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A Ranching Man
Linda Turner
By day: Glamorous movie star. By Night: terrified woman, in need of protection for herself and her little girl.Rancher Joe Mc Bride knew that the last thing he needed was some big-time movie star invading his home. Yet Angel Wiley and her adorable three year old were looking to him to save them from unnamed danger. Joe could never turn away from a lady in distress–but he soon realized it wasn't just the defenses of his home they were crumbling, but the ice around his heart….
“Access to the barn isn’t included in your agreement.”
Drawing herself up to her full height, Angel somehow managed to look down her nose at him in spite of the fact that he towered over her by a good six inches.
“But that’s not what you’re worried about, is it, Mr. McBride? You think I’m some sort of loose floozy from L.A. looking for a little dancing between the sheets while I’m stuck here in the boondocks, and I’ve set my sights on you. Well, you can relax. It’s not going to happen. And do you know why? Because I’m not interested.
“Which is a good thing for you, big guy,” she taunted softly, thumping him on the chest. “Because if I were, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Dear Reader,
As Silhouette Books’ 20
anniversary continues, Intimate Moments continues to bring you six superb titles every month. And certainly this month—when we begin with Suzanne Brockmann’s Get Lucky—is no exception. This latest entry in her TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS miniseries features ladies’ man Lucky O’Donlon, a man who finally meets the woman who is his match—and more.
Linda Turner’s A Ranching Man is the latest of THOSE MARRYING MCBRIDES!, featuring Joe McBride and the damsel in distress who wins his heart. Monica McLean was a favorite with her very first book, and now she’s back with Just a Wedding Away, an enthralling marriage-of-convenience story. Lauren Nichols introduces an Accidental Father who offers the heroine happiness in THE LOVING ARMS OF THE LAW. Saving Grace is the newest from prolific RaeAnne Thayne, who’s rapidly making a name for herself with readers. And finally, welcome new author Wendy Rosnau. After you read The Long Hot Summer, you’ll be eager for her to make a return appearance.
And, of course, we hope to see you next month when, once again, Silhouette Intimate Moments brings you six of the best and most exciting romance novels around.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
A Ranching Man
Linda Turner
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LINDA TURNER
began reading romances in high school and began writing them one night when she had nothing else to read. She’s been writing ever since. Single and living in Texas, she travels every chance she gets, scouting locales for her books.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
Prologue
Engulfed in darkness, the man sat alone in the privacy of his small den and watched, transfixed, as the opening credits of the movie rolled onto his big screen TV. In the background, street shots of New York City flashed lightning quick, then there she was, just as he’d known she would be, smiling at him from the television. Angel Wiley. His angel. The woman he was born to love.
From the moment he’d seen her in her first movie, she’d lit up the screen with her innocent, virginal beauty. Her part had been a small one that hadn’t consisted of more than ten lines, but he’d hung on her every word. And just that easily, he’d fallen in love.
He was a man who believed strongly in destiny, and there was no question in his mind that it was Fate that had led him to see that particular movie that day. Angel Wiley was meant to be his. Deep in his heart, he knew that, accepted it, looked forward to the day he could claim her as his own.
At first, of course, she hadn’t known he existed, so he’d had to be content to worship her from afar. He dreamed of her, fantasized about her, and even quit his job and moved to Hollywood so he could be near her. He’d long since given up hope of ever meeting her when Fate once again stepped in and he ran into her quite by accident outside a restaurant in Beverly Hills. It was a meeting he would never forget.
Staring at her image on the TV screen, he smiled dreamily in remembrance. They hadn’t had time to speak so much as a word to each other before her friends had swept her away, but no words had been needed. There’d been a spark, a flash of recognition between two souls, and she’d been as aware of it as he had. Nothing had been the same since.
