ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      Marin Thomas grew up in Janesville, Wisconsin. She attended the University of Arizona in Tucson on a Division I basketball scholarship. In 1986 she graduated with a B.A. in radio-television and married her college sweetheart in a five-minute ceremony in Las Vegas. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments. Even though she now calls Chicago home, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Marin’s heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.

      To my niece Desirée—

       because you never gave up. As you look to a future full of possibilities always remember…

      The best helping hand that you will ever receive is the one at the end of your own arm.

      —Fred Dehner

      Contents

      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 One

      Samantha Cartwright was fit to be boiled down to glue—that said a lot for a woman who intended to run a sanctuary ranch for neglected horses.

      She swung her Chevy Silverado pickup into the no-parking zone in front of First Place Tower at 15 East Fifth Avenue in downtown Tulsa, Oklahoma. Three o’clock on a Friday afternoon and not a soul in sight. The mid-July hundred-degree heat wave had sent the city’s business professionals home early.

      Charles Dawson’s ornery backside better be in his office.

      No sooner had Sam’s dusty Ropers hit the pavement than a security guard materialized out of thin air. Sucking in his baby smooth cheeks, he pointed to the sign at the curb. Sam fumbled with the floor mat until her fingers found the fifty-dollar bill she kept hidden for emergencies—empty gas tanks or bribes.

      “The…sign…says…No…Parking.” The young man emphasized each word as if Sam was slow on the uptake.

      She willed herself not to react to the insult. He couldn’t know that her uptake was indeed problematic at times. “I’m not parking here.” She slapped the keys and the money into his palm. “You’re taking my truck for a spin around the block until I return.”

      His cheeks inflated like air bags, as he protested, “Ma’am, I can’t.” But she noticed his fingers curled around the cash.

      “Of course you can—” Sam read the name embroidered on the front of his blue uniform “—Dave.” She strode toward the building’s entrance, catching her reflection in the dark glass doors. She should have showered and changed into street clothes before driving into the city. Oh, well. Sam had ceased trying to impress men years ago. No matter how she dolled herself up or how many male heads she turned, in the end her shortcomings sent them running. Not even the Cartwright name had been enough to coax a down-on-his-luck cowboy to stick by her side.

      “May I help you?” A woman in a lilac-colored suit with blond hair neatly tucked at the nape of her neck stood behind a crescent-shaped kiosk in the middle of the lobby.

      Now that Sam had sacrificed the time to make the hour drive into Tulsa everyone appeared eager to assist her—except Mr. Dawson who hadn’t had the courtesy to return one of the several messages she’d left for him over the past two weeks.

      The purple flower flashed a placating smile as her French-manicured thumbnail clicked and unclicked the ballpoint pen in her hand. Sam approached the desk, forcing the petite blonde to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. At five feet nine inches, Sam towered over most women.

      “Thanks, but I’m afraid the only person able to help me is Mr. Dawson.” Sam veered toward the bank of elevators at the back of the lobby, her boot heels clacking against the marble floor. A plaque on the wall indicated Dawson Investments occupied the fourteenth floor. According to the directory, the building did not have a thirteenth floor.

      Once inside the elevator, she patted the front of her jeans, double-checking that the note she’d written earlier in the morning remained tucked inside the pocket. Stick to your agenda and all will be fine.

      The doors opened to another lobby and another blond receptionist—this one wearing a fuchsia-colored suit. The woman gave Samantha a head-to-toe glance, nose curling with disgust. “Good afternoon.”

      “I’m here to see Charles Dawson.”

      “Did you have an appointment with Mr. Dawson?” The receptionist flipped furiously through the day planner on the desk. “I’m positive I rescheduled all of his commitments.”

      “This is a spur-of-the-moment visit.”