Czytaj książkę: «Her Guardian Rancher»

To the police officers and also to the men and women of the armed forces—because their constant sacrifice keeps our communities and our nation safe. May we show them respect and continue to uplift them in our prayers.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

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 Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The moonless sky was dark and heavy with clouds and a promise of rain that would be welcome, since most of November had been dry and December promised more of the same. Daron McKay eased his truck down the driveway of the Wilder Ranch, away from Boone Wilder’s RV, where he frequently crashed on nights like this. Nights when sleep was as distant as Afghanistan, but the memories were close. Too close.

On nights like this he took a drive rather than pace restlessly. A year ago he would have woken Boone and the two of them would have talked. But Boone had recently married Kayla Stanford and the happy couple had built a house on the opposite side of the Wilder property.

Daron had his own place, a small ranch a few miles outside of Martin’s Crossing. He rarely stayed there. The house was too big. The space too open. He preferred the close confines of the camper. Not that he wanted to admit it, but he liked Boone’s dog. He also didn’t mind Boone’s large and raucous family.

His own family was a little more restrained and not as large. And his appearance sometimes bothered his mom. He didn’t shave often enough. He preferred jeans and boots to a suit. His dad, an attorney in Austin, wanted his son to join the family law firm rather than run the protection business he’d started with friends Boone Wilder and Lucy Palermo. His mom wanted him to attend functions at the club and find a nice girl to marry. His sister, Janette, was busy being exactly the person her parents wanted her to be. She was pretty, socially correct and finishing college.

Daron was still coming to terms with his tour of duty in Afghanistan, with the knowledge that he could lead friends into an ambush.

One of those friends had died. Andy Shaw had only been in Afghanistan a few months when Daron and Boone followed an Afghan kid who claimed his sister was in trouble. The sister. Daron pulled onto the highway, gripping the steering wheel, getting control of the memories. He’d thought he loved her, so when her brother came to him and said their family needed the help of the American soldiers, Daron had agreed to go.

He’d been young and stupid, and because of him, Andy had died. At thirty he didn’t find it any easier to deal with than when he was twenty-six.

The truck tires hummed on the damp pavement. He headed his truck in the direction of Braswell, a small town in the heart of Texas Hill Country and just a short distance from Martin’s Crossing. He cranked some country music on his stereo and rolled down the truck windows to let cool, damp air whip through the cab of the truck.

A few miles outside Braswell he turned right on a paved county road. He slowed as he neared the older farmhouse that sat just a hundred feet off the road. Only one light burned in the single-story home, the same light that was typically on when he made his midnight drives.

And he made this trip often. When he couldn’t sleep. When he felt the need to just meander by and make sure everything looked okay. It always did.

But not tonight. Tonight a truck was pulled off the road on the opposite side as the farmhouse. The parking lights were on. There was no one inside. He cruised on by, resisting the urge to slam on the brakes. A few hundred feet past the house, he turned his truck, dimmed his headlights and headed back, pulling in behind the other truck and reaching in his glove compartment for his sidearm. Unfortunately it was locked in the gun cabinet at the trailer.

With quiet steps he headed toward the house, staying close to the fence, in the dark and the shadows. He kept an eye on the house, scanning the area for whoever it was who owned the abandoned truck. If it hadn’t been idling, he might have thought it was just broken down and that the driver had decided to walk. But the engine running meant the driver planned to return fairly soon.

He was near the back of the house when he heard the front door slam open. He moved in close to the side of the house and rounded the corner and then he stopped. The front porch light was on and caught in its glare was a too-thin Pete Shaw with a ball bat swinging in his direction. The younger brother of Andy Shaw jumped back quick, avoiding the aim of the woman advancing on him.

“Get out. And don’t come back. Next time I’ll have more for you than this baseball bat, Pete. Stay away from my house. Stay away from my family. We don’t have anything.”

Pete lunged at her, but she swung, hitting his arm with the bat. He let out a scream. “You broke my arm!”

“I don’t think so. But next time I might.” She raised the bat again. She might be barely five feet tall, but she packed quite a punch. Daron resisted the urge to laugh. Instead he took a few quiet steps forward, in case she needed him.

“I’m not going to let you hit me, Emma.”

“You’re not coming back inside this house.” Emma Shaw swung again and Pete fell back a pace, still holding his injured left arm.

It looked as if he planned to leave. Daron remained in the shadows, watching, waiting and hoping Pete would walk away. When the other man lunged, Daron stepped out of the shadows. “Pete, I think you ought to listen to her.”

Pete turned, still holding his left arm, still looking kind of wild-eyed. He was thin. His hair was scraggly. Meth. It was easy to spot an addict. The jerk of the chin. The jumpiness. The sores. A person couldn’t put poison in his body and expect it to be good for him.