She was all he could think of, but he couldn’t just walk up to her and ask her out, not when she was the brightest new star in the Hollywood sky. She was naturally leery of strangers, and as far as she was concerned, that was all that he was to her. He knew differently, of course, but it would take time to convince her that he was the man of her dreams. So he’d had to content himself with following her home that night to get her address. Then he’d begun to gently woo her with cards and candy and flowers.
Just thinking about how delighted she must have been the first time he surprised her with roses made him smile. Although he’d never spoken to her, he knew his angel was a woman who would love flowers. And romantic gestures. She was sweet and loving and innocent and just looking for her knight to come racing up on his charger and sweep her off to happily-ever-after.
And he was her knight. He’d known it the first time he sat in a darkened theater and gazed up at her angelic face. And soon, she would know it, too. When the time was right.
Chapter 1
The woman who opened the door to Angel Wiley’s soft knock was tall and spare, with a wrinkled face as stern as a ship captain’s. But at the sight of the visitor standing on her front porch, a delighted smile broke across her firm mouth and good humor danced in her sky-blue eyes. “There you are! And looking just as pretty as you do in the movies! Come in, come in, and make yourself at home. We don’t stand on ceremony in this neck of the woods—never have. Most folks are just like family.” And not giving Angel time to object, she pushed open the screen door, pulled her inside and hugged the stuffing out of her.
Surprised, Angel laughed and returned the hug. She’d long since accepted the fact that because people felt like they knew her from her movies, they felt free to treat her like an old friend. “Mrs. Henderson—”
“Myrtle, dear,” the older woman corrected her easily as she released her. “Mrs. Henderson was my mother-in-law, and that woman was meaner than a wet hen. Everybody in the county calls me Myrtle.” Glancing past her through the screen door, she frowned in disappointment at the sight of the Ford Taurus sedan sitting at the curb. “Is that your car? I thought you’d have a limo. Garrett Elliot does. I saw him driving around the square just this afternoon.”
Angle didn’t doubt it. She and her costar had worked together once before, to her regret, and she knew for a fact that Garrett didn’t go anywhere without a limo and entourage. Spoiled and insecure, he thrived on the trappings of stardom and the sense of self-importance it gave him. The more looks he drew, even in a backwater little town like Liberty Hill, Colorado, the happier he was.
She, on the other hand, was the exact opposite. She hadn’t gone into acting for the fame, but for the work itself. She loved it, loved creating a believable character that came alive on the screen. But the work had its drawbacks, and she hated the notoriety that accompanied success and stripped you of your privacy. Unlike Garrett, she didn’t like being stared at, so she kept a low profile whenever possible and tried not to draw attention to herself. Because not everyone who wanted to touch her, hug her, was a harmless fan.
A chill rippled over her at the thought, and it was all she could do not to glance over her shoulder to see if she was being watched from the street through the open front door. This wasn’t a sprawling metropolis like L.A., where danger had stalked her without her even being aware of it, she reminded herself. Liberty Hill was hardly more than a village, lost in the mountains of southwestern Colorado. There were no hotels in town, nowhere for a stranger to hide. The studio had made arrangements for the cast to board with the local ranchers and townspeople, then booked every hotel within a sixty-mile radius for the crew during the filming of Beloved Stranger. An outsider, left with no place to stay, would stick out like a sore thumb.
When she’d learned the studio had arranged for her to stay in a Victorian mansion that was right in the middle of town and only a block from the sheriff’s office, she’d sighed in relief. It had sounded like it was perfect for her.
And at first glance, the old house certainly lived up to its advanced billing. Dripping in gingerbread and charm, it was beautifully preserved and literally right around the corner from the sheriff. A scream would bring him or one of his deputies running to the rescue in a matter of minutes.
But what if she didn’t have time to scream? a voice in her head taunted softly. An intruder could slip up on her in the dark silence of the night and she’d never know it until it was too late. All he’d have to do was break one of the ancient window latches or jimmy the lock on the front door, and he’d be inside in a heartbeat. While Myrtle slept peacefully in her bed, he could do God knows what to Angel and be gone before anyone even thought to note the danger.
