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The Rancher She Loved
Ann Roth
A Chance To Prove Himself Learning that she was adopted is the biggest shock of magazine writer Sarah Tigarden’s life. Falling in love with champion bull rider Clay Hollyer is a close second. Years ago, she shared a sizzling kiss with the handsome rodeo star, only to hear that he was a player who enjoyed toying with women.After her profile of Clay called him on his caddish behavior, she never wanted to see him again. But, as Sarah searches for her birth mother, Clay is unexpectedly by her side. Can this really be the same guy she condemned as a womanizer?As she gets closer to learning the stunning truth about her biological mom, Sarah also finds herself getting closer to Clay. Her head tells her it’s a mistake … but her heart isn’t so sure.
A Chance To Prove Himself
Learning that she was adopted is the biggest shock of magazine writer Sarah Tigarden’s life. Falling in love with champion bull rider Clay Hollyer is a close second. Years ago, she shared a sizzling kiss with the handsome rodeo star, only to hear that he was a player who enjoyed toying with women. After her profile of Clay called him on his caddish behavior, she never wanted to see him again.
But as Sarah searches for her birth mother, Clay is unexpectedly by her side. Can this really be the same guy she condemned as a womanizer? As she gets closer to learning the stunning truth about her biological mom, Sarah also finds herself getting closer to Clay. Her head tells her it’s a mistake…but her heart isn’t so sure.
“That kiss meant something.”
His eyelids dropped a fraction over his very warm gaze, seductive and intent. Making her feel restless and needy. She half wished he’d kiss her again.
She posed the question that had plagued her ever since. “Why did you kiss me back then, Clay?”
“Because that mouth… I thought… We both—” He broke off and blew out a loud breath. “To hell with the past, Sarah.”
With a dangerous glint in his eyes, he started toward her. Unable to move, she swallowed. “What are you doing?”
“What I’ve wanted to do since you knocked on my door this morning.” He cupped her face between his big rough hands and brushed her bangs back with his fingers.
“Please, Clay,” she whispered, not sure whether she wanted him to let go of her or step closer.
The corner of his mouth rose. Angling his head, he leaned toward her....
Dear Reader,
This is the fourth book of my miniseries set in Saddlers Prairie, a fictitious ranching town in Montana prairie country.
Have you ever wondered what happens to a rodeo star when his career ends? I have, and I decided to explore the issue. Clay Hollyer is a former bull-riding champion whose career ended after a nasty run-in with a bull. He now has a new life in Saddlers Prairie.
Sarah Tigarden is searching for her biological mother, who once lived in Saddlers Prairie. She and Clay met three years ago, when she interviewed him for a magazine article.
I don’t want to spoil the story, so I’ll just say that they didn’t exactly part on good terms. Not an auspicious beginning for the hero and heroine of a romance novel, you may be thinking.
Which makes this story all the more interesting.
Happy reading!
Ann
P.S. I always appreciate hearing from readers. Email me at ann@annroth.net, or write me c/o P.O. Box 25003, Seattle, WA 98165-1903, or visit my Facebook page. And please visit my website at www.annroth.net (http://www.annroth.net), where you can enter the monthly drawing to win a free book! You’ll also find my latest writing news, tips for aspiring writers and a delicious new recipe every month.
The Rancher She Loved
Ann Roth
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ann Roth lives in the greater Seattle area with her husband. After earning an MBA she worked as a banker and corporate trainer. She gave up the corporate life to write, and if they awarded PhDs in writing happily-ever-after stories, she’d surely have one.
Ann loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 25003, Seattle, WA 98165-1903 or email her at ann@annroth.net.
MRS. YANCY’S
DOUBLE CHOCOLATE DROP COOKIES
(with special thanks to Country Fair Cookbook)
Makes 2 to 4 dozen, depending on cookie size
6 oz (approximately 1 cup) semisweet chocolate pieces
½ cup softened butter
½ cup sugar
1 egg
1 cup flour
½ tsp baking soda
½ tsp salt
½ cup walnuts or pecans, chopped (optional)
6 oz (approximately 1 cup) semisweet chocolate pieces
Preheat oven to 350ºF. Microwave 6 ounces of semisweet chocolate chips until melted; set aside to cool.
Cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add egg; beat well. Gradually add melted chocolate, beating well.
Mix together flour, baking soda and salt. Gradually add to creamed mixture and mix well. Stir in nuts and remaining chocolate chips. Drop by teaspoonfuls on greased baking sheets about 2 inches apart. (Mrs. Yancy prefers to use Silpat or parchment paper instead of greasing the cookie sheets.)
Bake 12 to 15 minutes or until done. Remove from baking sheets and cool on racks.
Contents
Chapter One (#ua670338e-c31e-5256-b306-20de90a9b30e)
Chapter Two (#ufdfaea25-cd57-5f7f-bd3d-52fa6a0eeb1e)
Chapter Three (#u4a5a2de1-91a6-550c-9550-4071f640ec70)
Chapter Four (#ua66349cb-625c-5c1b-b74d-740372f7c858)
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)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Sarah Tigarden drove down the deserted highway in the small ranching town of Saddlers Prairie, Montana, asking herself the question that would remain forever unanswered. Why hadn’t her parents told her she was adopted?
Anger that had been with her since she’d discovered the truth welled, and the sunlit prairies on either side of the road seemed to dim.
Sarah didn’t fault her father, who’d died when she was ten. But her mother, whom she now referred to as Ellen, could and should have told her. Now that she was gone, buried six months ago, it was too late.
