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A Family For The Rancher
Allison B. Collins
Part soldier, part survivor.All man.Nash Sullivan doesn't want help from his father, his brothers and absolutely not from feisty physio Kelsey Summers. Nash lost his leg during his overseas deployment and the last thing a woman like Kelsey needs is half a man. Single mum Kelsey knows that the scars on the inside run the deepest. But she can’t stop thinking about her gorgeous patient. Could Nash be the cure for her own broken heart?
PART SOLDIER. PART SURVIVOR. ALL COWBOY.
Nash Sullivan doesn’t need help from anyone. Not his father, not his brothers and sure as heck not from a physical therapist—even a darn feisty one like Kelsey Summers. He lost his leg during his overseas deployment and he just wants to be left alone. Besides, the last thing a woman like Kelsey needs is half a man.
Single mom Kelsey knows all too well that the scars on the inside run the deepest. She needs to move on from her own tragic past, but the Sullivan ranch is starting to feel a little too much like home. And she can’t stop thinking about her wounded—and gorgeous—patient. Could Nash be the cure for her own broken heart?
ALLISON B. COLLINS is an award-winning author and a fifth-generation Texan, so it’s natural for her to love all things Western. It’s a tough job to spend evenings writing about cowboys, rodeos and precocious children, but Allison is willing to do it to bring them all to life. She lives in Dallas with her hero husband of almost thirty years, who takes great care of her and their four rambunctious cats.
A Family for the Rancher
Allison B. Collins
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07733-0
A FAMILY FOR THE RANCHER
© 2018 Allison B. Collins
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to the best friends and critique partners any author could ask for:
Sasha Summers, Suzanne Clark and Angela Hicks.
Thanks for being on this wild ride with me!
To Johanna Raisanen, thank you for loving my manuscript and bringing me into the family.
And to my aunt Pat, whose comments about a cowboy on the back roads of Colorado inspired the character of Bunny Randolph.
But most of all to my husband, Joe.
Hero, best friend, excellent vacation planner and the love of my life.
You’re the best, Mister!
Contents
Cover (#uc1c06076-409a-52ba-9a93-d223196519aa)
Back Cover Text (#u73bf4c95-0a71-504e-b14f-24951af8d87f)
About the Author (#u14d8bc03-9799-5a8c-b03f-dfab03aa7bd5)
Title Page (#ud80fc2c9-362f-59fa-8391-2ad99fbbbeeb)
Copyright (#u72550c51-17ba-53d8-9c13-addb6d70765a)
Dedication (#ue0d96327-8434-571a-8876-1cbcff4dbced)
Chapter One (#u79644969-d29c-50e9-a1cd-45e16f5199cc)
Chapter Two (#uf14631a4-a72e-5301-93c7-b909d41ec03e)
Chapter Three (#u7434020b-ea46-5020-a4ce-b2f36df363cd)
Chapter Four (#u27c83d95-d272-531f-b762-c6fbd3244547)
Chapter Five (#u2687c923-7a57-5b2b-955e-0f3f527fb726)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#uc3b996e8-e12f-51dc-8708-827a99496851)
Nash Sullivan leaned his head on Thunder’s solid shoulder, the muscles flexing beneath his cheek. The scent of hay, sun and saddle soap brought back a tidal wave of memories. Their first rodeo together, long days of riding the fences, riding bareback out to his sanctuary at the pond. He ached to get back in the saddle again after his long stint in the Army riding in nothing but military trucks and tanks the last ten years.
Now he couldn’t even climb into the saddle. He stepped away, but Thunder shifted, nudged Nash back against his shoulder.
His gut clenched, and while he wouldn’t, couldn’t, admit it to anyone, he loved this damn horse, and for the first time, it felt right being home again.
“Need a mounting block, son?”
The words stung, but he couldn’t let his dad know. Thunder shifted and snorted, stomping the hard-packed Montana dirt in front of him.
He pulled the reins tighter and whispered to the brown gelding. Once Thunder had quieted, he lifted his left leg and guided his foot into the stirrup. Thunder shifted, and Nash tightened his thigh muscles, or what was left of them, to get up. Instead he had to haul his foot out as the horse snorted again and stepped away.
“I told you it was too soon. You’ve only been out of the hospital a few months.” His dad walked up to Thunder and patted his neck. “I want you to take charge of the horses.”
“Now? Why?” He squinted in the sunlight, noticing just how gray his dad’s hair had gotten over the years. Even his beard was gray. But the old man was still fit, with ramrod straight posture and a swagger that showed one and all he owned their guest ranch and was proud of it.
