Tears filled her eyes. She let them fall.
“Please tell me those are happy tears,” Paul whispered.
“The happiest of all.” Her voice wobbled. “I love you, too.”
He blew out a breath and she realized that he must have been worried about her response. “Good.”
“So how are we going to make this work? You live and work in Florida. The kids have been through so much I can’t see myself uprooting them.”
“You don’t have to. Well, we might think about getting a bigger house at some time in the future. One with more bathrooms. But I’m going to be moving here.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I like Sweet Briar. Besides, the woman I love lives here.”
Roz grinned. The past few months had been rough, but they’d made it through together. She knew that, whatever the future held, they would get by the same way. Paul might not be a prince, but it looked like she was getting her happily-ever-after.
* * *
Don’t miss a single story in Kathy Douglass’s Sweet Briar Sweethearts series:
How to Win the Lawman’s Heart
The Waitress’s Secret
The Rancher and the City Girl
Winning Charlotte Back
The Rancher’s Return
A Baby Between Friends
The Single Mom’s Second Chance
Available from Harlequin Special Edition.
Keep reading for an excerpt from The Cowboy’s Comeback by Melissa Senate.
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The Cowboy’s Comeback
by Melissa Senate
Chapter One
Holt Dalton had turned around for three seconds—his attention snagged by two kittens playing with a piece of hay—when his son called out, “Look at me, Daddy!”
Holt’s gaze shot up at the sound of the voice in the cat barn at Happy Hearts, an animal sanctuary where he’d come to adopt a dog for Robby. But they’d passed by the cat section of the “Adoptable Animals” barn first, and Robby had begged to go in after seeing kittens climbing up a hay bale.
Like kittens, like boy. Robby, seven-going-on-daredevil, was suddenly at the top of a huge stack of hay bales, swinging back his arms as if prepared to jump—onto a shallow pile of hay a good ten feet below. A few cats on varying levels of the hay bales were watching him, while others were either napping, doing a little grooming, or playing with toys and hay.
How his son had gotten up there so fast was beyond Holt, but that was Robby for you. Look away from the forty-eight-pound whirlwind at your own peril.
“Robby, no!” Holt called up. “The hay won’t break your fall. You don’t want broken bones keeping you from doing all your favorite activities the last month of summer and playing with your new dog.”
“That orange cat jumped down and was totally okay!” Robby said, pointing at the tabby now grooming himself in a patch of sunlight.
“You’re not a cat, Robby,” Holt reminded him.
And cats supposedly had nine lives. Robby had one and was everything to Holt. He’d raised his son single-handedly since his ex-wife had left when Robby was three years old. Their marriage had always been rocky, but Holt had tried—hard—and signing the divorce papers he’d been served had felt like the ultimate failure. His ex had made it clear before they were married that she wasn’t sure she wanted kids, but they’d gotten pregnant accidentally. She now lived in Colorado with a guy named Enzo and sent birthday and Christmas cards with age-appropriate small gifts to Robby every year. Holt wished things could be different between his son and his mother, but Sally Anne had never deceived him about what she wanted.
“Cowabunga!” Robby shouted and leaped—without looking.
Luckily, Holt was right there with his arms extended and caught his boy, getting a kid-size foot in the gut for his trouble.
“Thanks for catching me, Daddy,” Robby said with a huge smile, wrapping his skinny, freckled arms around Holt’s neck for a hug. Not an impish, ha-ha, you know I never listen smile of victory. Just pure happy.
His dad caught him—and always would. Robby knew that. Holt’s own father, Robby’s gramps, would have said: You shoulda let Robby fall, splat, right on the barn floor and broken a wrist or an ankle. That’ll teach him. Being soft or coddled never got anyone anywhere.
The problem was that his dad was right and wrong, just as Holt was both plenty of times. Sometimes you had to let a child learn a lesson. And sometimes being there was the right answer. Holt’s life was a constant judging of that. Three-quarters of the time he thought he got it right. Like now.
He gave Robby’s dark hair a tussle. “Robby, I said not to jump and that means don’t jump. If I’d missed—”
“Like you’d ever!” Robby exclaimed, wriggling out of his arms and dashing to the glass door that led to the vestibule of the cat barn and exit.
“Robby, wait,” Holt called, but his son was halfway up the path of the vast farm to where a bunch of cows were grazing in a pasture.
Holt was sure a few grays hairs had sprung out in his own dark hair. He headed after his son who was already chatting away with one of the cows, a Belted Galloway. Holt stood a few feet behind, ready to catch Robby if he ran off toward the barns again.
Of course he’d reprimand Robby for disobeying, for not following the rules about running around the animal sanctuary. But part of him always felt he needed to give his son some leeway, when it felt right, to be seven and do what was natural for him. Like running around a wide-open farm. Robby’s first grade teacher had said he was a typical child, just rambunctious and that time and a little maturity would help. She’d given Holt some great tips that had worked wonders for her in the classroom—letting Robby take breaks and “shake out his legs,” making sure he had a good snack, allowing him to use a squeeze ball that he could keep in his hand while she was instructing and listening wasn’t easy. But the director of the camp Robby had attended a few days each week this summer had complained that the seven-year-old required too much of the counselors’ attention and could he please speak to his son. That had made Holt feel like hell.
