Making Room for the Rancher

by Christy Jeffries

  “How’d you know Rider was my uncle?”

  “He mentioned meeting my father once at Big Millie’s. He wanted me to know that you run a respectable establishment and warned me that if I was anything like my old man, I should stay far away.”

  Dahlia tilted her head as she studied him. “And are you?”

  “Staying far away?” Connor shrugged. “I’ve tried to, but you keep finding me.”

  “I meant, are you anything like your father?” Not that she had any idea who his father was or what that would prove. “Wait. Did you just say you’ve been trying to avoid me?”

  “I meant that in a good way,” he said quickly, but she was already rocking back on her boot heels.

  That was certainly a first for Dahlia. Not that she thought the man—or any man—was dying to spend time with her, but she was usually the one to do the avoiding. The unexpected disappointment kind of stung. “So I should be flattered that you don’t want to be around me?”

  “I never said that I don’t want to be around you, Dahlia. Obviously, I do. That’s why it’s been a struggle.”

  His insinuation, along with his use of her name, turned that disappointed sting into a warm tingle.

  Dear Reader,

  It’s true what they say: it takes a village to raise a child. I remember before I became a mother that I was never going to let my kids watch too much TV or eat junk food or talk back to me. Then I gave birth and soon learned that we get the children we’re meant to have—which sometimes means the exact opposite of what we were expecting. This is why parents need support systems...especially now during times of global pandemics and virtual learning.

  I come from a blended family and my parents always set a great example for us on how to get along well with exes and anyone else in the community who had their child’s best interests at heart. We’re all doing this thing called life together and, in the process, we’re raising the future generation of scientists and lawyers and teachers and health care professionals—the very people who will be taking care of us in our old age.

  In Making Room for the Rancher, Dahlia Deacon King is coparenting her precocious five-year-old daughter with her ex-husband, and local rancher Connor Remington has some opinions on how she should be doing things. Sparks fly, boundaries get fuzzy, and in the center of it all is a smart and compassionate little girl with a stray dog and a determination to bring everyone together.

  For more information on my other Harlequin Special Edition books, visit my website at christyjeffries.com, or chat with me on Twitter, @christyjeffries. You can also find me on Facebook and Instagram. I’d love to hear from you.

  Enjoy,

  Christy Jeffries

  Facebook.com/AuthorChristyJeffries

  Instagram.com/Christy_Jeffries/

  Making Room for the Rancher

  Christy Jeffries

  Christy Jeffries graduated from the University of California, Irvine, with a degree in criminology and received her Juris Doctor from California Western School of Law. But drafting court documents and working in law enforcement was merely an apprenticeship for her current career in the dynamic field of mommyhood and romance writing. She lives in Southern California with her patient husband, two energetic sons and one sassy grandmother. Follow her online at christyjeffries.com.

  Books by Christy Jeffries

  Harlequin Special Edition

  Twin Kings Ranch

  What Happens at the Ranch...

  Sugar Falls, Idaho

  The Firefighter’s Christmas Reunion

  The SEAL’s Secret Daughter

  Furever Yours

  It Started with a Pregnancy

  Montana Mavericks

  The Maverick’s Bridal Bargain

  Montana Mavericks: The Lonelyhearts Ranch

  The Maverick’s Christmas to Remember

  Montana Mavericks: What Happened to Beatrix?

  His Christmas Cinderella

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Excerpt from She Dreamed of a Cowboy by Joanna Sims

  Prologue

  Good evening, Wyoming, we are reporting live from the Twin Kings Ranch following the funeral of United States Vice President Roper King, who was born and raised right here in the small town of Teton Ridge, in the heart of Ridgecrest County.

  As many of you know, Roper King was a well-respected war hero and successful cattle rancher who started out in local politics, then served two terms as the governor of Wyoming before becoming vice president. The guest list of attendees read like a star-studded who’s who of celebrities, foreign dignitaries and politicians, including the president of the United States and her husband.

  The service began as a somber and dignified celebration of life, then took an unexpected turn when political analyst Tessa King, one of Roper King’s daughters, collapsed on the front steps of the church and was quickly spirited away by the Secret Service. While we don’t have an update on Tessa’s condition, there are reports that she was later seen at the private graveside service along with her five siblings.

  Hold on, I’m getting word that one of the Kings is driving this way through the gates and it might be... No, it’s just one of the other family members. Possibly one of Roper’s less famous daughters.

  We will update you with all new developments. Now, back to our news desk for more highlights from today’s event...

  Chapter One

  “Will Grandpa Roper have any friends in Heaven?” five-year-old Amelia asked as they took a right onto Ridgecrest Highway, which wasn’t so much a highway as it was a two-lane road that cut through the middle of downtown Teton Ridge, Wyoming.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Dahlia King Deacon murmured in response.

  In fact, all of Dahlia’s answers since her father’s death were either nods, shoulder shrugs or noncommittal mumbles. Although, to be fair, her daughter hadn’t ceased her rapid-fire questions since they’d said goodbye to the rest of the family and driven away from the Twin Kings Ranch ten minutes ago.