“This isn’t your fight, Daron.” Pete held up his right hand, showing he still had half a brain. “But I’ll make it your fight.”

Or maybe he didn’t have half a brain. Andy’s younger brother took a few steps in Daron’s direction.

“Really, Pete?” Daron remained where he stood. “Get in your truck and get out of here. Get in a program and get some help.”

“I don’t need help. I just need the money. I know she’s got it hid somewhere.”

“I don’t have money, Pete. I don’t have anything but bills. You blew through the money Andy left. You bought that truck and you bought drugs.”

“None of us were at the wedding,” Pete countered. “I doubt you were even married to my brother.”

“Go away, Pete. Before I call the police.” Emma advanced on the other man, as if she were taller than her five-foot-nothing height. Daron stepped forward, coming between her and danger.

“Pete, you should go.” Daron said it calmly, glancing back at the woman who didn’t appear to be in the mood to appreciate his interference. He wasn’t surprised. For three years she’d been telling him to go back to his life, that they weren’t his responsibility.

Pete backed away, his eyes wild as he looked from one to the other of them. “Yeah, I’m leaving. But I’ll be back. I want what belongs to my family.”

“Go. Away,” Daron repeated.

He followed the other man to the road and watched him get in his truck and speed off into the night. When he returned to the house, Emma was gone and the front porch light was off. He grinned a little at her bravado and knocked on the door anyway.

He didn’t mind that she kept up walls with him on the outside. It certainly hadn’t kept him from watching over them. Them meaning Emma, her aging grandfather and the little girl, Jamie. Even with their limited contact he was starting to think of her as a friend.

A friend who didn’t mind closing the door in his face. He grinned as he lifted his hand to knock a second time.

* * *

Emma leaned against the door, needing the firm wood panel to hold her up. Her legs still shook with fear and adrenaline. She’d barely gotten to sleep when she heard a window opening, the creaking sound alerting the dog that slept on the foot of her bed. Fortunately her grandfather and Jamie had slept through the racket.

Racket? No, not really that drastic. She’d pounced on Pete as he climbed through the window. He’d pushed back, hitting her into the china cabinet, but she’d steadied it and herself, managing to get a good grip on the baseball bat she’d carried from her room.

Pete wasn’t healthy and it had been easy to back him out of the house and take control. Or at least it had felt like she was in charge. She’d had it handled.

The last thing she needed was Daron McKay in her home and in her business. But there he’d been, standing in the shadows like some avenging superhero, ready to rescue her.

He’d been playing the role of guardian since he got home from Afghanistan. He’d been at the hospital when she had Jamie. He’d brought gifts and food in the years since her daughter’s birth.

No matter what she said or did, she couldn’t convince him she didn’t need his help. They were making it. She, Jamie and Granddad. They’d always made it and they would continue to do so.

Yes, it would have been nice to have Andy’s help. But Andy was gone. No use crying over what couldn’t be changed.

The door behind her vibrated with a pounding fist knocking just about where her shoulders touched the wood. She jumped back, letting out an unfortunate squeal.

“I know you’re there,” Daron called out, his voice muffled through the thick wood.

She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Surely he would take the hint and go away.

“I want to check and make sure everything is okay. And I’m not going anywhere until we know Pete isn’t coming back.”

Pete might return. She should have thought of that. Of course he would return. Usually he came during the day, demanding money she didn’t have. Andy had divorced her just prior to deploying and he’d made Pete his one and only beneficiary.

She’d called him after he deployed, to tell him he was going to be a dad. He’d made promises about the two of them and she’d told him they could talk when he got home, not when he was thousands of miles away and she was still hurt by his betrayal and him walking away from their marriage. Slowly, hesitantly, she touched the lock, took a deep breath and opened the door. Her gaze slid up, her eyes locking with the gray eyes of the man standing on her front porch. Drat, but the man made her feel safe. As much as he annoyed her. As much as she wanted him to go away.

“Well, you opened the door.” His voice was low and rumbled, sliding over her, causing goose bumps to go up her arms. She hugged herself tight, her hand touching a spot on her opposite arm and feeling a sticky dampness.

“Ouch.” She glanced down. Her hand came away stained with blood.

“You’re hurt. Did he do that?”

“I backed into the china cabinet. But I’m fine.”

“We need to call 911 and let them look for him.” He took her by the uninjured arm and started through the house with her, guiding her as if he knew the way.

“We don’t need to call the police. He won’t be back tonight. He’s just a stupid, messed-up kid.”

“A stupid, messed-up kid who’s on drugs and breaking into homes. Let me look at your arm.”

