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When the brief conversation ended, she handed the phone back to the ranch hand. “Lilly tells me you’re a nice, capable guy. So if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll get the boys and my things from the car.”
“Fine,” he told her. “While you do that, I’ll call the roadside service.”
* * *
Short minutes later, Denver steered his truckload of passengers onto the long drive leading up to his house. Next to him, in the passenger seat, Marcella Grayson’s hands were clenched tightly together on her lap as she stared straight ahead at the dark landscape beyond the windshield.
Beneath the dim lighting of the dashboard, he could see enough to tell him the long hair hanging nearly to her waist was a light shade of red, but the thick lashes framing her eyes made it impossible to detect their color. Her features were dainty and soft, and from what he could see, she had that creamy pale skin that only true redheads possessed.
What kind of idiot could have left this little beauty and two boys behind? he wondered. Or had she left him?
What the hell does it matter, Denver? This pretty redhead is none of your business. You need to concentrate on helping her get her car going and forget about all the rest. That’s what you need to do.
“Mister, do you know how to ride a horse?”
Denver glanced over his shoulder to see the question had been spoken by the boy called Peter. Tall and thin, with a headful of corn-yellow hair, he had a wide mouth and an eagerness in his voice that said he was basically a curious child.
“A little,” Denver said, then realizing the woman was giving him an odd look, he gave her a reassuring wink.
Harry was quick to correct his brother. “Dummy! He’s a cowboy and that’s what cowboys do. They ride horses!”
“How do you know he’s a cowboy?” Peter demanded.
Harry let out a loud sigh of exasperation. “Can’t you see his hat?”
“Yeah, but he might be wearing that for Halloween,” Peter reasoned.
The exchange between the two boys had Denver smiling to himself. Clearly this was a pair of town kids. Unlike the children who’d been raised here on the Silver Horn and were accustomed to being around ranch hands and livestock.
“Harry, quit calling your brother a dummy,” his mother chided. “Peter is asking questions because he wants to learn.”
Marcella’s statement must have given the older boy the idea to ask his own questions, because the next thing Denver knew Harry had scooted to the edge of his seat.
“I’ll bet you have a horse of your own, don’t you?” he asked.
“I have five horses,” Denver replied.
Clearly impressed, Harry exclaimed, “Five! What do you do with that many?”
Stifling a chuckle, Denver said, “I use the horses to work with. We cowboys have to ride the range, you know. And riding just one horse every day would make him too tired.”
“See, numskull,” Peter tossed at his brother. “You don’t know everything!”
Just as the boys began to argue between themselves again, Denver braked the truck to a stop beneath a low-roofed carport connected to the east side of a wide, rambling house that appeared to be gray in color.
“Here we are,” he said to the woman. “Let me turn on the lights and we’ll go in.”
He climbed from the truck, and after flipping a light on beneath the patio, he opened a side entry door and switched on a light in the mudroom.
Back at the truck, he opened the passenger door and offered his hand up to Marcella. When her fingers clasped around his, he couldn’t help thinking how soft and fragile her hand felt against his. And when she stood down on the ground next to him, he noticed she smelled like a mix of wildflowers and campfire smoke, a scent that was oddly appealing.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “This is very kind of you, Mr. Yates.”
Resisting the urge to clear his throat, he forced himself to release his hold on her hand. “Just call me Denver, ma’am. I’m not used to answering to Mister.”
Smiling, she said, “Okay, Denver it is.”
He stepped away from her and opened the back door of the truck. “Okay, boys, we’re here,” he announced. “Unbuckle and climb out.”
Once the two children had departed the truck and sidled up to their mother, he locked the vehicle, then ushered the trio toward the nearest entry to the house.
“I apologize for taking you through the mudroom,” he told Marcella, “but the light on the front porch isn’t working right now. I wouldn’t want any of you tripping over something in the dark.”
“Don’t apologize,” she told him. “We’re just happy to be out of the cold. Right, boys?”
“That’s right. Thank you, Mr. Yates,” Harry spoke up.
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Cowboy,” Peter added.
Inside the kitchen, he flipped on the overhead light to see his unexpected guests gazing curiously around the cluttered room.
Just when Denver was thinking how polite the boys were, Peter spoke up, “Gee, this is messy. Don’t you like to wash dishes?”
“Peter!” Marcella gasped, then turned a red face to Denver. “I apologize for my son. He—uh—we don’t get out that much. I mean, visit folks in their homes.”