Stricken, she paled and knew in that instant that she couldn’t do it. There was too much at stake. As much as she liked Myrtle and hated to disappoint her, she just couldn’t stay there. “Garrett always did like limos. I prefer to drive myself. Mrs. Henderson, about the house—”
“I knew you would love it,” she cut in, beaming. “Everyone does. And it’s Myrtle, dear. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. After all, we’re going to be housemates for the next two months, and I want us to be friends.”
“Thank you…Myrtle. I appreciate that, but—”
“Think nothing of it, dear. I’m delighted you’re here. And you know, of course, that I don’t expect you to hole up in your suite the entire time you’re here. There’s plenty of room for both of us, so please make yourself at home. I heard you like to cook, so I imagine you’d like to look at the kitchen. It’s probably not as fancy as what you’ve got in L.A., but I made sure it was well stocked for you. C’mon. I’ll show you around.”
She would have given her a guided tour, but Angel couldn’t let her, not without feeling like a heel. To let her continue to think she could accept her hospitality would be cruel.
“Myrtle…wait,” she said when the older woman started to turn toward the arched doorway at the far end of the entrance hall. “I hate to do this to you after you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I’m not going to be able to stay with you, after all.”
“But the studio’s already made the arrangements,” she argued, taken aback. “Your rent’s been paid, your rooms are ready. All you have to do is move in and unpack.” Frowning with a sudden thought, she asked worriedly, “Is it the house? Is it because it’s so old? That nice Mr. Douglas from the studio thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am. I mean I would be but—”
“You’re worried I’ll talk your ear off when you try to study your lines at night,” she guessed. “Don’t be. I’m an old lady, dear,” she confided, trying and failing to look feeble. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a little antique store next door, and it takes all my energy just to stay on top of things there. By the time I get home in the evening, I’m so bushed, I’m lucky if I can stay awake long enough to eat a bowl of cereal during Entertainment Tonight.”
Fighting a smile, Angel sincerely doubted that. Myrtle might be somewhere in her seventies, but her blue eyes were sharp and full of life, her step lively. She was a long way from being old. “It’s not you,” she assured her. “It’s me. I need to stay in a place that’s more…private.”
It was a weak excuse, but the only one that Angel was willing to give her. She didn’t know Myrtle, didn’t know if she could trust her with the truth. She didn’t seem the malicious type, but Angel already knew she liked to talk, and that could easily get out of hand. If she inadvertently repeated any of their conversation to any of the reporters that would soon be flooding the area, the news would be all over the papers the next day. She could see the headlines now.
Angel Wiley Threatened By Stalker.
The press would have a field day with that. And so would Garrett. She could hear him now, telling everyone on the set that Angel was so desperate for publicity and her fifteen minutes of fame that she’d do anything to get her name in the paper. Just thinking about it made her cringe.
Not taking her seriously, Myrtle laughed. “This is Liberty Hill, dear, not L.A. You don’t have to worry about people peeking in the windows, ogling you. Anyone who goes around sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong is asking for a fat lip, and I’ll be the first one to give it to them. We respect each other’s privacy around here. Or else.”
Angel made no attempt to repress a smile. Myrtle looked so fierce, she could just see her taking on the tabloid reporters who regularly parked across the street from her house in West Hollywood and snapped pictures of anything that moved. If they tried that here, they’d be lucky if they still had their hair, let alone their cameras, by the time Myrtle got through with them.
“I’m sure everyone is normally very nice,” she agreed. “But we’re not talking about neighbors gossiping over the back fence about the county judge and his secretary. Once word gets out that a movie’s being shot in the area, fans’ll start crawling out of the woodwork. Then the trouble starts.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly before Myrtle could misunderstand. “I really do love my fans. Most of them are harmless and wouldn’t dream of doing anything more objectionable than asking for a picture or autograph. Those are the nice ones.”