“I’m fine. You can go.” Bravado didn’t work when her voice shook, from fear, from aftershock.

“Let me take a look anyway. Even though we both know you’re fine. Is this the first time he’s broken in?”

She nodded as he led her into the kitchen. Without warning, his hands went to her waist and he lifted, setting her on the counter.

“Would you stop manhandling me?”

He grinned at that, as if he thought she didn’t truly mean it, and he went about, rummaging through cabinets until he found salve and bandages. He wet a rag under the sink and returned. Without looking at her he took hold of her and wiped at the gash on her arm. She flinched and he held her steady, smiling a little but still not looking at her.

That gave her time to study his downturned face, his eyelashes, the whiskers on his cheeks, the column of his throat.

She swallowed and tried to pull away. He glanced up then, his dark gray eyes studying her face so intently she felt a surge of heat in her already-flushed cheeks.

“How did you do this?” he asked as he dried the cut and then applied salve.

“I bumped into the china cabinet. Maybe I hit a rough edge.”

“Maybe,” he said. He opened the bandage and placed it over the wound. “It’s pretty deep.”

“I’ve had worse.”

His hand slid from her arm and he moved, putting distance between them. His scent—country air, pine and something Oriental—drifted away as he backed against the opposite counter. She inhaled. Oh, and sandalwood.

No, she didn’t want to notice his scent. Or his eyes. She didn’t have time to notice him, to notice that she was female, still young and still willing to be attracted to a man like him.

“So this wasn’t the first time he’s been here?” he asked, his gaze intent, serious.

“No, it wasn’t. He typically comes during the day. He likes to show up as I’m leaving Duke’s.” She’d started waitressing at Duke’s No Bar and Grill last year, just to make ends meet. Between her tips and her grandfather’s Social Security, they were making it.

Someday she’d finish her degree. She was taking classes online, and next year she would be finished and licensed to teach. Until then she did what she could. Breezy Martin, Jake Martin’s wife, watched Jamie the few hours a day that she worked. She did her best to keep her daughter in an environment with few other children. It was important that Jamie stay healthy.

“You could get a restraining order,” he suggested, still leaning against the counter. His arms were crossed over his chest.

“I don’t want to do that. He was Andy’s brother. Our marriage ended, but that doesn’t mean I’m angry or that I want to cause problems.”

“He’s causing you problems.” He brushed a hand through his unruly hair, the light brown color streaked with blond from the sun.

“He’s causing himself problems. He’s an addict. My getting a restraining order won’t cure him of that. His parents would use it against me. I took one son and I’d be taking the other.”

“Took their son? You didn’t take Andy.” He glanced away. “I did.”

“He volunteered for service in Afghanistan because he wanted to get away from me. If not for our divorce, he would still be here.”

He opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

She shrugged, unsure of what to say to that. She guessed she knew she was wrong. But right or wrong didn’t change anything. Andy was gone. Jamie would never know her father. A family had lost their son.

“Neither of us can go back,” she finally said. Because she thought they both wrestled with the past. Why else had he been driving by at this hour?

“No,” he agreed. “We can’t.”

They stood there for several long minutes, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. He cleared his throat and moved away from the counter.

“I have to go. Will you be okay?”

“Of course I’ll be okay.”

Wasn’t she always?

As she walked with him to the front door, she thought about the ten-year-old girl who had lost both parents and had been sent to live with a grandfather she barely knew. On the drive to Houston he’d repeatedly glanced at her and asked if she was okay. Each time she’d nodded to assure him. But each time he refocused on the road she would shut her eyes tight to hide the tears.

After a while she had been okay. They’d moved from Houston to this house. She’d learned to be a farm girl from Braswell, wearing whatever her grandfather thought she needed. Usually jeans, scruffy farm boots and T-shirts.

She could look back now and realize that in time she’d been able to deal and she’d been happy.

Life wasn’t perfect. God hadn’t promised perfection. He’d promised to be with her, to give her strength and peace. She knew there were mountains looming in her near future. She also knew they would get through the tough times. They would survive.

She had to. There was no choice.

Daron stood on the front porch, tall and powerful, a man most women would want to lean on. Just moments ago, she’d been that woman, leaning into his strong arms.

Momentary weakness, she assured herself. For that very reason she managed an easy smile and thanked him for his help. The dismissal seemed to take him by surprise, but he recovered. He touched two fingers to his brow in a relaxed salute, stepped down from the porch and headed down the road to his truck. She watched him leave, then stepped back inside and locked the door.

This time when she leaned against it, closing her eyes as a wave of exhaustion rolled over her, she knew he wouldn’t be coming back.