flashed and she felt just the slightest bit guilty over the attitude she was giving him. It wasn’t his fault her life was a train wreck, but he took the pen in one large yet elegant hand and without a word scrawled his name across the register. Mark Connor. Tag’s new wife’s fancy-pants editor.

  “What cabin am I in?”

  She shook her head. “You’re in the main house. All the cabins are reserved through the next two weeks.”

  His perfect lips turned down in a brief moue of displeasure, but he kept his mouth shut, nodded, and reached for his wallet.

  She shook her head. “No charge.”

  Raising his head, he quirked one surprisingly dark eyebrow over blue eyes so pale they looked silver. “I don’t understand.”

  She shrugged, taking fiendish glee in setting him straight. “We’re full up, Will’s gone, and I need help. You’re not here for vacation, Mr. Connor. You’re here to work. Maria will have dinner ready at six every night and I’ll expect you in the barn at six thirty tomorrow morning.”

  She flashed him a big grin, waiting for the fireworks to start. Instead, he raised his head with a smile that turned that already handsome face into drop-dead, wet-panty gorgeous. “Wonderful,” he said, like he actually meant it. “If you’ll show me to my room, I’ll get settled.”

  BETSY Mae wandered into the kitchen just before six in the morning, but the coffee was already made, a cereal dish rinsed and sitting in the rack, and the house deadly quiet. Maria wasn’t due in the kitchen until this afternoon when the dudes would need a decent meal, so it appeared her dime store cowboy had managed on his own. Betsy Mae poured herself a cup of coffee, checked the sitting room just in case her sexy guest was in front of the TV, and then wandered out to the barn.

  All the cow ponies had their flakes of hay, the stalls were already mucked out, and even the damned dog had been fed. Frowning, she sipped her coffee and followed the sound of men’s voices. Miguel—Maria’s husband and Will’s sole ranch hand—was pounding nails in a loose fence rail while tall, blond, and beautiful held the board in place.

  She stood in the shadows and watched the two men working—Miguel, small and wiry with coal black hair and dark, weathered skin, and that New York City cowboy in his worn jeans, scuffed boots, and red flannel shirt, looking for all the world like he belonged here.

  She knew better. He was just a fancy city boy playing cowboy for the summer. Then he’d be going back to his high-rise office and his hoity-toity women—women like that fancy author Tag Martin had up and married. Betsy Mae still hadn’t met Michelle Garrison—uh, Martin—though she couldn’t blame Tag’s wife for that, much as she’d like to.

  The thing was, Betsy wasn’t ready to see Tag all settled into connubial bliss with a stranger, not after the two of them had been best friends—with privileges—since they’d flrst discovered a shared interest in those extracurricular privileges.

  “Horses are fed and the fence is fixed. What next?”

  Betsy Mae’s head jerked up. Mark Connor stood there, invading her space and grinning at her like he was actually enjoying himself. Jerk. Their first guests would be arriving in less than three hours, and then Columbine Camp was going to be hopping with wannabe cowboys and screaming kids.

  She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be hard at all to wipe that damned sexy smile off this particular dude’s face.

  MARK carried his plate to the sink where Maria was scraping dishes. The exhausted guests were settled in their cabins after a full day of activities, the horses fed and put up for the night, and even Betsy Mae appeared too tired to give him grief.

  He glanced over his shoulder and watched her for a moment. She sat at the front desk in what had probably once been part of the main living room and was now decked out like a western version of a hotel lobby, pouring over her laptop with the most adorable frown on her face.

  He’d heard about Will’s ditzy sister Betsy Mae the rodeo queen for so long, he felt as if he knew her, but obviously he didn’t know the whole story—like the one behind those bruises.

  All he knew for sure was that Betsy Mae had been a national champion barrel racer a few years back, a true rodeo queen in the tradition of the Old West. She and Tag had been an on-again, off-again item for years.

  Then she’d run off with a rodeo clown who’d beat the crap out of her a few months after their wedding, but that was ages ago. He wondered who’d hurt her this time. Wondered why it mattered so damned much.

  He’d been trying to tell himself he’d feel the same anger over any woman suffering abuse at the hands of some jerk, but for some reason, the way Betsy Mae’s injuries affected him went a lot deeper. Maybe it was just the fact he felt like he knew her because he’d heard so much about her.

  Her brother had talked about her with a mixed sense of pride and exasperation—according to Will, she was a smart girl who often made stupid decisions. That was back during Mark’s first trip to Columbine Camp when he’d come west with
out a clue what to expect, and he’d found heaven.

  Who’d have thought a kid from Queens would take to the cowboy life like a native? Mark had loved everything about ranching. He’d also discovered an adventurous side to himself he never would have known if he hadn’t made that first trip out to Colorado to learn about cowboys.

  The fact his favorite author had given up her successful career to marry the owner of the ranch next door to Columbine Camp and raise babies had been all the incentive Mark needed when he realized he was ready for a major change in his life.

  So here he was, stiff and sore, with blisters on his hands—and most likely his butt, too—working for one of the orneriest, least sociable, sexiest, most confounding females he’d ever met in his life.

  They’d hardly exchanged a dozen words all day—he’d taken his orders from Miguel after Betsy Mae had gotten the guests assigned to their cabins. Mark had saddled horses, adjusted stirrups, chased rotten little kids, and led the whole group on a trail ride up through the hills.

  He hadn’t had this much fun in years, though thoughts of Betsy Mae had kept him from concentrating entirely on the job at hand. Not that she’d shown a lick of interest in him. Not even a flicker, so there was no way at all Mark was going to let her know just how curious he was about her—about those bruises, those beautiful green eyes, those full, sort of pouty lips, and the amazing way she filled out a set of tight Wrangler jeans.

  Just as he wasn’t going to admit how sore he was, how exhausted . . . or that, somehow, he fully intended to get to know Betsy Mae Twigg a whole lot better.

  three

  She sensed him before she heard him—sort of a frisson of awareness that raced along her spine. When Betsy Mae raised her head, Mark was standing just on the other side of the desk. How the hell a man as big as he was could move so quietly—almost gracefully—was beyond her.