Kitabı oku: «A Cowboy's Promise»

Matt paused in front of her

“Are we going to talk about it? Or are you going to pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“Talk about what?” She tilted her head to make eye contact.

“This.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers, then pulled away—too soon.

Her heart stumbled, then regained its balance as she quickly scanned the area, fearing one of the locals had witnessed the kiss. Thank goodness they were alone in the parking lot.

“We’re attracted to each other,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Deny it all you want, Amy. But it’s there in your eyes.”

Lord help her, she was in deep.

Dear Reader,

This year Harlequin Books celebrates its 60th anniversary—congratulations Harlequin!

I came across my first Harlequin book while waiting in a dentist office over twenty years ago. I’ve been hooked ever since. What I love most about Harlequin romances is the guaranteed “Feel-Good Sigh” at the end of every book. I’m especially fond of the Harlequin American Romance line, where everyday people from all walks of life, small towns or big cities, find their very own Happy-Ever-Afters. The characters in these stories often experience the same day-today struggles many readers deal with—working, raising children and juggling finances. A Harlequin American Romance book reminds us of what’s really important in the grand scheme of life—family, friends and love. I consider it a privilege to write for Harlequin and hope A Cowboy’s Promise leaves you with a “Feel-Good Sigh.”

For more information on my books please visit www.marinthomas.com, or contact me at marin@marinthomas.com. For the most current news on Harlequin American Romance releases and their authors visit www.harauthors.blogspot.com.

Happy reading!

Marin Thomas

A Cowboy’s Promise
Marin Thomas

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Typical of small-town kids, all Marin Thomas, born in Janesville, Wisconsin, could think about was how to leave after she graduated from high school.

Her six-foot-one-inch height was her ticket out. She accepted a basketball scholarship at the University of Missouri in Columbia, where she studied journalism. After two years she transferred to University of Arizona at Tucson, where she played center for the Lady Wildcats. While at Arizona, she developed an interest in fiction writing and obtained a B.A. in radio-television. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments.

Her husband’s career in public relations has taken them to Arizona, California, New Jersey, Colorado, Texas and Illinois, where she currently calls Chicago her home. Marin can now boast that she’s seen what’s “out there.” Amazingly enough, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Her heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.

Each year since 2005 the U.S. Senate has passed a resolution designating the fourth Saturday of July

National Day of the American Cowboy.

“Pioneering men and women, recognized as cowboys, helped establish the American West…that cowboy spirit continues to infuse the nation with its solid character, sound family values and good common sense; the cowboy embodies honesty, integrity, courage, compassion, respect, a strong work ethic and patriotism.”

Whether he wears a military or blue-collar uniform or suit and tie to work, if you look closely there’s a little bit o’ cowboy in every American man.

Long Live the Cowboy!

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 One

“He’s still out there, Mama,” Amy Olson’s seven-year-old daughter, Rose, announced from her perch on the chair in front of the kitchen window.

Ten minutes earlier, a shiny black 4x4 extended-cab pickup towing a luxury horse trailer large enough to comfortably transport six animals pulled up the gravel drive. Amy hadn’t caught the license plate, but she doubted the driver was from Pebble Creek—no one in this area made enough money raising horses to purchase such a spiffy vehicle. But unlike her neighbors in the small eastern Idaho Valley, Amy was barely hanging on to her land much less making ends meet.

Positive she was viewing a mirage Amy tugged her blouse loose from the waistband of her jeans and rubbed the hem of the cotton material against the windowpane in front of her daughter’s nose. The shirt came away smudged with dust. When was the last time she’d cleaned, let alone washed windows? She glanced at the wall calendar and sighed. She’d tidied the house right before Christmas—five months ago.

The lone cowboy sat inside his truck, yakking on a cell phone. He looked toward the house once or twice, but mostly he stared out the windshield, grinning and gesturing with his arms. Then his head fell back and his shoulders shook. Whoever was on the other end of the call sure tickled his funny bone. Go figure. Amy didn’t find the cowboy or his fancy rig amusing.