  “Do you think Gan Gan is gonna move to Heaven, too?” Amelia asked next.

  “Someday, but not anytime soon.” Dahlia put her elbow on the windowsill of her truck, using one hand to prop up her pounding head while the other hand steered them down the familiar route. Normally, she would encourage her only child’s inquisitive mind and happily engage in the back-and-forth. But today had been emotionally draining, and she was trying to hold it together as best she could.

  Plus, Dahlia’s twin sister, Finn, had already answered most of Amelia’s questions when they’d been in the back seat of the limo, going from the church service to the family cemetery, and then back to the main house for the somber reception.

  So far, Amelia’s questions today included:

  Did Grandpa Roper really know all these people?

  Why are there so many movie cameras outside?

  Do all those policemans work for Uncle Marcus?

  Is it okay if I ask the President for one of her candies?

  Can I be the president when I grow up?

  When can we go home?


  The last question had been exactly what Dahlia needed to hear to snap her back to reality.

  Instead of saying goodbye to her mother, Dahlia had made a quick excuse to one of the Secret Service agents on protective detail before taking Amelia’s hand in her own and sneaking out through the kitchen, past the catering staff who were hauling the leftover food to the matching bunkhouses behind the stables.

  As soon as she’d gotten Amelia buckled into her booster seat, Dahlia had driven home on autopilot. She hadn’t expected so many news vans to still be parked outside the front gates of her family’s cattle ranch, and breathed a sigh of relief when none of them followed her.

  Nobody ever expected the daughter of the third richest man in Wyoming to be driving a fifteen-year-old Ford F-150 crew cab with a cow-sized dent in the front grill and a Follow Me To Big Millie’s sticker on the back bumper. They especially didn’t expect it when that same man was Roper King, vice president of the United States.

  Make that the former vice president of the United States.

  To everyone else, Roper had been larger than life—war hero, politician, billionaire, national icon. But to Dahlia, he’d simply been Dad.

  And now he was gone.

  A ribbon of pain curled around Dahlia’s throat, all the pent-up emotion of the day’s orchestrated funeral threatening to suffocate her. She choked down a rising sob, telling herself it was only a twenty-minute drive to their little apartment in town. Twenty minutes before she could put on a Disney movie for her daughter, and then go have a good cry in the shower where nobody would be able to see her. Or ask her if all mommies got red-faced and snot-nosed when they cried.

  The dark sunglasses she’d been hiding behind all day were no match for glare reflecting off the snow-covered Grand Tetons as the bright sun lowered along the opposite end of the sky. Dahlia was so busy adjusting her sun visor she almost didn’t see the ball of white fur dart across the road in front of her.

  Slamming on the brakes, she yanked the steering wheel to the right, keeping her grip on the worn leather as the truck skid off the road and shimmied to a stop. She threw the gearshift into Park and turned around before she could unbuckle her seat belt.

  “Are you okay, Peanut?” she asked Amelia, hoping her daughter couldn’t tell that Dahlia was still trying to catch her breath.

  “Why did that doggy run into the road like that?” Amelia replied, whipping her neck around for a glimpse of the white ball of fur who’d nearly caused them to careen into the ditch. “Where is his mommy? Is it a boy doggy or a girl doggy?”

  “Amelia.” Dahlia reached between the seats and put a hand on her daughter’s bouncing leg. Other than a sagging black hair bow and matching snags across both knees of the white tights (which had come courtesy of the child’s earlier visit to the stables with her twin cousins), Amelia appeared none the worse for wear. “Focus over here. Are you hurt at all?”

  “I’m fine.” Her high energy daughter barely glanced her way before unbuckling herself from her seat. “Can I go pet the doggy?”

  “We don’t pet strange do—” Dahlia started, but Amelia already had the back door open.

  “Is that the doggy’s daddy?”

  Dahlia fumbled out of her own seat and dove into the back, trying to snatch the corner of Amelia’s black velvet skirt before her daughter could climb out the door that should have been set to childproof lock. She had no idea who her daughter was talking about, nor would she unless she could get her hips unstuck between the driver’s and passenger seats and follow after the girl.

  Could this day get any worse?

  Dahlia had to simultaneously wiggle at the waist while doing an elbow crawl over the discarded patent leather shoes on the floorboard before she could pull her legs the rest of the way through. By the time she was able to use the armrest of the wide-open door to pull herself upright, Amelia had already made her way to the front of the hood and was talking to someone.

  A man.

  “Is that your doggy? What happened to his leash? What’s his name? Is it a boy? Why aren’t your shoes tied?” The steady stream of questions didn’t provide the man with any opportunity to respond. But it did buy Dahlia a little bit of time to get her bearings, allowing her to push her sunglasses back in place and adjust the pencil skirt that had twisted up like a corkscrew during her ungraceful descent from the truck.

  It also gave her a second to study this irresponsible dog owner, who was now holding his palm cupped against his forehead like a visor as he scanned the dense trees lining the road.