Denver chuckled. “Don’t apologize. The boy is simply stating the obvious. The kitchen is worse than messy. It’s a busy time right now on the ranch. I don’t have a chance to do much housework.”
“Don’t you have a wife?”
This question came from the elder boy, and as Denver looked at him, he didn’t miss how much the child resembled his mother, right down to his carrot-topped hair.
Marcella groaned. “I hope you can bear this until the mechanic gets here with the battery,” she said to Denver.
“Forget it. I’m used to kids,” he told her, then to Harry, he said, “No. I don’t have a wife. Or a maid.”
“What about kids?” Peter asked.
Even though Denver had been asked that very question many times before, for some reason, having it come from Marcella’s towheaded son cut straight through him. “No. None of those, either.”
“Sit down at the table, boys,” Marcella told the two youngsters. “And be quiet. Mr. Yates doesn’t want to be peppered with questions.”
“They don’t have to sit at the kitchen table,” he told her. “They’re welcome to sit in the living room. I’ll turn on the television and they can watch it while you wait for the car to be repaired.”
Mother and kids followed him out of the kitchen and into a long living room furnished with a burgundy leather couch and love seat, and an oversize recliner. In one corner, a television sat atop a wooden console, while a stack of DVDs shared a lower shelf with a remote control.
Marcella took a seat at the end of the couch and instructed the boys to join her. While they settled themselves, Denver turned on the television, then passed the remote to her.
“You’d better choose the channel,” he told her. “You’ll know what’s suitable for them to watch.”
Accepting the remote, she gave him a grateful smile. “Thanks. And please don’t let us interrupt whatever you need to do. We can entertain ourselves.”
“You’re not interrupting.” Not much, he thought wryly. Having a single mother with a pair of kids in his house was disturbing more than his privacy; it was rattling his normally calm nerves. “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go wash up and see about getting us something to drink. Do you like coffee? What about the boys? Is it okay for them to have soda?”
Harry looked to his mother. “Yeah! Please, Mom.”
“Oh boy! Soda! Can we, Mom?” Peter pleaded.
Marcella thoughtfully studied the both of them, then with a resigned shake of her head said, “They’ve already had so much sugar tonight I guess a bit more won’t hurt. I’ll help you.”
Before Denver could tell her to stay put, she rose to her feet and, after punching a number on the remote, ordered the boys not to move from the couch.
As she followed Denver back to the kitchen, he said, “There really isn’t any need for you to help. I’d be making coffee even if you weren’t here.”
“I’d like to join you anyway. With me out of the room, the boys will hopefully settle down and get engrossed in the program. They’re not usually so wound up, but the party was exciting for them,” she explained.
Inside the kitchen, Denver went straight to the double sink and began to scrub his hands. His jeans and denim shirt were coated with dust and splotches of dried blood, and manure stained the legs of his jeans. Normally he went straight to the shower when he arrived home from work, but he could hardly take that luxury with Marcella and her children here.
“So do you come out to the ranch very often?” he asked as she came to stand a few steps on down the cabinet counter.
“Not as much as I’d like to. I love visiting Lilly and Ava, but with my shifts at the hospital I don’t have many chances to make the drive out here.”
“So you work at the hospital?”
“Tahoe General. I’m an RN. I was working third floor for a while, but I’m back in the ER now.”
“I see. So you’re a nurse like Lilly and Ava.”
“Yes. From time to time the three of us worked together. But since they’ve gotten married and started having children of their own, those days are pretty much gone.”
He dried his hands on a paper towel, and though he would’ve liked to simply stand there looking at her, he forced himself to open the cabinets and pull out the coffee makings. During the long years he’d worked for the Calhouns, he’d met many of their friends. But not this one. He would’ve definitely remembered Marcella Grayson.
“You been a nurse for a long time?” he asked.
“Twelve years.”
So she’d become a nurse about the same time he’d come to work here on the Silver Horn, he thought. At that time he’d been twenty-four and desperate to start his life over. Since then, she’d acquired two sons. And he’d lost—well, he’d lost too much.
Glancing over at her, he said, “You don’t look old enough to have been a nurse for that long.”
A wide smile spread her lips, and Denver’s gaze was drawn to her straight white teeth and the faint dimples in her cheeks. When she smiled, there was an impish tilt to her lips and crinkle to the corner of her eyes that pulled at him and urged him to smile back at her.
Imagine that. Denver Yates smiling at a woman. A Halloween witch must have put some sort of spell on him tonight, he thought drily.
