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More Than a Rancher
Claire McEwen
Does he dare to follow her lead?Ballroom dancer Jenna Stevens is done with all things romance. It's so much more satisfying to focus on her career. That is, until she meets Sandro Salazar-a handsome, brooding small-town chef and sometimes rancher. Jenna is drawn to him immediately, but there's no way Sandro could fit into her fast-paced, urban life. Still, as she gets to know this reformed bad boy, she begins to wonder if maybe their two worlds can merge. One thing's for certain-Jenna will have to take the lead if she has any hope of Sandro seeing what's possible for the two of them… together.
Does he dare to follow her lead?
Ballroom dancer Jenna Stevens is done with all things romance. It’s so much more satisfying to focus on her career. That is, until she meets Sandro Salazar—a handsome, brooding small-town chef and sometimes rancher. Jenna is drawn to him immediately, but there’s no way Sandro could fit into her fast-paced, urban life.
Still, as she gets to know this reformed bad boy, she begins to wonder if maybe their two worlds can merge. One thing’s for certain—Jenna will have to take the lead if she has any hope of Sandro seeing what’s possible for the two of them…together.
Jenna turned and came up against a chest.
An intriguingly muscular chest. It was wrapped up like a present in a tight white T-shirt. But instead of a bow, there was a belt with a silver buckle.
“Hey.” It was a low voice, kind of husky, and she finally looked up.
The owner of the chest, T-shirt and belt buckle took a step back. His skin was olive-toned, and his black hair curled over his forehead. Dark brown eyes studied her face. He smiled, and his full lips parted to reveal teeth that were white and just a little crooked.
“Hey,” she managed to say, and in an attempt not to gape at the man who looked as if he’d swaggered straight off the streets of Spain or Italy, she took the cloth grocery bag from his hand and set it on the counter.
“I’m Sandro,” he said quietly.
“Of course. Sandro the chef.” Her cheeks were on fire, and something was wrong with her brain. She stuck out her hand, and he took it, wrapping it in his long fingers and giving it a firm shake. “Um, nice to meet you. I’m visiting. From San Francisco.”
“I see. Well, I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” Jenna blurted out. “I mean, I try not to eat too much—I’m a dancer…. You know, dieting and all.” This was ridiculous. Just a scant hour ago she’d given Samantha a speech about how her focus was going to be on her career, and yet now she couldn’t even think straight, or talk, just because of one good-looking guy.
Dear Reader (#ulink_ddad0143-e31f-5908-ad44-9a36ba334363),
Many years ago, I took my first Lindy Hop dance class and fell in love. It was an all-consuming love that I was lucky to share with a lively and dedicated group of dancers. And for a year or two I had a wonderful dance partner. We taught classes at a ballroom and everywhere else we could drum up work. It was a magical time.
Those experiences were the inspiration for Jenna Stevens. Dance is her passion, so when she meets a young man who dreams of becoming a dancer, she resolves to help him. But first she has to enlist the support of his older brother.
That older brother is Sandro Salazar, the rebellious eldest son of a Basque family who owns a sheep ranch outside of my fictional town of Benson, California. Basque culture is so intertwined with the Eastern Sierra Nevada, where Benson is set, that I had to have at least one character who hailed from these traditions.
Many Basque people moved to the western United States in the late eighteen hundreds as sheepherders, and restaurants serving Basque cuisine were established along their herding routes. Sandro is a chef who dreams of owning one of these restaurants and bringing a modern flair to his culinary roots. But he has a few personal battles to fight before he can make those dreams come true.
More Than a Rancher has many themes woven through it, and one of them is alcoholism. I am familiar with this disease because I was raised by someone afflicted with it. Many people know of Alcoholics Anonymous, or AA, which teaches alcoholics how to manage their addiction. In this book, Jenna attends Al-Anon, a program that is not as well known. Al-Anon, and its youth program, Alateen, are there to support anyone whose life is affected by someone else’s drinking.
AA, Al-Anon and Alateen programs cost no money and are available throughout the United States, Canada and countries all over the world. Please feel free to visit my website, www.clairemcewen.com (http://www.clairemcewen.com), where I have more information available.
I am excited to share Jenna and Sandro’s story with you. They took me on a complicated and romantic journey, and I hope you enjoy its twists and turns as much as I have.
Wishing you joy,
Claire McEwen
More Than a Rancher
Claire McEwen
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_82909af0-e631-566c-b968-046fe7230bd4)
When CLAIRE McEWEN entered the first chapter of the first book she’d ever written into Mills & Boon’s 2012 So You Think You Can Write Contest, she didn’t place, or even final. But by some miracle, a very patient Mills & Boon Superromance editor asked to see her full manuscript. After much work, that rather jumbled draft became Claire’s debut novel, A Ranch to Keep, released in February 2014.