As a matter of fact she’d lost her sense of humor—what there had been of it anyway—when the owner of her last boarded horse removed the animal from her farm a week earlier, drying up her sole source of income.

Who is he and what business does he have with the Broken Wheel?

“Is he lost, Mama?”

Lord, I hope so. She wasn’t in the mood for a visit from one of her husband’s creditors.

Since when do collection agencies send their henchmen out in diesel pickups towing horse trailers?

The truck door opened and Amy held her breath. A Stetson emerged. Then a pair of broad shoulders. She estimated his height to be around one or two inches over six feet. He moved around the hood and her first head-to-toe glance triggered a mini-heart attack.

Amy had a weakness for cowboys.

He paused midstride and her ticker resumed beating. His head turned toward the barn, revealing a strong jaw and a wide mouth, which wasn’t smiling now. After a moment, he swaggered—that’s how most cowboys, who believed they were God’s gift to women, walked—over to the house. He took the porch steps two at a time and instead of ringing the bell he pounded.

“Go upstairs and check on Lily,” she ordered her daughter. “But don’t wake her if she’s napping. And stay in your room until I call for you.”

Rose obeyed, grabbing the box of Cheerios off the kitchen table—her sister’s favorite food—before leaving the kitchen. Amy unconsciously brushed at her bangs. When she caught her reflection in the window, she grimaced. Do you really care what the man thinks of you?

No, she did not. She’d transferred handsome cowboys to her been-there-done-that list several years ago.

When she opened the door, cool blue eyes pinned her. Mesmerized, she gaped, uncaring if the man considered her behavior rude. A split-second fantasy flashed through her mind—she and the cowboy lying in a field of clover beneath a cornflower-colored sky—which slowed her thundering pulse to a sluggish thump thumpity thump.

“Ma’am.”

The deep voice abruptly ended the dream. “May I help you?” she squeaked.

He removed his hat.

She wished he hadn’t.

Strands of dark hair, the color of the dirt after a hard rain, lay every which way across his brow and over the tips of his ears, lending him a shaggy beach-bum appeal. She easily pictured the cowboy in Hawaiian-flowered swim trunks surfing an ocean wave. Then he smiled.

Good Lord. He was a heartbreaker.

Soul-stopper.

Woman-dropper.

His gaze swept her from head to toe, its indifference almost insulting. Amy wasn’t a looker—at least for the past several months she hadn’t been one. Each morning the bathroom mirror reminded her that she had an inch of dark roots showing. But money was tight and she didn’t dare waste a penny on a cut and color. Besides, a trip to the hair salon wouldn’t erase the worry lines that had taken up residence across her forehead the past few months.

“Matt Cartwright.” He offered his hand.

His fingers were marked by thick calluses and a scar bisected his palm—a bad rope burn, she suspected. He shifted, the movement sending shards of afternoon sunlight ricocheting off the silver belt buckle at his waist. According to the inscription—Dodge National Circuit Finals Rodeo—the man was an authentic rodeo cowboy. Figures. Rodeo cowboys were useless. She ought to know—she’d married one.

Steeling herself, she clasped his hand, ignoring the jolt of awareness that spread through her. Holy smokes, her breasts were tingling. When was the last time that had happened?

“I’ve got business with Ben Olson.”

He hadn’t heard? Amy’s attention shifted to the horse trailer. “Ben’s not here.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Not soon.” That was for sure.

Mr. Cartwright rubbed his chin, dragging his fingers across the emerging five o’clock shadow, the scratchy noise too intimate a sound between them for having just met. “I dialed his cell phone numerous times, but he never answered. Then a few weeks ago the number was no longer in use.”

That’s because Amy hadn’t been able to pay the wireless phone bill and the company had cancelled her service. “Maybe I can help,” she said.

