Rescued by the Ranger

Having him so close was worse than having thousands of miles separating them. The moment he’d ridden into the yard, the exact second his dark brown eyes had connected with hers, the years he’d been gone evaporated. It had taken all she had not to race down the steps and throw herself into his arms. She almost had, but his expression had hardened, causing her to hold back.

There was no way of knowing what he knew. He’d refused to communicate with either her or Roy. Every wire had gone unanswered; every letter had been returned. The pain of that, how he’d refused to listen to explanations, tore at her insides, but she squelched it—as best she could, anyway—and focused on the here and now. Trace was home, and she’d find a way to make him understand her choices had been few.

The past four days, he’d barely said a word to her, left if she got too close, but it was still there. That attraction they’d had for one another. He could try to deny it, but she felt him watching her, saw the battle going on inside him. It was as if they were playing tug-of-war, where neither of them was willing to let go of the rope—give up the ground they’d gained. He was the love of her life, and she had to find a way to convince him that was still true. No matter what it looked like on the outside, inside that had never faltered.

Annabelle straightened, drew a cleansing breath, and after making sure the door was locked, she walked into the living room to stare at the picture of Roy hanging above the fireplace. Handsome, with dark brown hair and even browner eyes, he’d been a wonderful and caring man. Lord knows where she’d be today if not for him. They may not have loved each other as man and wife, but they had loved each other. In a softer, gentler way. As family and treasured friends. It had been special and unique. Only the two of them understood it and she missed him terribly. He’d married her not for himself but for her and Trace.

Trace, though, hadn’t listened when Roy tried to explain, and he certainly hadn’t welcomed her letters of explanation.

Annabelle wiped away a tear, wishing Roy was here right now so he could force Trace to listen. When she glanced back up at the picture, she swore the image—that of a righteous, strong-willed man—grinned at her. She had to smile in return. That was exactly how Roy would have reacted to what had just taken place. “I know going to his bedroom was a bit presumptuous,” she whispered. “But I thought if I could catch him off guard, I could make him listen.”

The painting didn’t respond, but she could imagine what Roy would have said.

“Time?” she asked in reply to her assumption. “He’s had six years. What if he leaves again? This time I won’t have you to pick up the pieces.”

Roy would have had a lot to say about that, so she turned and made her way to the staircase. It wasn’t that easy, though. Roy was never one who could be ignored. In the back of her mind his answer played over and over like the phonograph sitting in the back parlor. Roy had bought it for her for Christmas last year, boasting how it was the only one in the entire territory, and once again she cracked a grin. He’d loved how people would gather around the contraption, listening to it repeat the same tinny tune over and over again.

As she reached her bedroom door—the room that had become hers the day she married Roy—she turned and looked down the hallway. The voice in her head was so loud, so real, she truly expected to see Roy standing near his bedroom door at the end of the hallway. He wasn’t there, of course, but as a couple more tears slid down her cheeks, she nodded, just as she had so many times in the past. Letting him know she heard him. Tomorrow would be a new day.

Annabelle climbed into her four-poster bed complete with a lace canopy—Roy had spoiled her—almost as if she was the daughter who’d died in his arms fifteen years before—and closed her eyes. Sleep wasn’t going to be her friend. Not tonight. She had too many worries. Besides missing Roy, she couldn’t help but wonder if he had known the cattle were stolen, if that was why he’d penned them up near the northern border of their property.

Her body was still aching, too, as it had since the moment Trace rode into the yard.

There was more to it than just her desires. Trace wasn’t just the love of her life. Five-year-old Wyatt sleeping in the room next door was not his nephew, as the entire county believed. Before Trace left for Texas this time, she’d have to tell him that—no matter what the consequences.

She’d promised Roy.

Chapter Two

New day or not, life wasn’t any better. At least not in her eyes. Trace had ridden out without stepping foot in the house. The Trace she’d known six years ago had been hotheaded and demanding and would have confronted her, wanted to know why she’d behaved as she had last night.

To get your attention, she’d have told him. When sleep had eluded her, she’d spent the better part of the night rehearsing exactly what she would tell him. She had questions of her own, too, things she wanted answers to. Like how he could believe she’d ever have thrown their love away that easily. There was one other question burning in her mind. Had Trace found someone else? Was that why he refused all her letters?

Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of heels and she turned from the window. As bright as the sun blazing down outside, light filled her heart at the sight of her son. “And where are you off to?”

Wyatt, wearing his hat and strutting down the hallway as if he was twenty instead of five, replied, “I figure I best ride out to the north pasture, see what cows have folks so riled up.”

She bit her lips. He was so like his father. And his uncle—whom he was presently mimicking. Roy’s death had been devastating to all of them, but now, three months later, which in comparison to his young age probably felt like years to Wyatt, her son had moved beyond grieving to fulfilling promises. He was the man of the house and took the role seriously. Which wasn’t a surprise. Roy had started training Wyatt for the day he’d take over the Lazy E the moment she’d given birth to him.