Before writing, Claire had a career in public education, with some detours into bartending, dance teaching and leading bus tours on a Greek island. Without doubt, pieces of her past adventures will show up in future books! She is currently working on more novels set in San Francisco and her fictional Sierra town of Benson, California.
Claire always dreamed of writing books and being a mom, and she is extremely grateful to be living both those dreams. She lives in a Northern California beach town, and when not writing can often be found
digging in the garden, playing by the ocean with her son or dancing with her own romantic hero, also known as her husband. Claire enjoys getting to know her readers and can be reached on Facebook, Twitter or at her website, www.clairemcewen.com (http://www.clairemcewen.com).
For my extraordinary editor, Karen Reid.
More Than a Rancher only exists because she was able to see Jenna and Sandro’s story far more clearly than I did. Her insight, ideas and talent for figuring out what I’m really trying to say makes my books possible.
I am forever grateful.
And for my sweet family.
Arik, who gives me endless encouragement and love, and who is learning the Lindy Hop, just for me.
And Shane, who is always happy to join me for a dance around the kitchen, with a smile that is pure joy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#ulink_b989bf7f-fcb4-534c-a42f-7e88fdb817fd)
I am blessed to be surrounded by friends and family who helped me with this book.
My brilliant agent, Jill Marsal, my sister Sally, my husband, Arik, and my writing buddy, Lia, all joined the fray as I wrestled my ideas into a coherent proposal. My brother-in-law Steve, a talented cook and all-around knowledgeable guy, helped me clarify Sandro’s culinary vision. And my dear friend, Debbie, generously shared her experiences growing up in a Basque family of sheepherders and ranchers. All mistakes, detours from fact and outright embellishments are entirely my own.
***
I had the privilege of working at a lovely ballroom with supportive colleagues and a wonderful dance partner, who was nothing like Jenna’s. The gracious and welcoming owner encouraged my dancing, and never gave our classes to her niece, or to anyone else. All characters in this book, along with their flaws and foibles, are completely imaginary.
Contents
Cover (#ue93e282f-2411-538f-81d0-621d8c712be5)
Back Cover Text (#u41aecff3-ef5d-5d78-8071-432392225f85)
Introduction (#u7cd4bba1-fcb0-5d23-82c6-9959c1ee8c92)
Dear Reader (#ulink_84ae7484-cf6d-5c1a-82ac-ab6276aa8338)
Title Page (#u65f13562-76d6-5cc0-a6a1-41b7630099d7)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_0aef60b2-197e-5e3f-adb2-06f1007fd46f)
Dedication (#u1aabe781-ee94-5174-b035-71d0e43a1c8b)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#ulink_020bbb6f-7d22-5297-8689-ff15ad74a465)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_f0f81ceb-c2f6-5357-be25-04122707a2ff)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5d6a561c-1324-5ee4-b3cd-6c2e68a07dc2)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_43a9ea64-067d-5727-b4e9-4ab9a1885ff0)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_ddf73dcb-c8ca-5e7b-8af0-47b48163a249)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_9e33c9a7-2115-5729-802b-62e0b54bd0ac)
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)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_21f446cb-df2d-5563-a735-d01f6915be9e)
WHEN JENNA’S BEST friend described the scenery in the Eastern Sierra, she’d called it soothing and peaceful. But as Jenna stood on a dirt road next to a barren pasture, staring at the pancaked tire on her beloved Mini Cooper, those were not the words that came to mind. She muttered a few of the four-letter variety instead and looked around, wondering what to do next.
Sagebrush, punctuated by beige grass, rolled along for miles eastward. To the west, beyond the highway she’d left behind a few bumpy miles ago, the Sierra Nevada sheered upward in an empty, vast wilderness of gray granite. The mountains rolled on, peak after peak, as far as she could see. Jenna and Samantha agreed on most things, but today Jenna would have to take issue with her best friend’s feelings about this place. There was nothing soothing here. Intimidating was a far better word.
Sighing, Jenna walked around to the passenger side and opened the door, taking her cell phone out of her purse. No reception, of course. Not when she needed it most.
This was crazy. She should have called off the trip when her blender exploded this morning. Jenna wasn’t completely superstitious, but the smoothie spattered all over her kitchen walls had felt like a sign. As if the universe was telling her to crawl back in bed, pull up the covers and stay safely home in San Francisco.
