Her Cowboy's Triplets (The Boones of Texas 7)

Chapter One

India Boone pushed her glasses into place and shoved another pencil into the top-knot of curls atop her head. “Work. Please work.” She typed in the code again, pressed Enter and held her breath. The same error box popped up on the computer screen. India covered her face with her hands and bit back a string of curses.

“Mom?” her five-year-old son, Cal, and his dog, Tanner, peered over the edge of the desk. “How many years before the Indians got here did the dinosaurs go extinct? Was it fifty-five or sixty-five millions years?”

She grinned at them, her frustration momentarily forgotten. How could she stay frustrated in the face of such adorableness? Most five-year-olds wouldn’t think about these things, but Cal was anything but normal. He was gifted and talented—something his old private school in Dallas was thrilled about. According to them, he was very gifted. Not that she’d needed anyone to tell her that.

“I’m not sure Cal. A long, long time. But if you want a firm answer we can go to the fort later on and ask Ada.” If the internet was working, she could answer the question in no time. But that was the problem. Her computer skills were solid—once internet service was set up. She skimmed the software manual again, hoping she’d missed something.

“Ada knows everything about Fort Kyle, doesn’t she?” Cal asked.

“Pretty much.” India nodded. “Too bad she doesn’t know everything about installing software.”

“Take a break? Maybe it’ll come to you after?” Cal suggested.

She smiled at him, rubbed behind Tanner’s soft ear and took off her glasses, tucking them into their case. “A break, huh?” she asked, tugging the pencils free from her hair and rubbing the back of her head.

“Sara said the Soda Shop is almost out of peach ice cream for the year,” Cal said, grinning. “That’s your favorite, isn’t it?”

“You know it is.” And it sounded delicious.

He stood, tucking his favorite plesiosaur dinosaur into his pocket. “Let’s go get some. Come on, Mom, you deserve it.”

“You’re allergic to peaches. What about you?” she asked, knowing exactly what he wanted. Something chocolate. Cal was all about the chocolate.

“Yeah, but...” He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops, rocking on his boots. “I’m not allergic to chocolate. Or ice cream. Or brownies.”

Tanner stood, tail wagging, his golden gaze bouncing between them. The Belgian Malinois came around, pushing his broad head under her hand and leaning into her until she

scratched behind his floppy, dark ear.

“See, even Tanner needs a break,” he tacked on.

She giggled, loving the smile on her son’s face. “You’re willing to suffer through a brownie sundae for me?”

“Sure.” He laughed. “You did work at the school lots this week. Now you’re helping Gramma and Papa.”

That was her—a jack-of-all-trades. Finding steady, good-paying work in a town the size of Fort Kyle was near impossible. Instead, she took what she could. Including installing internet and new inventory and accounting software for her parents’ antiques shop, along with substitute teaching and filling in at her parents’ dude ranch when they were shorthanded.

“It’s the weekend, Mom,” Cal added.

She’d come into the shop on her Sunday afternoon because it was closed. Meaning her father wasn’t around to stop her from dragging their business into the twenty-first century. His insistence on using paper ledgers and calculators took twice as long, and other than being inefficient and exhausting, the system was prone to errors. Her father would use the computer’s noncooperation as proof that relying on a “box full of wires” was “the stupidest idea” she’d ever had.

“A break it is.” She pushed out of the wobbly office chair and flipped off the office lamp. If nothing else, Cal’s patience deserved ice cream.

Cal led her to the front door of the antiques shop, Tanner trailing after them. “Did you know Gramma brought over another box of stuff from the big house?” He held the door open for her.

“She did?” She pulled the shop door shut and locked it. “I haven’t seen it or inventoried anything new.”

“And Papa snuck in two more when Gramma was talking to that loud lady from Nebraska.” He grinned up at her. “Hope Gramma doesn’t notice anything missing this time.”

“Let’s hope not.”

There was no denying her parents had too many things. Her mother’s penchant for collecting bordered on hoarding. The ranch house attic was packed tight, the closets were overflowing and their storage shed was a virtual museum of unique and fascinating items. Items her mother treasured. Items her father was determined to sell and make a tidy profit from.

When he’d tried to sneak things from the house into the shop, he’d gotten caught. Her mother hadn’t talked to her father for two days, which was torture for him. Woodrow Boone had one weakness: his wife. Apologies, flowers and chocolates, whatever made her happy, he did it.

But Woodrow Boone also never gave up—the man had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Within a few weeks, he’d managed the feat again, but this time he was smart enough to pick things from buried trunks and the back of closets. So far her mother had yet to miss any of it.