Even if he’d been expecting it. Holt had done his research on his son’s impulsivity and consulted with Robby’s teachers and the guidance counselor and read all sorts of articles. There was such a vast pool of information, with so many recommendations, that Holt would just do his best with what made sense to him. The guidance counselor had recommended getting Robby tested for ADHD, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, at the start of second grade, to allow him to mature some, and that was what Holt would do.
He was about to call Robby over for a chat about following the rules—and if you break another we’ll leave—but the boy was deep in conversation with the cow.
“I sure would love to take you home,” Robby said to the cow. “I’d name you Daring Drake after my favorite Bronc rider. Or should I name you Holt? That’s my dad and he’s my number one hero but it would be weird to name a pet cow after him, right? Anyway, Daring Drake is my number two hero. Want to know who number three is? You!”
As Robby continued to talk to the cow, telling the ole girl about the teacher he got for second grade, which started at the end of the month, Holt relaxed. Talking to animals really seemed to calm his son down. Robby wasn’t jumping or running or trying to climb over the fence. He was just talking and fully engaged. Coming here, deciding to bring a pet into their home, had been a good idea. Holt had done his research, knew he’d be doing the brunt of the work, but Robby would have a living creature to care for and love, to talk to, to turn to.
“Is yo
ur dad your hero too?” Robby asked the cow. “Which one is your dad, anyway?” The boy glanced around the pasture, and Holt had to admit, his heart had moved in his chest. His son might be a handful, but he was incredibly loving. Holt considered himself very lucky.
“Awww,” said a woman’s voice. “That is sure sweet.”
Holt turned around—and the man who thought nothing could ever shock him anymore felt his knees wobble.
Because there was no way Amanda Jenkins was standing right there in the middle of Happy Hearts Animal Sanctuary in Bronco, Montana. He had to be seeing things.
But he blinked and there she definitely was.
Ten years older, yet it seemed as though she hadn’t changed a bit. The same long, dark wavy hair halfway down her back. The same beautiful dark eyes and full pink-red lips. She was petite and had been on the shy side, not one to make herself stand out. But man, did she, then and now. The minute he’d laid eyes on her that long-ago summer they’d met while working at a camp for special needs kids, there were no other girls at Camp KidPower. Let alone Montana.
What could she be doing in Bronco, though? Neither of them was from here, though Bronco Heights was home to him now.
“Holt?” she said on a gasp, her expression as shocked as his must have been.
He nodded. “It’s good to see you again, Amanda.” Major understatement. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as memories of their summer together hit him. All they’d shared and talked about. The feel of her lips on his. Her soft hands on his body. It might be August, but a chill, a good one, ran up his spine. Amanda Jenkins. The woman he’d let get away.
She didn’t respond to that. “What in the world are you doing in Bronco?” She glanced at Robby, still talking to the cow, then back at Holt. “And you have a kid. Wow.”
He nodded and took off his Stetson, holding it against his stomach and running a quick hand through his hair. “I live here now. In Bronco Heights. My family bought a big ranch last year. Dalton’s Grange. I have a cabin on the property for me and Robby.”
He could see her taking that in—the me and Robby. Not me and my wife and Robby.
“You’ve been living in Bronco Heights for a year?” she asked. “I’ve been here two years. I can’t believe I haven’t run into you.”
“Well, we never ran with the same crowd,” he said. Also an understatement.
She narrowed her brown eyes at him. “The same crowd? We were practically the same person, Holt. Remember how we always used to say, ‘I’m you and you’re me’?” She smiled as if lost in the sweet memory, then frowned, then seemed embarrassed she’d said it. She lifted her chin. “Well, I don’t know why I brought that up. Old stuff that doesn’t matter anymore.”
It did to him and always would. He remembered. The way they’d lie on the grass by the lake after they were free for the day—she’d been a counselor while he was on the kitchen staff—holding hands, making out, talking about everything and anything. I’m you and you’re me, she’d say, and he’d repeat it back with absolute wonder in his heart, in his gut, in every cell in his body. Those times when he was with Amanda like that, just the two of them when it felt like there was no one else in the world? Yeah, he was her and she was him. But in reality? They were nothing alike.
He’d never told her the truth—why he’d been working at that camp, making industrial-size pots of scrambled eggs and spaghetti and vats of “bug juice” and scouring dishes and counters and mopping the huge kitchen floor. He hadn’t told anyone. She’d made some assumptions about him back then that he liked, that he was a college student on summer break, as she’d been, and he hadn’t corrected her. For those nine, ten weeks, he’d been the guy she thought he was. But that was summer. Like all good things, it always came to an end.
“Daddy, I definitely want a dog but I also want a cow!” Robby called out as he turned and simultaneously rushed ahead, clearly having no idea his dad was right behind him. He almost barreled into Holt’s waist and legs. “Oops!” He squinted up at Holt in the sun. “See him, Daddy?” he said, pointing at the Beltie. “His name will be Daring Drake after the greatest bronc rider in Montana.”