While she’d wiped up the smoothie bits, Jenna had fought the temptation to call Samantha and cancel their plans. She’d been up late last night, hosting a Latin dance party at the ballroom where she worked, and her warm bed had looked incredibly inviting. But her friend was planning her wedding and wanted help. Plus, Jenna felt guilty that she’d never even seen the ranch that Samantha lived on with her fiancé. So she’d dismissed her premonition and forced herself to load up her car and get on the road. And that was when everything started going wrong.
First was the phone call from Jeff. During that disastrous conversation, Jenna learned that there was nothing like an ex-boyfriend confessing to numerous infidelities to make a girl wish she’d stayed hidden beneath her covers all day. Jenna had pulled over, thrown up, cried, then driven to the nearest convenience store for the most massive soda she could find.
Sugar, bubbles and caffeine had worked their magic and she’d managed to continue her calamitous journey. And now here she was, with a flat tire, stuck beyond nowhere. The smoothie volcano had been a sign. And she’d been a fool not to pay attention.
Jenna opened the glove compartment and rummaged around for the owner’s manual. Next time she would listen to her instincts when her kitchen appliances started erupting. This was crazy—she had no idea how to change a tire. Opening the booklet, she started reading. She hated diagrams and instructions of all kinds, but maybe if she stared at them long enough, a miracle would occur and she’d figure them out.
For an instant she was back in school, trying to focus on the textbooks while her teachers looked on in disappointment. Panic fluttered. One step at a time, she told herself. That was the way to get through anything complicated, whether it was a dance routine at the ballroom or a flat tire on a wrong-turn dirt road.
The manual said there should be a jack in the back of the car, so Jenna set the little book on the roof, opened the hatchback and pulled out her bags to uncover the compartment where the tool was allegedly hidden. As she moved her duffel bag, her iPod slid out and dropped to the ground. She picked it up and automatically put the earbuds in. Music was a huge part of her life. It soothed her, helped her think—and she needed all the help she could get right now.
The iPod was set to the song that she and Brent, her dance partner, were using for their upcoming competition. Jenna touched the arrow to play it. At least she could get more familiar with the rhythms while she tried her hand at auto repair.
Jenna walked over to the offending wheel, clutching the object she hoped was the jack. She set it gingerly on the ground and began reading the manual again. The words still weren’t sinking in. Instead the upbeat tune vibrated through her body, and her mind drifted from the dry instructions on the page to the cha-cha routine she and Brent were choreographing.
Maybe if she just focused on dancing for a moment, it would clear her head and she’d be able to figure out how to remove this pathetic tire.
Jenna tapped her toe in time with the verse. When the chorus came around again, she launched into the spiral turns that Brent had suggested. It was fast-paced, but Brent was right. The turns fit beautifully.
Jenna did a few basic steps through the next verse and tried the turns again. Still perfect. She closed her eyes and pictured what came next. Oh, yes, a shimmy, then a body roll down...and then she heard a cough and whirled around in horror, yanking the earbuds out.
A man on horseback was watching her from a small rise several yards away. Wariness flooded Jenna as her urban instincts set in. She inched a little closer to the jack and casually picked up the handle. Weapon in hand, she felt embarrassment follow. Why had she decided to dance here, of all places?
The man walked his horse closer and she waited, shoving her iPod into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she saw a huge smile emerge from under the wide brim of the man’s cowboy hat. He was laughing. Relief seeped in when she saw that he wasn’t a man at all but a teenage boy with a wide, goofy grin. She set the jack handle down.
“Morning.” The boy stopped laughing and rode his horse a few steps closer. The big chestnut almost dwarfed his slight frame. “You’re a good dancer.”
Jenna looked up at him, shading her eyes against the sun to better see his face. He had olive skin and black hair under his straw hat. His eyes were wide and dark, framed in thick lashes. His grin was friendly, not sarcastic or self-conscious like some of the more surly teens who showed up at her youth dance classes.
“Thank you,” she said. “And that’s a lovely horse.” She stepped forward and held out her hand, the horse’s silky nose brushing gently over her knuckles. Looking down its flank, she saw the big hindquarters. “A quarter horse?”
“You know horses?” The boy seemed genuinely surprised and Jenna smiled for the first time that day.
“They do have them in other places,” she teased gently. “I grew up riding.” The scent from the horse’s strong, sun-warmed neck took her back in time to long adolescent afternoons at the stable in rural Marin County, north of San Francisco. She’d loved horses then. She’d even abandoned dance for a few years to ride as much as possible.
“Do you always dance outside?”
