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The Ranch She Left Behind
Kathleen O'Brien
For one year, Penny Wright is doing whatever she wants. She’s returned to her hometown in Colorado – but not the family ranch – to cross items off her Risk-It List. To her surprise, she’s braver than she thinks, because when she spies a hot newcomer doing something sweet for his daughter, Penny can’t resist kissing him on the spot.Unfortunately, he turns out to be Max Thorpe. Her new tenant!Luckily, they both agree to be just friends. But with the sizzling attraction between them “just friends” is hard.Maybe it’s time Penny add a new item to her list – a family with Max!
Who knows where a kiss will lead!
For one year, Penny Wright is doing whatever she wants. Sheâs returned to her hometown in Coloradoâbut not the family ranchâto cross items off her risk-it list. To her surprise, sheâs braver than she thinks, because when she spies a hot newcomer doing something sweet for his daughter, Penny canât resist kissing him on the spot. Unfortunately, he turns out to be Max Thorpe. Her new tenant!
Luckily, they both agree to be just friends. But with the sizzling attraction between them, âjust friendsâ is hard. Maybe itâs time for Penny to add a new item to her listâa family with Max.
âYou specifically wanted to kiss a stranger?â
Max tilted his head as he asked the question. The moonlight touched the mellow honey of his eyes and glistened against the white teeth as he smiled again.
He sounded curious, not shocked. Penny had been turning over various half-truths, wondering how she could explain her eccentric behavior without revealing too much. But to her surprise it suddenly seemed oddly easy to just tell the truth.
âActually, yes.â She sighed. âIt was on my list.â
His smile broadened. âReally.â
âYes. I have a list. Not a bucket list, exactly. But aââ She couldnât bring herself to say risk-it list, which suddenly sounded too cute and sophomoric. âJust a list of all the things I have always wanted to do but never got the chance.â
But that wasnât really true. Any female who could walk on her own two feet could have done the absurd thing she did this morning. It wasnât as if sheâd asked for his permission or cooperation.
Still, when she caught the interested gleam in his eye, she couldnât stop the feeling of pride in herself, in her boldness.
I could kiss him again!
Dear Reader,
Are you a risk taker? Do you dance on the cliff edge, laugh at the rain?
If so, youâre lucky! Some peopleâlike meâwere born more timid. Weâre peacemakers, rule followers, boat steadiers. We have to work to be brave.
So when it came time to create Penny Wrightâs story, I could easily empathize with her struggle to live a bolder life. At least Penny has a good excuse! The youngest of the three Wright sisters of Bell River Ranch, she was only eleven when her father killed her mother. Itâs taken her sixteen years to emerge from that shadow.
For inspiration, Penny creates a risk-it listâa catalogue of little things sheâs always wanted to try, but never had the nerve. She starts small, hoping to gather courage as she goes along.
But funny thing about lifeâ¦it has a way of setting its own pace. Right at the stumbling start, she meets dynamic Max Thorpe and his motherless ten-year-old daughter. The two may hide it better, but underneath they are every bit as wounded as Penny herself. Suddenly sheâs facing the biggest risk of all: the risk of losing her heart.
I hope you enjoy watching Penny find the courage, love and freedom she deserves. I hope, too, that your own risk-it list is full of exciting adventures. May every one make you stronger!
Warmly,
Kathleen OâBrien
P.S.âVisit me at my website www.kathleenobrien.com (http://www.kathleenobrien.com), or come by and say hi on Facebook or Twitter!
The Ranch She Left Behind
Kathleen OâBrien
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathleen OâBrien was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which could be done at home. A rule follower who still hears the terrifying voice of Sister Alice in her head whenever she contemplates stepping over the line, sheâs so glad she discovered romance writing. On the page, she can indulge her secret love of grand drama, goofy escapades and emotional whirlwinds without even getting her knuckles rapped.
To Nancy Robards Thompson and Lori L. Harris, who always find a way to make the story come rightâand keep me laughing even when I donât sleep or eat.
And, of course, to Ann Evans, whose wisdom guides every word, just as it always did.
Contents
Chapter One (#ue0a404f2-5044-5a4a-83d5-f59be6970ac1)
Chapter Two (#u684f3fa6-e8bf-5466-8fc9-1d257202fa23)
Chapter Three (#ub1d69f47-d5d0-5395-911a-d788fb47b5ae)
Chapter Four (#ua546c9d0-5cbb-5a3d-ac9c-0274ba13969f)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
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)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
PENNY WRIGHT JERKED awake, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to beat against her eardrums. What had happened? What was wrong? Thereâd been a sound...something big....
Oh, no... She sat up, tossing aside the covers, and swung her bare legs toward the floor. âComing, Ruth!â She fumbled for the lamp switch. Had her aunt fallen again? âDonât move, Ruth. Iâll be right thââ
But the act of sitting up was enough to start clearing the cobwebs out of her mind, and she knew there was no point in finishing the sentence. Ruth hadnât fallen. Ruth couldnât hear her.
Ruth had died two months ago.
The town house was silent around her. So silent she could hear the gears of the banjo clock move, preparing to sound the hour in the downstairs parlor...
So what noise had she heard just now?
It must have been something major, to wake her up like that, to make her heart hammer so hard. Or had it been just a dream noise? She dreamed a lot these daysâdreams of flying, of dancing, of climbing mountains and riding wild palominos. Freedom dreams. It was as if her subconscious was trying to tell her to get out of this town house and do something.
But she just kept on staying. She was comfortable here. She was used to the quiet, the shadows, the isolation. Even if she sometimes felt like Sleeping Beauty inside her castle tower, at least she always felt safe.