They’d been close, growing closer still during the year before Ellen had succumbed to the ovarian cancer that ravaged her. Sarah had put her own life on hold, giving up her apartment and moving back home to care for Ellen. They’d talked about Sarah’s recent breakup, finances, Ellen’s burial—everything except the fact that Sarah was adopted.
She was still reeling from the shock that had awaited her when she’d emptied her mother’s safe-deposit box. Surely Ellen had realized Sarah would find the birth certificate. She had to know how upset, how hurt Sarah would be. Not because of the adoption—because of the lies.
Why hadn’t Ellen told the truth?
Sick of asking herself the question she might never find the answer to, Sarah cranked up the music and sang along with Adele. The words drowned out other thoughts, just as she wanted.
A sudden gust of wind sent dirt and debris flying, as if Mother Nature were upset on Sarah’s behalf. Wind that pushed the car across the centerline. Gripping the wheel, Sarah steered her car to the right side of the road and fought to hold it there.
Ominous clouds suddenly obliterated the flawless blue sky that had been with her since she’d left Boise a day and a half earlier. Sarah tossed her sunglasses onto the passenger seat. Without the warmth of the mid-May sun, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and she closed the sunroof and turned on the heat.
Maybe she should check in to her room first and change into warmer clothes. The widow who owned the house where she’d rented a room for the next two weeks was expecting her about now.
But that would involve a U-turn and a five-mile drive in the opposite direction, and Sarah was too anxious for answers. She wanted to know why Tammy Becker, her biological mother, had given her up, and where she was now. The private investigator Sarah had hired had tracked her mother to a house in Saddlers Prairie, where the Becker family had lived some twenty-nine years ago. It was there that the trail had abruptly ended—right around the time of Sarah’s birth.
According to the P.I., a Mr. Tyler Phillips had bought the house from the Beckers all those years ago and still owned it. Unfortunately, his phone number was unlisted, and he hadn’t answered either of the two letters Sarah had sent. If she showed up at his door, he’d be forced to at least talk to her. Maybe he’d share some valuable insights about Tammy Becker and her parents and provide information on where Tammy lived now. He might even let Sarah into the house. She wanted to walk through it, see Tammy’s bedroom and gaze out the same windows her biological mother had once looked through.
She was curious. What kind of person was Tammy Becker, and had she ever thought about the daughter she’d given up? Sarah hoped to one day meet the woman and maybe even develop a relationship.
Even if Mr. Phillips refused to talk to her, she was determined to get some answers while she was in town. Following the directions on her iPhone GPS, she turned her travel-weary sedan onto a small paved street aptly named Dusty Horse Road.
Wouldn’t you know, rain began to pummel the car and the dirt-packed ground, sending splashes of wet dust flying.
Great, just great.
The last time Sarah had visited Montana, to research an article on fly-fishing during a hot week in July a few years ago, she’d heard about the fickle spring climate. Now she was experiencing the abrupt shifts firsthand.
Her windshield wipers fought to keep pace with the downpour. Sarah slowed to a crawl, squinting through the weather at the numbers on the mailboxes.
They were few and far between, sentries at the feet of the driveways of modest homes. After a few minutes, the rain eased to a lighter, slower rhythm. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever find the address she was looking for, when the GPS indicated the house she wanted was a few hundred feet away.
There it was—a bungalow situated back from the road, its pale green siding in need of fresh paint. Scraggly weeds filled the garden bed under the front window, but the large front and side yards were mowed, and buds filled the overgrown bushes along one side.
A black pickup was parked under a tall cottonwood at the edge of the gravel driveway. Someone was home—with any luck, Mr. Phillips himself.
This was it, the chance she’d hoped for. Slightly breathless, she pulled into the driveway and braked to a stop near the truck.
Shielding her hair with her shoulder bag, she dashed onto the porch, which was nothing but a concrete slab. Thanks to the overhang above the door, she was sheltered from the rain. Before ringing the doorbell, she smoothed her cap-sleeve blouse over her jeans and fluffed her hair, which had gotten wet despite the purse. Then she pressed the bell with a hand that trembled, thanks to a combination of nerves and a little fear. Though she couldn’t have said what scared her.
Through the door she heard the faint, chiming ding-dong. Above her, clouds raced by, and another gust of wind whipped wet strands of hair across her face. So much for trying to look decent.
Sarah dug into her purse and quickly found her comb, but she needn’t have hurried—Mr. Phillips, or whoever was inside, did not answer the door.
Maybe he needed extra time to reach it—the P.I. said he was in his mid-sixties—or maybe he hadn’t heard the bell.
Determined, she rang again, letting her finger linger on the buzzer. After a short wait, she knocked. Nothing.
Frustrated and disappointed, but too curious to leave without at least sneaking a peek inside, she left the porch. Keeping under the shelter of the eaves, she stepped into the neglected garden along the front of the house.
Knee-high weeds raked the calves of her jeans, and mud sucked at her expensive leather slip-ons. Wishing she’d worn sneakers, she leaned forward and peered through the large front window into what appeared to be the living room. A sofa backed up against the window, and two armchairs and a coffee table faced an old TV. The off-white walls were completely bare. Mr. Phillips wasn’t much for decorating.
Suddenly the deadbolt clicked. Sarah froze, but not for long. She turned and made a mad dash for the porch, stumbling over a dip in the ground in her haste. She’d barely regained her balance before the door swung open.
Caught in the garden like a thief. Great way to make a first impression, Sarah.
Her face burned, and she knew she was beet-red. With all the grace she could muster, she brushed off her hands and moved causally toward the door.
It wasn’t until she planted her feet on the concrete slab that she mustered the courage to actually look at the large male standing in the doorway.
