Maybe he should just quit this job, pack up, and leave. There was always work to be had, especially before and during roundup season. But he had an ideal situation here—plenty of steady work, good people, decent quarters and food, and animals that were healthy and well cared for. He’d be a fool to leave because of an impulsive beauty who was too young to know her own mind.
I worry about her missing out on what real love can be.
Rose’s words came back to him as he watched the dust settle in the empty distance. He hoped to heaven Erin didn’t marry that entitled brat of a boyfriend. But if the kid was her choice, there was nothing more to be said.
One thing was certain, Luke told himself. He was no fit match for her tender young heart. If he were to give in to temptation, he might offer her a few thrills. But in the end, given their age difference, his rootless lifestyle, and his troubled past, he would only end up leaving her wounded and angry.
For now, the best he could do was keep his distance, control his urges, and struggle against the memory of that kiss.
But what if he was falling in love with her?
* * *
After arranging for the wrecked SUV to be picked up and repaired, Hunter Cardwell, Kyle’s father, had taken one of the ranch pickups to drive to the cattle auction in Lubbock. He drove most of the way in silence, his lips pressed into a grim line. For Kyle, seated beside him in the cab, it was like waiting for a ticking bomb to explode.
Kyle had learned the hard way not to hide the truth from his father. By now, Hunter knew how the wreck had happened. He also knew that Erin had turned down his son’s proposal. He had taken the news with surprising calm. Even the sight of the damaged SUV hadn’t set him off.
For Kyle, his father’s icy demeanor was even more ominous than a burst of anger. He knew that the blowup would come, and when it did, the consequences would be devastating. Meanwhile, all he could do was wait in slow, excruciating torment.
* * *
Vivian sat in the porch swing, drinking her second glass of iced coffee and savoring the prospect of a day to herself. It was amazing how the knots of tension inside her loosened when her husband and son were out of the house. When they were here, it was as if she were constantly pulled between pleasing her husband and protecting her son—and failing at both. Only when she was alone did she feel free to breathe and to think her own thoughts.
What would she do with her time? With the SUV in the shop, she couldn’t go to town. And even after years as a ranch manager’s wife, she’d never learned to ride a horse. It was too hot and dusty for any kind of walk. But here in the house, she could do whatever she liked.
Sunlight slanted through the trees, its rays turning the dust motes in the air to flecks of gold along the rutted back road. Vivian’s gaze traced the road to where it curved out of sight, ending at the Rimrock Ranch. She imagined herself, maybe with a pie or a batch of homemade cookies, knocking on the door of the ranch house and finding Will at home alone. He would invite her in, and the two of them would talk. He would reach out to her, touch her, and whisper, You don’t know how much I’ve needed you, Vivian. . . .
But that was only a fantasy. It was too hot to bake anything. If she were to walk to the Rimrock, she would arrive a sweaty, dusty mess. And Will would probably be off working somewhere. Even if he happened to be home, Will’s daughter, the cook, and that older woman who was visiting would probably be there, too.
But there was no law against a little daydreaming.
Maybe she should try writing a romance novel. She had lots of ideas. She could start by writing down some of her fantasies, or better yet, maybe a make-believe letter to Will. It wouldn’t be a real letter, of course, and she wouldn’t dream of sending it. But Vivian found the idea of writing down her erotic thoughts strangely exciting.
Going inside, she found a pad of good quality notepaper and a pen in Hunter’s desk. She wouldn’t use the computer. A machine would be too impersonal. And there was always the chance that Hunter or Kyle would find the file. They would probably laugh at her. That, or she’d have a lot of explaining to do.
Feeling vaguely naughty, she sat down at the kitchen table and thought for a moment. The words came slowly at first, then, as she wrote, they began to flow.
My darling Will . . . Last night in your arms, I became a woman all over again. . . . Until our bodies became one, I never knew how lovemaking could bring two souls together....
* * *
Rose’s parcel was a twenty-minute drive north from the heart of the Rimrock. The dirt road was rutted and dusty, the landscape open and dotted with scrub. Red and white Hereford cattle, most of them wearing the Rimrock’s rocking-R brand, grazed among mesquite thickets and scraggly clumps of sage.
The cattle looked poor, Rose thought. Clearly the dried grass and weeds weren’t giving them the nourishment they needed. No wonder Will was worried. But here, at least, with the creek filling the tank, the animals would have water.
As the station wagon, with Erin at the wheel, neared the thirty-acre strip of land, Rose felt the tug of memories. So many memories. She pictured her grandfather’s little cabin, where he’d moved after his retirement from the university and the death of his wife. He’d taken Rose in when she’d fled an abusive foster home, sheltering her and giving her the best education a young girl could want. She remembered his tragic murder, with Bull and Jasper snatching her to safety before the cabin went up in flames.
After eleven years in Mexico, where Bull had taken her after Ham Prescott’s death, she’d come back, reclaimed the land, and tried to make a life here. Once again, violence had caught up with her. But one happy memory remained. Here, she had met Tanner. Here, they had fallen in love.
“This is it,” Erin said, stopping the vehicle. “There’s the tank. Do you want to get out here?”
“Might as well.” Rose opened the door and climbed out, mindful of the small, loaded pistol she wore in a belt holster at her hip.
Erin had been surprised to see Rose show up with a gun. “I can’t imagine you’ll need that,” she’d said.
“Bear with me, sweetheart,” Rose had replied. “If you had my memories of the place, you’d probably be packing a gun, too.”
The tank was galvanized metal, built up around the rim with earth. A hose connected to a heavy PVC pipe ran between the tank and the creek. There were a few trees growing near the water, mostly cottonwood and elder. But the grasses and wildflowers were gone, eaten or trampled away. Only the sound of the creek, so sweet and pure that Rose had never forgotten it, remained unchanged.