Brow furrowed, he shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Amy Olson. Ben’s wife.” His eyes rounded—evidently he hadn’t been aware that Ben had been married. “Would you like to leave a message for my husband?” she asked, hoping to buy a few weeks before he figured out the truth.

“Actually, I’d like to leave three of my mares with him.”

“Excuse me?”

Dark eyebrows curved inward over his nose—a nose that had been broken at least once according to the bump along its bridge. “Did your husband happen to mention a business agreement he made with me?”

Damn her pie-in-the-sky, dreaming, scheming husband. She pushed the words past her lips. “He did not.”

The cowboy rocked on his boot heels, clearly agitated by the lack of progress in their conversation. “Ben and I met in Pocatello this past December.”

Not surprising. Her husband had chased the rodeo dream since before they’d married. If Ben wasn’t competing, he was in the stands cheering. But he’d never been good enough to win a buckle like this cowboy. A sliver of dread crawled up Amy’s spine. She hoped to heaven that the deal her husband had struck with this man had nothing to do with the beast in the barn. “I’m listening.”

“On the eve of the National Finals Rodeo a group of cowboys organized a poker game and—”

“The short version. I have chores to do.” Not true. Few tasks remained on the farm since her horse-boarding business had gone belly-up. Regardless, she wanted this cowboy gone—yesterday.

“The short version, Mrs. Olson, is that your husband lost to me at poker and I’m here to collect on his debt.”

Blast it, Ben. Her husband had no business playing cards. He couldn’t keep a straight face if his life depended on it. As a matter of fact he couldn’t walk straight, sleep straight, sit straight or talk straight. He’d been the most wishy-washy man she’d ever met. “How much does Ben owe you?”

“Thirty-thousand.”

A high-pitched buzz whistled between her ears. She opened her mouth but only air rushed out.

“Since your husband wasn’t able to procure the funds we struck a bargain.”

“Bargain?” she wheezed.

“Free stud service in lieu of the money he owes me.”

That surely wasn’t going to happen. Besides…“Most serious horse breeders prefer artificial insemination.”

His devilishly wicked grin revealed a perfect set of pearly whites. “Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a lady who’s been properly courted behaves better in the bedroom, er…stall, I mean.”

If she squeezed the doorknob any tighter, she’d bust the hardware. “I’m sorry about the gambling debt, but you can’t leave your horses here.” She attempted to slam the door in his face, but a size-thirteen Roper blocked the way. He held out a piece of paper.

No mistaking Ben’s handwriting. She scanned the contents. The message said exactly what Mr. Cartwright claimed—free stud service for three mares valued at thirty thousand dollars—except her husband was to have delivered Son of Sunshine over a month ago to the Lazy River Ranch outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. “Like I said…can’t help you.” When he made no move to take the note, she stuffed it into his shirt pocket, ignoring the hard wall of flesh that her knuckles nudged.

“Mrs. Olson, I’m not leaving until I speak with Ben.”

The resentment and frustration that had been damned up all these months burst free, sending a flood of anger rushing through her. “I’m afraid you’ll have yourself quite a long wait.”

His eyes narrowed, leaving only a slice of blue visible. “And why’s that?”

“Because Ben’s dead.”

The cowboy’s mouth dropped. “Dead…dead?”

Was there any other kind? “Dead as in buried over yonder.” She pointed to a grassy knoll a hundred yards beyond the barn—the family burial ground. Hard to miss her great-grandparents’ headstone standing ten feet high. She motioned to the horse trailer. “I apologize for any inconvenience Ben may have caused you. Good day, Mr. Cartwright.”

This time the door encountered no roadblock and closed with a bang!

DEAD?