“Hi there,” Amanda said, extending her hand to Robby. “I’m Amanda Jenkins and you can call me Amanda.”
Robby gave her hand a hearty pump. “I’m Robby. My principal at school always shakes my hand. I get called down to her office a lot and when I leave, she always shakes my hand. I like her. Some kids think she’s mean but I don’t. There was a girl named Amanda in my class last year. She was in the best reading group. I was in the worst.”
Amanda seemed about to say something, but Robby beat her to it, his trademark.
“Can we adopt the cow, Daddy? He’s the one I want.” Robby turned and beamed at his new friend.
Happy Hearts Animal Sanctuary wasn’t a working farm; it was a place where animals lived in peace and harmony with nature. The owner, an animal rights devotee named Daphne Taylor, rescued farm animals—and everything in between, from dogs to rabbits to guinea pigs—and gave them a home on the huge property. She adopted out the animals that would do well in forever homes, which was why he and Robby had come. To adopt a dog. Not a cat. Not a cow.
“That cow’s a beaut—a female, by the way—but the cows at the Dalton Grange aren’t pets, they’re hardworking members of the ranch.” His family ranch, where he, his parents and his four brothers lived and raised cattle. Daphne had full respect for the ranchers in the area, and he was glad to know that someone who had the means—Holt’s father referred to her as “that hippie-socialite”—to run a sanctuary for animals had created this special place. Not all the ranchers in town understood Daphne, but Holt admired her.
“Oh yeah,” Robby said with a frown. He turned to the cow. “Sorry, buddy. I can’t adopt you. But maybe I could come see you sometimes.”
“That would be very nice, Robby,” Amanda said, her smile so warm that Holt wanted to reach out and squeeze her hand.
“Can you show us the dogs now, Amanda?” Robby asked, his blue eyes excited.
Holt glanced at Amanda. She wore a yellow knee-length dress with a short, fitted white blazer, and there were a few gold bangles on her wrist. Her shoes were flat but shiny and looked expensive. He doubted she worked here. Not in that dressy outfit.
“Well, I’m not involved with the adoptions,” Amanda explained, “but I can find Daphne Taylor for you two. She owns Happy Hearts. I do social media for the sanctuary.”
“Social what-ee-ah?” Robby asked, tilting his head.
“Social media refers to websites online—on computers—that let people communicate with one another in all kinds of ways. Facebook, Twitter, chat groups, that kind of thing. I promote Happy Hearts online and around the state so that people know about the animals and adoption events and fund-raising opportunities.”
Robby nodded. “Isn’t it so awesome that I’m getting a dog?” he asked. “My mom has a dog but I’ve never met him. Well, it’s not really her dog. It’s Enzo’s. That’s her boyfriend. They live in Colado.”
“Colorado,” Holt corrected, the neckline of his Henley shirt tightening on him. The way Robby talked about his mom just then, you’d think it didn’t bother the boy at all that he’d barely had contact with her—and hadn’t for four years. But it did. Sometimes, that stupid saying Holt couldn’t stand—it is what it is—brought Holt to his knees, but it mostly just kept him from getting a decent night’s sleep. Some things he didn’t know how to fix.
Amanda’s expression was a mixture of so many emotions he couldn’t pick out the strongest. Robby sure did like to talk.
“Well,” Holt said, forcing a smile. “Let’s go check out the dogs, Robby.” Not that he wanted a fast getaway. Or any getaway from Amanda.
“I’ll text Daphne to meet you two there,” Amanda said, pulling out her phone and double-thumbing away. Seconds later she nodded. “Yup,
Daphne will be over there in a few minutes. I’ll show you the way,” she added, tucking a swath of her long hair behind one ear. He noticed her delicate gold and ruby earrings, a sweet sixteen gift from her parents, he recalled. “The dogs have their own separated section of the barn with large cozy kennels that lead to outdoor runs for them.”
She started walking and Holt had to tell his feet to move—that was how startled he was by her presence in the first place.
They went into the dog area, which managed to be sunny and shady, tranquil and energetic all at once. There were large white boards with dog names and schedules of who was walked when, and pegs that held many leashes and tables beneath with supplies, from dog food to treats. Robby walked up and down the rows of kennels, Holt trailing behind him, too aware of Amanda standing by the door and probably still reeling, as he was, from the craziness of running into each other ten years later.
Unless he was flattering himself. They hadn’t exactly parted on good terms, and it was one summer out of her life. Maybe she hadn’t given him a thought in all these years.
Robby was greeted by barks and dogs jumping up against the kennel doors. The seven-year-old stopped in front of the kennel of a medium-size black-and-white dog—a border collie mix, if Holt had that right.
Robby grinned at the dog, who sat staring at him, head tilted. He didn’t jump or bark. The dog put his paw up on a bar of the door as if to say hi. Some dogs looked like they were smiling, and this was one of those.
“He likes me!” Robby exclaimed. “Hi. I’m Robby! I’m seven. I like running, talking, TV shows, Minecraft, cheeseburgers, ice cream, my grandparents and my uncles, and Daring Drake the bronc rider.”
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