The clock began to bong. One. Two. Three. Four. Then it fell silent again, leaving nothing but the eerie after-vibrations that pulsed invisibly up the stairs and made the air in Pennyâs bedroom hum.
Instinctively, she glanced at her cell phone. More like four-thirty, really. The clock had kept perfect time while Ruth had been alive, but ever since her death it had fallen further and further behind, as if time had begun to slow and stretch, like warm molasses. Just a minute here, a minute there... But it added up.
Soon, the clock would perpetually be living in yesterday.
Oh, well. Too tired to worry, Penny fell back against her pillow. The larger noise she had imagined, it must have been a dream.
But then, with a cold shiver, she registered the sound of another noiseâregistered it more with her nerve endings than her eardrums.
A much smaller noise this time. A sneaky sound, a muffled creak... She gasped softly, recognizing it. The fifth stair from the top, the one that couldnât be fixed. Sheâd always had to step over it on her way to bed at night, so she wouldnât wake Ruth.
Someone who didnât know about that little creak was, even now, tiptoeing up the stairs.
Her heart began to pound again. Someone was in the house.
Without hesitation, she slid open the nightstand drawer. Ruth, a practical woman to the core, had insisted that Penny keep protection beside her at all times, especially once the neighborhood began to deteriorate. A gun would have been out of the questionâneither Ruth nor Penny liked weapons, or had any confidence that they could prevent a bad guy from getting hold of it.
Therefore, Penny kept a can of wasp spray beside her. Effective from a safe distance, nonlethal, and carrying the added benefit of surprise. Penny had found the idea almost funny and had bought it more for Ruthâs peace of mind than her own.
But now, as she saw the shadowy figure appear in her doorway, she sent a fervent thank-you to her practical aunt, who apparently was going to save her one more timeâeven from the grave.
Ben Hackney, their next door neighbor and a retired policeman, had warned them that, if they ever had to use the can, they shouldnât holler out a warning, but should spray first and ask questions later. So Penny inhaled quickly, put her finger on the trigger, aimed and shot.
A manâs voice cried out. âWhat the fuâ?â
She could see the figure a little better nowâa man, definitely, dressed in black, his face covered. Her breath hitched. Covered! His eyes, too? If his eyes were covered, would the wasp spray have any effect?
But then the manâs hands shot to his face. A guttural growl burst out of him, a sound of both pain and rage. With every fraction of a second, the growl grew louder.
âGoddamn itââ
The voice was deep, middle-aged, furious. She didnât recognize it.
Absurdly, even as she shot the spray again, she felt a shimmer of relief. What if it had been someone she knew? Someone like...
It could have been poor Ben. The man was eighty and had spent a quarter of a century nursing an unrequited love for Aunt Ruth. Heâd been good to Penny, too, through the years.
Thank God she hadnât attacked some well-meaning friend like that.
But the relief was brief. The calculations flashed through her mind in a fraction of a second, and then she was left with one awful truthâthis was a real intruder. She was left with a stranger, who had, without question, come to harm her.
And a can of wasp spray that wasnât bottomless.
For one horrible second, the man lurched forward, and Penny backed up instinctively, though she had nowhere to go. Her spine hit the headboard with an electric bang that exploded every nerve ending in her brain. Somehow, she kept her finger on the trigger and held her numb arm steady enough to keep the spray aimed toward his face.
âYou bitch!â He dropped to his knees, shaking his head violently. With a cold determination she hadnât known she possessed, she lowered her aim and found him where he had hit the floor.
The spray connected again. Crying out, he roiled backward, a crablike monster, and the sight of his confusion gave her courage. She stood. She was about to follow him, still spraying, when she realized he was trying to reach the stairs.
âNo! Wait!â she called out, though warning him made no sense. As long as he was leaving, what did she care what happened to him? But...the staircase!
An irrational panic seized her, freezing all logical thought. He might be a thief, or a rapist, or a murderer. And yet, she couldnât let him just fall backward, helplessly, down that steep, uncarpeted walnut spiral of stairs.
A picture of her motherâs body flashed into her mind. The green eyes staring blindly at the ceiling. The black hair glistening as a red pool spread on the floor around her...
âNo!â Penny cried out again, louder. She dropped the wasp spray onto the bed and moved toward the door. âNo...the stairs!â
But either the intruder didnât hear her or he couldnât think straight over the pain. He kept scrambling backward, kept bumping and lurching, his shadowy body hurtling toward the point of no return.
And then, just as she reached the hall, he fell.
âNo!â The word was a whisper that came out on an exhale of horror. âNo...no...â
The sound of his body hitting the steps, one after another, cracked like gunfire. It ricocheted through the house, through the empty rooms and the high ceilings, and, it seemed, through every muscle in Pennyâs body.
Oh, God. Frozen, she peered over the banister. She wondered if she was going to be sick. If his body lay there, arms and legs at crazed angles like an abandoned rag doll...
If his head rested hideously on a red satin pillow of blood...
She squeezed the wooden rail, squinting. But it was too dark to be sure of anything. He could have been a pile of black laundry at the foot of the stairs. An inanimate object.
No, no, no... Her mind was like one of her fatherâs unbroken horses, running away faster than she could follow. âPlease, not again.â
But then, as if in answer to a prayer, the shadows seemed to shift, then jerk, then fall still again. Another groan.
Not dead, then. Not dead. As relief swept through her, she heard the jagged gasps of her own lungs, as if sheâd been unable to breathe until she was sure he lived.
He lived.
The crumpled shadow shifted. The man stood, moving oddly, but moving. Then he ran to the front door, dragging one leg behind him, and, in a sudden rectangle of moonlight, disappeared into the night.