“That’s a long ride,” she said. “I’m not sure Rascal would appreciate going that far from home.” The Shetland pony Wyatt had been riding since before he could walk had the temperament of a faithful old dog. One that never let the barn get too far out of sight.

Undeterred, Wyatt said, “Then I’ll have to take one of the other horses.”

Bending down to button his vest correctly—he’d missed the top buttonhole—she asked, “And who will saddle one of the other horses for you?”

“Got a bunkhouse full of cowboys out there. One of them better do as I say.”

Not laughing was hard. He sounded exactly like Roy—and Trace years ago. “I see.” Removing his hat, she pushed the dark hair off his forehead. The older he got, the more he looked like Trace, as she’d known he would. After replacing the hat, she asked, “And if they’re all gone?”

“Gone? I didn’t tell them to go anywhere.”

She took ahold of both of his hands. “I did.” Then she rattled off the names of the cowhands she’d sent out to round up the cattle that needed to be driven into town later this week. They were part of an ongoing contract Roy had made last year. Monthly shipments, first to the slaughterhouse and then onward to markets clear to the Eastern Seaboard. She also told Wyatt whom she’d sent south to check on the stock that were held in separate pastures pending the births yet to happen.

“That still leaves Chris and Bubba,” he said after a moment of calculation.

He was young, yet little got past him, and pride once again filled her chest. “Yes, it does, and they rode out with Trace.”

A frown formed as Wyatt asked, “Does he own our ranch now? Trace? Since Roy died and he’s Roy’s brother?”

Her heart convulsed at how he didn’t know who his real father was. She’d soon rectify that but presently had to maintain her composure, make sure none of her fears of Trace were transferred to her son. She took his chin between her thumb and forefinger. “Yes, he does, but he won’t make us leave, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Nothing would stop her from keeping that promise. She couldn’t believe Trace had changed that much, but the last five years proved he didn’t want any part of the Lazy E, and that frightened her.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Wyatt insisted.

“I know you’re not,” she assured him. Roy’s voice entered her mind again, and she glanced toward the front parlor and his picture hanging there. “If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.”

“What?” Wyatt asked.

She shook her head, questioning if she’d said the quote aloud or not. Roy had said it not long before he’d died. She couldn’t remember exactly when or why, but it resonated with her now. A hint of the bitterness she’d kept buried unearthed itself. Trace had ignored her letters. It was time to see just how well he could ignore her.

Face-to-face.

Though he ran from her, Trace never ran from Wyatt. Instead he seemed eager to get to know him. It probably wasn’t right, using her son as a pawn, but when one needs a Trojan horse...

Standing, she squeezed Wyatt’s hand a bit tighter while tugging him toward the door. “How about I saddle a horse for you? We’ll ride out to the north pasture together.”

Trace had sensed who the riders were long before they were close enough to recognize, but he still couldn’t control the way his heart beat faster or the other things that happened inside him. Annie was a stunning woman and any man would feel a hitch in his chest at appreciating that beauty, but there was more to it. More than a hitch when he looked at her. The boy, too. He saw a lot of familiarity in Wyatt. Maybe that was where the pride came from. Family genes.

He cut his horse out of the herd and steered the animal toward Annie and the boy, riding out to meet them before they got too close to the dust churned up by hundreds of hooves.

“Where you driving those cows to?” the boy asked, leaning one forearm across the saddle horn as if he was four times his age and tipping the front of his hat back to gaze over the herd.

Trace fought a grin. His nephew was all Edwards, from his dark hair and brown eyes to the chip on his shoulder—a good one—that gave him just enough conceit to pull off his stance in life. Trace glanced to Annie, and as he noted the smile on her face, his broke free. She was proud of her son. Rightfully so. Something else broke loose, too, and flooded his insides. Wyatt could have been his—if things had happened differently six years ago. But they hadn’t, and since arriving home he’d found himself fighting harder than ever to remember that. How things had changed.

“We’re taking them to town,” he said, tearing his gaze away from both Annie and her son while gesturing toward the herd.

“For the trial?” Wyatt asked.

The boy was only five and in Trace’s mind there were things a child that age didn’t need to know. Annie, however, must have thought differently when it came to raising her son, considering the way she was looking at him, waiting for him to answer.

She had on a riding hat with a flat top and stiff brim. White, and tied beneath her chin with a leather strap. Her blouse was white, too, with red stitching, and her pants black, along with her boots, which came up to her knees. The ensemble was eye-catching, and fit her so perfectly it could have been painted on.

“Both Wyatt and I will be attending the trial,” she said when he didn’t offer a reply.

Annie looked the part, that of a rancher’s wife. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think that’s wise?”

“I think it’s necessary,” she answered, never looking away. “Roy would never have purchased stolen cattle.”

“Maybe he didn’t know they were stolen,” he suggested. Thirteen years older than him, Roy had raised him after their parents had died when he was four, and until it came to Annie, the two of them had never said a cross word to one another. It tore at Trace how he still loved his brother, mourned his death deeply, yet hated him for taking the one thing he’d treasured above all else from him. Annie.