“And the others? The not so nice ones? What do they want?’
“Anything that touches my skin,” Angel said bluntly. “They’ve been known to crawl through a window just to get their hands on a pair of my underwear.”
Her cheeks slightly flushed, Myrtle swallowed. “I see.”
She didn’t. She couldn’t fully understand what fame and adoration was like for someone who just wanted to do her job and come home at night and be left alone. The abhorrence of getting filthy letters in the mail from strange men. The fear that pressed in on her in the dark of night when the phone rang and she knew it was him—
Shying away from the thought, she stiffened. No! She didn’t need to go there for Myrtle to understand that the arrangements the studio had made for her were, unfortunately, unacceptable. “So you see why I need to stay some place more secluded. Please don’t take this wrong—your house is wonderful—but it’s right on the street. There isn’t even a fence. If I’m going to sleep at all at night, I really need a gated community, some place with a state-of-the-art security system and motion detectors in every room. I’m sure you understand. I guess you could say I’m like Greta Garbo. I just want to be alone.”
It was an outrageous request for the wilds of Colorado, and they both knew it. Liberty Hill didn’t even have a movie theater, let alone a gated neighborhood with the kind of security system she described. It was a ranching community, for God’s sake! People worked hard for their money and didn’t need fancy, high-falutin’ houses in town with walls around them to show what they were worth.
Which was more than could be said for a spoiled movie star from Hollywood who thought she was someone special just because she could play make-believe in front of a camera.
Myrtle didn’t say the words, but they were there in her eyes, nonetheless, along with a look that told Angel all too clearly that she had read the stories about her in the tabloids and was wondering now if they were true. And it was that that Angel hated the most. The speculation about her character, the doubts total strangers had about her before they even had a chance to meet her, let alone get to know her. Had her overnight success gone to her head? Could she possibly be as spoiled and demanding as everyone said? Did she really insist that the studio fly in fresh strawberries from California every morning for her breakfast and Dom Pérignon champagne directly from France whenever the mood struck her?
No! she wanted to cry, but she never got the chance. There was a sudden bold knocking at the front door, and they both turned to face the visitor who had arrived unnoticed while they talked. Standing on the other side of the screen door and silhouetted by the bright sunlight that streamed onto the front porch behind him, he stood like a dark specter, his face bathed in shadows, his broad shoulders filling the doorway.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t make a move that was the least bit threatening, but just that quickly, her heart was pounding with the sick fear that had become all too familiar over the course of the last two months. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself desperately. This wasn’t the man who was the cause of her nightmares in the dead of night. It couldn’t be. She knew he would eventually follow her from L.A., that it was only a matter of time before he hunted her down in spite of the fact that the studio had been careful to keep under wraps exactly where Beloved Stranger was going to be filmed on location. But even he wasn’t clever enough to find her just minutes after her arrival in Liberty Hill. Was he?
Still unsure and hating herself for it, she was struggling with the need to run when Myrtle broke into a broad smile of recognition and moved forward to push open the unlocked screen door. “Joe! Come in, dear. I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
After working on the sets of two Westerns, Angel had seen her share of wanna-be cowboys, but there was no question that the man who stepped into Myrtle’s entrance hall was the real thing. Six foot two, if he was an inch, he looked as tough as a weathered fence post. His jeans and denim shirt were designed for work, not show, and both his scarred boots and battered black cowboy hat had seen their share of use and abuse.
But it was the man himself who bore the stamp of hours spent toiling out on the range in all kinds of weather. His square-cut face was hard and chiseled by the wind, his skin baked and tanned from the sun. Fine lines radiated from the corner of his sharp brown eyes, and although Angel guessed he wasn’t much older than his mid-thirties, the temples of his dark brown hair were dusted with gray.
There was, she thought at first, nothing the least bit soft about him. Then Myrtle said, “What are you doing in town in the middle of the day? Oh, I bet you came for Cassie’s bed, didn’t you? How is the little darlin’?”