Ben Olson couldn’t be dead. Matt had played cards with the bronc rider this past December at the Holt Arena on the campus of Idaho State University. Although they’d run into each other at rodeos through the years, Matt hadn’t known the man well, save for the fact that he had a reputation for gambling—and losing. The way Olson flirted with the rodeo groupies, Matt would never have believed the man had been married. And speaking of wives…

The widow sure hadn’t acted torn up over the loss of her husband. Unless…had he been duped by the couple?

He smashed his Stetson on his head and headed up the hill to the graveyard encased behind a three-foot wrought-iron fence, its rusted finials pointing heavenward. With long strides he covered the ground, spewing cuss words in sync with the gravel bits flying out from beneath his boot heels. He refused to entertain the possibility that his plan to retire from rodeo had encountered a roadblock he was unable to swerve around. He stopped outside the gate and scanned the handful of granite markers. Ben…Ben…Ben…

Oh, hell.

Benjamin Olson

Loving Husband and Father

Matt shifted his attention from the grave marker to the rolling green hills that butted up to the jagged peaks of the southern end of the Teton Mountain Range. His first thought—nice place to be buried. Second thought—now what? It had been evident by the daze on Amy Olson’s face that her husband had failed to mention he’d lost thirty thousand dollars in a poker game.

When Matt had discovered that Olson had recently purchased the famous American quarter horse Son of Sunshine, Matt had been consumed with the idea of breeding his mares with the stallion. At eight years of age the stud was regarded as one of the top-ten cutting horses in the country.

Blame it on karma, kismet or providence, but Matt believed running into Olson at the National Finals Rodeo had been a signal that the time was right for the career change Matt had contemplated for months—raising cutting horses. To begin his new venture with offspring sired by Son of Sunshine was an opportunity Matt hadn’t been able to pass up.

The cutting-horse operation was to be a turning point in Matt’s life, allowing him to retire from rodeo. He remained a contender—one of the top tie-down cowboys on the Prairie Circuit. But at the age of thirty-four he was tired of life on the road, sleeping in dingy motels and eating fast food day in and day out.

In truth, he’d been ready to walk away from the sport when he’d turned thirty. But back then he hadn’t known what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except that he didn’t relish working for his father in the oil business. Matt preferred the smell of a rank barn to thick black crude.

His agreement with Olson had stated that the man was to deliver the stud to his father’s ranch in Oklahoma by the end of April. April had faded into May and no sign of the stud and no contact with Olson.

The clock had been ticking. The mares’ natural breeding season was May through September. When the first week of May had passed and Olson remained a no-show, Matt had taken matters into his own hands and hauled his horses to Idaho.

From his vantage point on the hill the old homestead left a lot to be desired. The shabby two-story white clapboard—most of the paint had peeled off over the years—listed to the left as if the steady Idaho winds were trying to shove it off its foundation. The shutters had faded from glossy black to dull charcoal, and one shutter was missing from a second-story window. Olson hadn’t put any money into upkeep. Not unusual. Most ranchers and horse breeders sunk their profits into their operations.

Next Matt eyed the horse barn—in slightly better condition than the house—and the empty paddocks. Dread settled like a hot road apple in the pit of his stomach. Had the widow sold off the prized stallion?

Guess he’d better find out. Matt returned to the house and stomped up the porch steps. The door opened unexpectedly and he had to yank his arm back to prevent his knuckles from rapping the widow’s forehead.

“Need more proof Ben’s dead, Mr. Cartwright?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul odor—him.

Was her testy demeanor the result of her husband’s death or just her normal pleasing personality? First things first. He removed his hat. “My condolences on the loss of your husband.”

His apology sucked the hissy-fit out of her. Her brown eyes softened to the color of well-oiled saddle leather as she murmured, “Thank you.”

When they’d spoken earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to her face. She seemed too damned young to be a widow—clear skin, nondescriptive features and a cap of blondish bouncy curls that bobbed in every direction when she moved her head. She was average height—somewhere between five-five and five-six with curvy hips and plenty of eye-catching bosom. Not that he had any interest in her figure.