“That’s kind of you to say. But I’m thirty-three. I got my nursing degree before Harry was born. And he’s eleven now.”
Had she been married at that time? he wondered. A few minutes ago on the road, she’d told him she didn’t have a husband, and he’d simply assumed she was divorced. But there was always the possibility that she’d had the children out of wedlock. That wasn’t unusual nowadays. Still, Marcella Grayson didn’t seem the sort. Not that he knew that much about women. For the past twelve years he’d pretty much avoided having any kind of relationship with a woman.
Annoyed that his thoughts had meandered off on a path he had no business taking, he forced himself to focus on scooping coffee grounds into the filter.
“You must like it—uh, working as a nurse, I mean.”
“It’s exhausting and the hours are crazy. Especially trying to work them around the boys’ needs. But I manage. Most of all, it’s rewarding.”
He shoved the basket of grounds into place, then stepped in front of the sink to fill the glass carafe with water. By now, she’d moved closer and Denver could only think how odd it seemed to have a woman in his kitchen. How unusual it felt to be looking at her and feeling warm pleasure slowly stirring in the pit of his stomach.
Clearing his throat, he said, “From what Rafe tells me, you nurses are kind of like us cowboys. You have a job that gets in your blood. That’s why Lilly still works two days a week.”
“That’s true. We can’t stay away from it. Not completely. At the time I adopted Peter I thought it would be better to quit the hospital and get a job with strictly daytime hours. So I did. I worked in a family clinic downtown for an excellent physician. But after a while I missed the hustle and bustle of the hospital. Especially the ER. So I went back to Tahoe General. That’s the good part about being a nurse. You never have to beg for a job.”
Denver realized he must be staring at her like some goofy idiot, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Or stop the next question from forming on his tongue. “Your younger son is adopted?”
She nodded. “About three years ago. Actually, Jett Sundell handled all the legal issues for me. With you working here on the ranch, I’m sure you’re acquainted with him.”
“Sure. Jett’s been the Calhoun family lawyer for as long as I’ve been here on the ranch.” He thrust the carafe under the tap and filled it with cold water. “Plus he’s married to Orin’s daughter.”
“Sounds like you’ve worked on the Silver Horn for a long time,” she said.
“Twelve years.” He got the coffeemaker going, then crossed to the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of cola.
She said, “What does your job entail? I know you told the boys you rode the range. But I understand there’s much more to running a ranch than that.”
He carried the sodas over to the cabinet counter. “I’m manager of the cow/calf operation. I make sure the mama cows are healthy and bred each year by the most productive bulls. That their babies are born safely and grow at the right rate, weaned with as little stress on them as possible, then sorted and sold at the most profitable time. That’s just a few of my responsibilities.”
She let out a soft laugh, and the sound punched Denver right in the gut. Along with being sweet, it was sassy enough to turn his thoughts to a hot night and sweaty sheets.
“A few? No wonder you don’t have time to clean the kitchen!”
What in hell is wrong with you, Denver? You haven’t shared sweaty sheets with a woman in years! You haven’t even wanted a woman in years! So what are you doing allowing this one to put such erotic notions in your head?
Slapping away the voice in his head, he gestured to the sodas. “Are these okay for the boys?”
“Fine. I’ll take them.” She walked over to where he stood and picked up the chilled cans. “But I can’t promise you won’t end up with cola on your floor or furniture. If I made them come in here to the table, it might save your living room.”
She was close enough for him to pick up the scent of mesquite smoke and wildflowers in her hair. And as his gaze took in the long red waves dangling against her back, he was struck with the urge to touch the silky strands and feel them slide against his fingers.
“Uh—no need for that,” he told her. “There’s nothing in the living room the kids can hurt.”
She looked at him, and as he met her clear blue gaze, he felt the last bit of oxygen leave his lungs.
“Thanks. I’ll be right back.” She took the soda cans and left the kitchen.
Denver sucked in a long breath and wiped a hand over his face. What in the hell was coming over him? She was just a woman with two kids and a dead battery. There was nothing about her, or the situation, to turn him into a randy teenager. Besides, in an hour or so, she’d be gone and he’d never see her again.
Between now and then, he was going to have to get a grip on his senses and remember he was a widower. It wasn’t meant for him to have a woman or a family. Not now. Not ever.
Chapter Two (#ud6fd0b17-adf7-56c7-91d5-42c7deb71e50)
When Marcella reappeared in the kitchen, Denver had already filled two mugs with coffee and placed them, along with a sugar bowl and container of powdered creamer, on the table.
