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No Ordinary Cowboy
Mary Sullivan
She'd rather be anywhere than here in Ordinary, Montana.Tackling the books for a failing ranch as a favor to a friend is not city girl Amy Graves's scene. And every time Hank Shelter stonewalls her search for the truth, she wants to be gone yesterday. Seriously. Still, something about the Sheltering Arms calls to her.Maybe it's the open spaces. Maybe it's the inner-city kids having the time of their lives here. Or maybe it's Hank, who is proving too good, too kind to be real. Despite herself, Amy's falling for his charm. But to put the ranch to rights she needs to know what he's hiding. Even if it destroys the sweet thing developing between them.
The loop settled over Amy, but also caught Hank
The rope tightened around them with the gentle persuasion of a mare nudging her colt home….
She’d raised her arms when he’d pulled her toward him and her hands rested high on his chest. They rose and fell with his quick breaths, branding him.
The sounds around him drifted away. He lost himself in Amy’s green eyes. His hands held the back of her waist, drifted down to her hips. He thought of ripe pears and his blond guitar.
She smelled warm, like the sun, like mango and papaya and coconut. Her skin looked soft enough to lick.
What if he did what he wanted and rested his head on her golden hair, felt the soft glide of it across his cheek? What if he leaned down to press his lips to her eyelids to close them, so she couldn’t see all of those handsome cowboys crowding around her? What if he kissed her until she was aware of only plain Hank?
Before he could act on the crazy impulse, she did the oddest thing. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, then smelled him with a delicate sniff.
She opened her eyes and smiled into his. “Soap. Nice.”
Dear Reader,
What is a born-and-bred city girl of Irish descent, who grew up in Toronto eating Greek pastries on the Danforth, noshing on grapes from her Italian neighbor’s vines and drinking Turkish coffee with her Macedonian friends, doing writing romance novels about cowboys and cowgirls?
They fascinate me! I admire the committed work ethic that compels them to raise cattle under the toughest conditions, to battle summer droughts and winter blizzards to maintain a way of life that has been bred into their bones.
I also love horses, love reading about them and watching them in movies. Sadly, I’ve never been on one. A hopelessly inept athlete, I never stop trying. Recently I went dogsledding for the first time and came home bruised and euphoric. Rock climbing is next. After that…horseback riding? Maybe it’s time to get up close and personal with a real live horse and even, gulp, ride one. Wouldn’t that be awesome?
I hope you enjoy my debut novel of a rugged cowboy who falls hard for a beautiful city girl.
Mary Sullivan
No Ordinary Cowboy
Mary Sullivan
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When Mary Sullivan picked up her first Harlequin Superromance novel, she became hooked on romance. She wanted to write these heartfelt stories of love, family, perseverance and happy endings, about heroes and heroines graced with strength of character and hope. Mary believes that whether we live in the country, the city, or somewhere in between, home is where the heart is, with the people we choose to love.
To Kelly.
Home is where the heart is.
My heart is with you.
To Maureen, Michele, Molly, Sinead and Teresa.
I couldn’t have done this without you.
Thank you.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
“HANK SHELTER, if you’re there, pick up!”
Hank ignored his sister’s order and strode from the desk to the window, putting distance between him and the telephone.
“Leila,” he muttered to his empty office, “I don’t feel like tangling with you today. The answering machine can deal with you.”
He leaned against the wall beside the open window, his arms crossed, staring across his fields to the distant hills. June in Montana. Was there anything on this earth more beautiful than his ranch?
Correction. Not his ranch. Leila’s. Another of Dad’s crazy decisions, to leave the ranch to her. It should have been Hank’s. He pounded his fist on the windowsill.
“Hank,” Leila continued, “you can’t stick your head in the ground like an ostrich and ignore reality.”
What reality? Things on the ranch were rolling along just fine.
Leila’s sigh over the phone line held a world of frustration.
“Okay, this is the deal. My friend, Amy Graves, is on her way to go over the books. She’s an excellent accountant.”
An accountant? Hank straightened and uncrossed his arms. What the heck for? He turned to stare at the machine.
He could run this ranch fine on his own, and had been doing so since Dad died.
He’d stopped in at the bank only yesterday and no one had said a word about any problems.
“Wipe the scowl off your face, baby brother,” Leila continued, but her tone held a hint of worry under her usual brusqueness. “Cooperate. After the letter I received from the bank this morning, I’m deeply concerned. The situation might have reached the point of no return.”