  And really, a second was all she needed to make a snap judgment. Dahlia owned the only bar in town and could read a person the second they walked through the door. Five bucks said this guy was just another hipster tourist lost on his way to nearby Jackson Hole.

  The man was over six feet tall, lean but muscular. He wasn’t completely winded by the recent chase of his dog, so he must work out somewhat regularly. His faded Aerosmith T-shirt could’ve been well-worn, or it could’ve been one of those hundred-dollar designer shirts that people paid extra to achieve the same look. His stiff jeans still had the fold creases down the leg, and a pair of high-top basketball sneakers were in fact, as Amelia had just pointed out, untied.

  “You want us to help you find your doggy?” her daughter asked before Dahlia could stop her. “Mommy is the bestest at finding my shoes and my crayons and my grandpa’s glasses. Gan Gan says that Mommy could find trouble in a haystack without even looking.”

  The stranger turned toward her, his eyes shaded behind his hand. Dahlia forgot about searching for the runaway dog, and instead concentrated on finding a deep enough hole that she could hide in.

  It was a mistake to stay quiet for any length of time around Amelia, because that only encouraged the child to continue talking. As if to prove her point, her daughter added, “But Grandpa doesn’t need to look for his glasses no more because he went to Heaven.”

  Amelia’s voice had gone softer with the last sentence, the young child’s sadness creeping into her normally exuberant tone. Dahlia’s throat did that constricting thing again, and she didn’t trust herself not to start bawling in front of a perfect stranger. Instead, she sucked in her cheeks, trying to take a few steadying breaths through her nose.

  The man finally parted his lips, opening and then closing them before kneeling down so that he was eye level with Amelia. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “That’s what everyone keeps saying to us. But we didn’t lose Grandpa. He went to sleep and didn’t wake up. Right, Mommy?”

  Two curious gazes turned up to Dahlia. One set was the same blue as her own, full of curiosity. The other set was an unfamiliar golden brown with flecks of green, full of uncertainty and maybe a hint of pity. Or maybe the guy just wanted them to think he was some stranded motorist in order to lure them into a false sense of security.

  Crap. Getting abducted would be the green olive garnish to this four-martini day.

  “That’s one way to put it.” Dahlia used her trembling fingers to push a fallen strand of hair behind her ear. She stepped closer to Amelia, putting her arm around her daughter’s shoulder while simultaneously easing the five-year-old back a few paces so that she wasn’t within snatching distance of a potential kidnapper.

  Maybe Dahlia had been a little too quick to refuse the Secret Service’s offer of an escort home. She’d always felt perfectly safe in her small hometown, well-known by the locals, yet pleasantly anonymous to most outsiders. Now, though, she’d broken all of her own rules about talking to strangers. Sure, there might not be a windowless panel van parked nearby or lollipops falling out of the man’s pockets, but helping a random guy find his “lost dog” was supposedly one of the oldest tricks in the book.

  The stranger in question rose to his full height, which was still several inches taller than her—even in her uncomfortable high heels. Stepping ba
ckward again, she glanced down at his large hands and the skin on the back of her neck prickled. He wasn’t holding any sort of weapon, but he also wasn’t holding a leash.

  If she could get Amelia anywhere close to the rear door of the truck, Dahlia might have a better chance of making a run for it and locking them both in the cab. She spoke without taking her eyes of the man. “Peanut, go back to the truck and get your shoes on so we can help look for this man’s lost dog.”

  Luckily, Amelia’s need to ask a million questions was usually only superseded by her need to help an unfortunate animal, and she quickly obeyed.

  “No.” The man lifted up those same hands, palms out. “It’s not my dog. He was on my property and I thought he might be lost. So I was tracking him, trying to get close enough to see if he had a collar. I almost had him, but then he heard your truck and took off running across the highway.”

  She noted the golden skin of his uncovered forearms. Nobody who lived in Wyoming this time of year had a sun-kissed tan like that.

  “So you’re saying you live in Teton Ridge?” she asked, knowing full well that if anyone new had moved to town, she would’ve heard about it. Amelia was now by the passenger side door, and Dahlia took another step in retreat.

  “Lady, if you want to run back to your truck and lock the doors, I’m not going to stop you. I get it that you’re out here on this road in the middle of nowhere and you think I’m some sort of madman chasing after a dog that clearly doesn’t want to be caught. I’ll just head on back to my ranch and everyone can go about their business.”

  “How?”

  “How what?” He tilted his head, his dark copper hair cropped short, almost military-length.

  “How are you going to get back to your ranch?” she asked, sounding like Amelia, who was now sitting on the loose gravel buckling her patent leather shoes onto the wrong feet.

  He rocked back on the heels of his untied sneakers. “The same way I got here, I guess.”

  She didn’t mean to let out a disbelieving snort, but the only ranches between the Twin Kings and the heart of town were the abandoned Rocking D Ranch, which was at least another eight miles south, and the Ochoa family’s Establos del Rio. Most of the Ochoas had been at her dad’s funeral, though, and they certainly hadn’t been wearing Air Jordans and an Aerosmith T-shirt.