Reunited with the Cowboy. Carolyne Aarsen
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off. She couldn’t allow herself to think of what-ifs. She hadn’t hit the truck head-on. She had avoided a collision that would have had far worse consequences.
As she laid her head back on the headrest, trying to pull herself together, tattered prayers fluttered through her mind.
Thank You, Lord. Forgive me, Lord.
The same feeble petitions she had sent heavenward for the past few years. That was all she’d been capable of in the aftermath of the mess that was her married life with her ex-husband, Mitch.
An insistent banging on her door made her jump, adding to the piercing pain in Heather’s head.
“You okay in there?”
The muffled voice outside the car and the continued thumping made her wince again as she painstakingly found the clip for the seat belt, then released it. But when she tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge.
She didn’t need this, she thought, allowing herself a moment of self-pity. Stuck in the ditch only five miles from home, with a cell phone that was out of juice and some stranger banging on the window.
Then she pulled herself together. City life may have softened her, her ex-husband may have tried to beat her down, but this wasn’t her first rodeo. She was Montana born and bred, and had once been a championship barrel racer. She had been thrown off horses, chased by ornery cows and she’d raced across rodeo arenas on an out-of-control horse. As her father always said, you can take the girl out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the girl.
So she took a deep breath, turned in her seat, lifted her booted foot and gave the door a mighty kick.
Heather wished she had her sturdy riding boots on instead of these flimsy, high-heeled ones. But she created an opening and, grabbing her purse, slithered through it.
Her first step was onto the icy snow, and she would have stumbled forward had not the man outside her car caught her by the arm.
She found her balance, then looked up at her would-be rescuer.
And her heart plunged.
John Argall.
Son of the Bannisters’ foreman and the man she had broken up with to move to New York. One of the people she had most dreaded seeing on her return to Refuge Ranch.
His blue eyes, fringed by thick lashes, stared down at her. “Hello, stranger,” he said, but his voice, usually warm and friendly, was as cold as the snow under her feet.
Not that she blamed him. She was the one who had broken up with him. Who had ignored his warnings about Mitch and his big plans. Heather could have saved herself a world of hurt and regret had she listened to him. Had she not impulsively chased after what she’d thought would solve her problem.
Just like her biological mother always did.
“Hello, John,” was all Heather could say, pushing the traitorous thought back. She hadn’t returned to Refuge Ranch to indulge in might-have-beens. She was here only to help plan a bridal shower for her sister, Keira—an event Heather wouldn’t be able to attend. She was off to Seattle to interview for an important job. A step in a new direction. Her debts were finally paid, her obligations fulfilled and she was ready to start a future on her own, free from any ties or romantic entanglements. She had made enough bad decisions the past few years; she was ready to look ahead.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Better than my car.”
“Good to know, but you’re right about your vehicle.” He turned back to her car, buried up to the hood in the snowdrift. “Why don’t you get into my truck and warm up while I find a tow rope?”
“I can help,” she said, lifting her chin, her tone holding a defiant edge. Anger had been her defense the past few years; she deployed it now.
His eyes grazed over her knee-high boots, short skirt and thin wool jacket with its pleats and tiny buttons. She knew the designer clothes were more suited for the fashion runway than Montana spring weather, but they were the only type of clothes she had after years of living in New York. “You’ll just fall in those heels,” he said, with a deprecating tone that stung. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind if you would check on my daughter, Adana. She’s in the truck all by herself.”
Heather couldn’t stop the clench in her stomach as she looked back at John’s truck, parked to one side of the road. The engine was still running, exhaust wreathing around the cab. Through the fogged-up window she could see a little girl sitting in a car seat. From the occasional notes and texts from her family, she had heard about John’s marriage to her old friend Sandy, and the birth of his little girl, two years ago, two days before Sandy died of internal hemorrhaging.
The toddler’s head bounced back and forth, the bright pink pom-pom on her winter hat bobbing with each movement, as if she was dancing in her seat. She waved mittened hands as she caught John and Heather looking at her.
John’s daughter. Sandy’s little girl.
Heather swallowed down her apprehension, then gave him a cautious smile, buying herself a few more moments. “By the way, I never had a chance to tell you that I was sorry to hear about Sandy’s death. I know it was almost two years ago, but...well...I’m still sorry. It must have been hard for you.”
John just looked at her, his expression unchanging. If anything, the set of his jaw seemed more grim. “Yeah. It was, but like you said, it was a while ago. We’re coping.”
His harsh tone cut, but Heather knew she didn’t deserve anything more. She should have written or called. Sandy had been a dear friend to her, but she’d been dealing with her own problems at the time. Still, in spite of Heather’s history with John, she’d known she’d owed her childhood friend the courtesy of sending him a sympathy card.
“Sandy was a good person, and at one time, a good friend,” she said quietly.
His only reply was a tight nod, which made her feel even worse.
So she turned away, taking a careful step, trying to find her footing on melting snow. She faltered, almost losing her balance again, but John caught her.
Even through the thickness of her coat, she felt the solid grip of his hand on his arm, steadying her.
“You sure you didn’t get hurt?”
“I’m okay,” she said, surprised at her reaction to his touch. She pulled away, but then almost fell, her arms flailing as she struggled to regain her balance.
“Always were too stubborn for your own good,” John muttered, catching her again and helping her to the road.
Heather shot him an annoyed glance, but didn’t pull away until she found her footing on the gravel road.
“Go warm up,” he said, pointing to the truck. “I’ll need to attach a tow rope.”
Six years ago she would have teased him about being so bossy. But that was when they were dating. When the foolish decisions Heather would make would result in a gentle reprimand from him and a smart remark from her.
Instead, she wrapped her coat around her, ducked her head against the gust of wind that had started up, and walked to the truck. She slipped a couple times on ice patches, unable to get the proper purchase in her high-heeled boots, but she finally made it. As she pulled open the door, cheerful music, Adana’s happy chatter and blessed heat washed over her.
She climbed into the raised cab and pulled the door closed behind her, shivering as she turned to Adana, who was sitting in her car seat on the passenger side.
The little girl grew suddenly silent and stared back at her, eyes as blue as John’s, curls of blond hair sticking out from under her winter hat.
Adana had John’s eyes, his arching eyebrows. But she had her mother’s delicate nose and generous smile. An ache settled in Heather’s stomach as she looked at a child who was the same age