He shored up his defenses. He’d learned the hard way that the opposite sex usually possessed an agenda. He’d been burned once by a needy female and refused to walk that road again. And Amy Olson, her brown eyes brimming with bleakness, was the epitome of a woman in need.

“I’m hoping we can reach an agreement regarding your husband’s debt.”

“You must be joking.”

Molars clamped together he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. The oxygen shot straight to his brain, clearing his head. “The way I see it, you have two choices, ma’am.” He doubted she’d accept either one, but what the hell. “You pay me thirty thousand dollars or I leave my mares here and retrieve them at the end of the summer. Take your pick.”

Eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings, she protested. “I don’t have the means to care for your horses.”

“Fine. I’ll take a check.”

She swept her arm across her body. “Does it look like I have thirty grand lying around, Mr. Cartwright?”

Score one for the widow.

“Might I suggest you sell off a few assets to free up the money?”

Her fingers latched on to her throat and he wasn’t sure if she’d intended to halt the gasp that escaped her mouth or to choke herself to death. “I’ve got nothing left save the house and the land and that’s not for sale.”

Damn it all. Why didn’t Amy Olson just brand the words Help Me across her forehead?

“Mama?”

Matt peeked around the door and spotted a dark-haired child holding a toddler with a mop of tangled blond curls. The curly-headed kid grinned around the thumb in her mouth, and a gush of drool spilled down her chin.

“Rose, honey, go upstairs.”

The widow hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He guessed her wariness indicated no other men occupied the premises. Right then the baby whimpered, and held chubby arms out to her mother. Tending to a grumpy kid trumped dealing with him.

“I’m going to unload my horses and leave them in the corral. We’ll settle things in the morning.” He’d made it as far as the bottom porch step when her words lassoed him.

“Nothing left to settle, Mr. Cartwright. Might as well be on your way.”

“I’m not leaving the area until you pay off your husband’s debt or grant me stud service.” At her gasp, he clarified, “Stud service for my mares.”

His ears winced when the door slammed shut.

“HE’S STILL OUT THERE, MAMA,” Rose’s same words echoed two hours later as the little girl stood sentry again at the kitchen window while Amy fixed supper. Following a snack of Cheerios, Lily had succumbed to another nap in the playpen, allowing Amy a rare moment of peace and quiet.

The baby had caught a cold, and the little princess was fussier than usual. If Lily ended up with another ear infection, which she was prone to, Amy would have to take her daughter to the medical clinic in Rockton. She had no idea where she’d get the money to pay for the office visit. Ben’s death had been a nasty monetary wake-up call.

The first few weeks she’d been numb. Then she’d gone into survival mode with one objective—keep the farm afloat. Now even that goal was slipping away. Reality had set in and Amy had to find a job to support her and the girls. Boarding horses was no longer an option—at least not until she decided what to do with that nasty stud in the barn.

“He sure does got pretty horses.”

“Have, Rose. Not got,” Amy corrected.

“Butch says got all the time and his mama don’t, I mean, doesn’t yell at him.”

“I’m not yelling.” Amy rolled her eyes. “And Butch knows better.” The boy was their nearest neighbor’s son. He and Rose shared the same first-grade teacher.

Rose puffed against the pane until it fogged over, then drew B+R with a heart around the letters. Her daughter was in the throes of her first crush.

“Quit messing up the window and set the table, please.” Amy slathered butter on stale bread slices, then glanced over her shoulder and noticed too many dishes on the table. “Only three plates, Rose.”

Ben’s hazel eyes gazed at Amy from her daughter’s face. “What about Daddy’s friend?”

Daddy’s friend had been how she’d explained Matt Cartwright’s unexpected visit. “As soon as his horses rest up, he’ll leave.” She slapped cheese slices on the bread, set the sandwiches in the hot skillet, then wandered over to the window.