“Curly’s making retirement noises again, and this time I think he’s serious. You still want the job, right?”
“You know I do.”
“Just checking. Last time you said you wanted it, you left for ten years.”
“I was doing my duty.”
“And I’m proud of you for it. But you were seriously injured and aren’t back to normal yet.”
Nash held very still, anger and fear forming a cannonball in his gut.
“Curly and his wife want to move to Arizona by autumn, and I want you ready to step in as soon as he leaves. I’ve hired a physical therapist to come out here and get you in shape.”
“I don’t need a therapist. I’ll be fine,” he said over his shoulder, and handed the reins to a ranch hand. Limping, every step agony, he headed to his truck, yanked the door open and clumsily climbed in. Shoving the key in the ignition, he cranked the engine and stomped on the gas pedal, leaving a spray of dirt and grass in his wake.
Angus Sullivan hadn’t been such an SOB when their mother had been alive. Dammit. Why’d he go and hire a therapist? Images of the last old biddy he’d had to go through physical therapy with at the hospital in Germany popped into his mind. She was another drill sergeant, humorless, cantankerous, dry—same age as his dad.
Slamming to a halt in front of his cabin, he climbed out of the truck and hobbled inside. He locked the door and yanked the curtains closed, covering the wall of glass that overlooked the sparkling blue lake.
The bar on the other side of the big open living room yielded a bottle of whiskey—glass not needed. He’d picked this cabin to settle into because of the bar, and he’d made sure it was fully stocked his second day home.
Turning to head toward the couch, a knife-sharp pain stabbed through his thigh. Gritting his teeth, he stopped and breathed through the throbbing like the old bat had taught him. Once it was under control, he grabbed an ice pack out of the freezer and sat down, hoisting his leg onto the beat-up trunk he used as a coffee table.
He set the ice pack over his thigh, then drank deeply from the whiskey bottle, relishing the heat as it went down.
Tipping the bottle again, his eye caught the sports trophies and silver buckles gleaming on the shelves, mocking him.
Grabbing the remote, he turned the TV on. Bombs exploded as the screen lit up, and he flinched, hitting the mute button as fast as he could. He jabbed at the channel button, but it seemed as if every other station was showing either an old war movie or a sappy chick flick.
“Where the hell are the baseball games?”
A knock sounded at the door. He gulped another swallow of whiskey, decided to ignore it. Probably one of his brothers come to tell him to apologize to their dad. Well, screw that. I ain’t in the mood.
Another knock and he swigged more whiskey.
This time someone pounded on the door. He stood and had to catch his balance on the arm of the couch, then limped to the front door, every step burning his thigh. He yanked the door open, saw his youngest brother standing on the stoop.
“What the hell do you want, Hunter? I’m not apologizing to him. Now leave me alone.” He started to slam the door when Hunter moved aside, revealing a petite woman standing on the porch.
Her black hair was braided, the tail curving over her shoulder and down almost to her waist, but a few strands had escaped and blew in the breeze, teasing her sculpted cheekbones. Startling blue eyes stared at him long enough to make him almost ashamed of his snarls.
“Ma’am,” he said, the manners his momma ingrained in him bursting forth.
“This is Kelsey Summers,” Hunter said, putting a hand on her back to guide her past him, shoving Nash back a few steps. “She’s your therapist.”
His temper peaked again, hitting the boiling point. “I told him I don’t need a therapist. You can go now.” Tilting the bottle again, he drained the last of it. He wavered, tempted to leave them there so he could grab a full bottle, or shove them out first. Another pain slashed through his leg, and the question was settled—whiskey first.
But he turned too quickly, and his leg couldn’t keep up. He went down hard on his good knee, and his thigh went from simmering to burning hot.
Hunter rushed over and grabbed his arm, but Nash shoved him away, cursing a blue streak.
Hunter backed away, hands held up. “Hey, bro. Just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help, or Dad’s help, or this woman’s help.” He blew out a breath and braced his arm on the side table to stand up. Wincing, he gently put weight on his bad leg.
“Why don’t I be the judge of that? Come on and sit down.” Kelsey gestured toward the couch.
Her voice was quiet, just a little throaty, and held a twang of the South in it.
“No thanks. I’m fine.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and cocked a hip. “Sure you are. Feels like fire racing through your quads, right? Have to be careful when you put weight on it?”
He looked away, hating that she was right.
“Let me just look at it, then you can kick me out if you really think you don’t need me.”