Letter? What letter? Point of no return? His heart pounded. Had the bank somehow figured out—They couldn’t have. He’d been so careful.
“Someone needs to take control of the ranch’s finances before the whole enterprise goes down the toilet.”
The toilet? As in losing the ranch? His breakfast threatened a return journey up his throat and he swallowed hard.
Dad’s voice echoed through his memory. “You’ve screwed up again, boy. Keep it private. We don’t need the whole world to know our business.”
Shame rushed up from his chest, leaving his cheeks hot enough to melt bullets.
“Hank—” Leila hesitated before saying more. Hank cocked his head. Strange for her to be unsure of anything.
“Amy’s fragile these days.” Leila’s voice held an uncharacteristic softness. “Take care of her.”
The solid click of his sister hanging up followed her “goodbye.”
Hank clenched his hands and rested them on the windowsill, digging his knuckles into the wood, hoping the pain would eclipse his panic. Even the scents of dust kicked up by horses’ hooves and the damp humus of Hannah’s garden couldn’t calm him now.
Cripes almighty, Leila’s sending an accountant to the ranch.
He walked to the desk and shuffled the piles of paper, read the numbers, tried to make sense of Leila’s distress.
As far as he could tell, everything was fine. His system was working.
Why would the bank send a letter to Leila, anyway? All the statements came here.
He picked up the phone and dialed the bank, then asked for Donna. She had worked there since before Hank was born. She did Hank’s payroll taxes for him, would handle the year-end as she’d done for Dad. If Donna couldn’t straighten things out, no one could.
Five minutes later, he hung up. Nope. No problem. The accounts were fine. The bank had no record of a letter being sent to Leila.
Hank heaved a sigh.
Leila was overreacting to something sent to her by mistake. Or whatever. He should call her and tell her what the bank had said. Honest, though, he didn’t want to tangle with her today. Once Leila got her mind on something, she was worse than a terrier for not letting go. Next thing, she would come down here to cluck around him like a mother hen, then order him around.
The ranch hands, including Willie, hated taking orders from her. Best just to leave things as they were.
A small voice in the back of his mind warned that Leila was not the kind of woman to run off in a panic for no reason.
Well, he’d get the accountant to relay the message to Leila that all was well here.
He stared at the piles of paper on the desk, on the floor, on every horizontal surface. He might have a great routine that kept things up-to-date and all bills paid, but his filing system was abysmal.
“Keep it private, boy,” Dad whispered through his memory again.
“All right,” Hank murmured. “I got it the first twelve hundred times.”
Even without Dad’s harping in his memory, Hank was embarrassed to think of an accountant coming in to see this mess.
He shook his head and returned to the window.
Five of this month’s kids, the older ones, saddled horses in the yard for their overnight camping trip.
Wish I could go with them. Next time.
He’d tell the accountant Leila had made a mistake. There was nothing wrong at the bank.
What if she made a fuss, insisted on seeing his books anyway? Damned if he was going to let some city accountant go through his personal stuff, mess up his ranch and his life over nothing. He’d find a way out of this himself—whatever this was.
He slammed the window shut and strode to the desk. Dad used to keep a key in the top drawer.
He walked out of the office, turning to lock the door behind him. It hadn’t been locked since Dad died. He slipped the key into his pocket.
Down the hallway in the dining room, the younger five of this month’s kids, the six-to nine-year-olds, still lingered over breakfast, their chatter mingling with the scents of bacon, eggs and hot chocolate.
Hank peeked in on them. Their baseball caps hung from the backs of their chairs, leaving their delicate scalps exposed.
He clapped his hands. “Who wants to go see the horses?”
They jumped out of their seats and swarmed him, laughing and talking.
He ran a hand over Kyle’s soft head, fuzz like freshly seeded grass making a hesitant show.
“Hey, Hank,” Jamie yelled, “I can ride a horse good.” Some kids did everything full blast, even talking.
Hank grinned.
Quiet Cheryl patted his arm for attention and he picked her up. Her hair resisted regrowth, leaving her skull as bare as a newborn’s.
His heart swelled to bursting.
This was what mattered—these children, and keeping the ranch alive for them.
TOO SOON, Amy Graves’s twitchy stomach told her she’d arrived at the Sheltering Arms ranch. When she stepped out of her car into the dry heat, a breeze kicked up her bangs and sent them flying around her forehead. It ruffled the feathery branches of a weeping willow that beckoned from the front lawn. A shady refuge.
She took a breath of clean, pure air and tried to calm her nerves. She could do this. She could face this ranch and what it meant to her.