Her daughter was right. The mares were beautiful—American quarter horses. Two were buckskins, their yellowish-gold coats popping against glossy black manes, tails and lower legs. The other mare was chestnut with a burnished hide and a brownish-red mane and tail. Forcing her eyes away from the animals she studied the cowboy.

Matt.

Ben.

What was it about men with one-syllable names? Matt was easy on the eyes like Ben had been. And where had lusting after Ben gotten her? Screwed—literally. She’d best keep her eyeballs in her head and figure out a way to run Matt Cartwright off.

Damn you, Ben. Thirty thousand dollars? Her husband had insisted he’d gotten a handle on his gambling addiction. Or maybe she’d just yearned to believe him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

While she flipped the sandwiches, she mentally calculated the bills piling up. Her May mortgage payment was overdue, which ignited her fanny on fire. The land had belonged to her mother’s side of the family for four generations. Her parents had managed to pay off the farm before they’d drowned in a boating accident a few years ago. Because Ben had accumulated a substantial amount of gambling debt, she’d consented to taking out a second mortgage on the property to pay off his losses—under the condition he attend Gamblers Anonymous. He’d agreed.

Instead of repaying off the huge cash advances he’d taken out against several credit cards, her husband had purchased Son of Sunshine and had gambled away the rest. When he’d shown up at the farm with the stallion he’d lied and claimed he’d fallen off the wagon and had used his poker winnings to buy the stud.

If that wasn’t insult enough, Ben had had the nerve to up and die, leaving her with credit card debts, a sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage and a stud whose unpredictable behavior had caused her horse-boarding clients to flee, leaving her with no source of income.

She’d sold off her great-great-grandmother’s rare 1860’s Patent Williams & Orvis Treadle Sewing Machine for $2,495.00 to clear one of the credit cards, but that hadn’t made a dent in the thousands of dollars of debt remaining. If she had the opportunity to sell the stud she would. But who in their right mind would shell out big bucks for a dangerous horse?

“He’s hungry,” Rose said.

Amy lowered the flame under the burner, then peeked over her daughter’s shoulder. The cowboy unloaded a hay bale from the pickup bed and spread it around the corral. Then he wandered over to the stock tank, peered inside and shook his head. No sense keeping fresh water in the reservoir after her boarding business had dried up. He turned on the spigot and filled the trough. “How can you tell he’s hungry?” Amy asked.

“’Cause he’s a good worker.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if all life’s questions came with such simple answers? Sandwiches done, she sliced an apple, delivered the meal to the table and poured Rose a glass of milk. “Wash your hands. I’ll be right back.”

Amy left the house and crossed the drive to where the cowboy stood with one boot propped on the lower rung of the corral, arms folded across the top, watching the mares race about, kicking up dust. “Your horses are spectacular.”

He turned his head and his eyes sucked her into a vortex of swirling blue. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s spell. “I’m truly sorry about your husband’s death,” he said.

Even though the words were sincere, she’d had enough of pitying looks and mumbled sympathies. It wasn’t easy being reminded how gullible she’d been. Besides, I’m sorry wouldn’t pay the mortgage or breathe life into her dead husband. “We’re having grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. You’re welcome to join us.”

His lips curled at the corners. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll grab a bite to eat in town.”

Rude man. She hugged herself, because the wind had picked up, not because the cowboy had declined her meal invitation. “You’re not going to make this easy on me and disappear, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“If you don’t mind me saying—” she gestured to his horse trailer “—you appear to have the financial means to absorb a thirty-thousand-dollar loss.”

“That’s beside the point. A deal is a deal. I intend to breed my mares to Son of Sunshine.”

Enough said. There would be no changing the wrangler’s mind—not today. She spun, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “How did Ben die?”

She supposed he had a right to know. “He was attacked by a horse.”

The wind died suddenly, as if heaven held its breath. “What horse?” he asked.

“Son of Sunshine.”

If she hadn’t been watching his mouth she would never have heard his faintly uttered cuss word.

Shit.