“Wild as a March hare,” he said with a chuckle. “Zeke swears he’s going to be totally white-headed by the time he’s forty. Yesterday, he found her trying to ride one of the calves in the barn. She wants to be a bronc rider when she grows up.”
A grin broke the stern set of the man’s face, stealing Angel’s breath right out of her lungs. Transfixed, she couldn’t take her eyes off him as Myrtle laughed gaily. “What is she now? Two? Wait ’till she’s ten and wanting to drive that great big Suburban truck of his. The poor boy doesn’t have a clue what he’s in for.”
Suddenly remembering her guest, she exclaimed, “Oh, lordy, I completely forgot about Angel.” Turning, she motioned her to join them. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s just that sometimes I get rattling and I completely forget my manners. Have you met Joe yet? No, of course you haven’t,” she retorted, answering her own question with a wry grimace. “You just got into town, didn’t you? This is Joe McBride, my godson. Your movie’s being filmed on his family’s ranch.”
“Then you must be the one Garrett’s staying with,” Angel told him. Pitying him that, she smiled and held out her hand. “I’m Angel Wiley. Garrett’s costar.”
Between one heartbeat and the next, the good humor in his eyes turned to ice. His gaze dropped to her extended hand, he hesitated, and for one stunned moment, Angel thought he wasn’t going to shake her hand! Then he gave a curt nod, closed his fingers over hers for a terse shake, and jerked his hand back as if he couldn’t abide the touch of her. Without bothering to say a single word, he turned back to Myrtle. “I hate to interrupt, but I need to load up the bed and get back to the ranch. I’ve got a mare that’s due to foal any day now, and I don’t want to be away from her too long.”
Myrtle shot him a reproving look that would have made a lesser man grovel in apology, but Joe McBride just stared back at her woodenly and didn’t so much as blink.
“Well,” she huffed, scowling in disapproval, “if you want to act as if you were raised in a barn, then I’m sure there’s nothing I can do about it.” And dismissing him as easily as he had Angel, she turned her attention back to her guest. “I’m sorry about this, dear, but it looks like I’m going to have to run next door to my shop and take care of a little business. I hope you don’t mind. It’s only going to take a few minutes. If you’d like, you can go upstairs and check out your suite. You might change your mind about staying here once you see it. It’s the first door on the left at the top of the stairs.”
Taken aback by Joe McBride’s rude dismissal, Angel nodded stiffly. He’d all but cut her dead, she thought in amazement as the cowboy walked out with Myrtle without sparing her so much as a second glance. Her. Angel Wiley! The winner of last year’s People’s Choice Award who was, according to Variety, one of the brightest new stars to come along in Hollywood in years. Not that she read and believed her own press, she quickly amended. But didn’t the man know who she was, for heaven’s sake?
Of course he did, her bruised ego snapped in her head. He just wasn’t impressed.
That wasn’t a reaction she was used to.
She didn’t consider herself a conceited woman, and she certainly didn’t expect male attention as her due. After all, she wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous like Jaclyn Smith, and she didn’t have the pouty, sexy beauty of Marilyn Monroe. She was just average, nothing more, like the girl next door.
Or so she had always thought. But with the release of Heart’s Desire, her first movie, three years ago, men had been making complete fools of themselves over her. She generally only had to smile at one to knock him out of his shoes. And even the more confident ones tended to stumble over their tongues when they got a chance to talk to her.
Joe McBride had done neither.
She should have been relieved. She didn’t want any male attention, fawning or otherwise, and if she had any sense, she’d be thanking her guardian angels for making sure that the oh-so-annoying cowboy wasn’t the least bit interested in her.
Instead, she wanted to throw something at the darn man’s head.
So he wasn’t a fan, she thought irritably. So what? She wasn’t one of those insecure actresses who needed everyone to love her. People had different tastes—she accepted that. But was a little common courtesy too much to ask for?
