CHAPTER THREE

      BREE DIDN’T CALL ahead to let Rowena know she was coming.

      It wasn’t that she thought surprising her sister would be fun. Rowena was as likely to be irked by an unannounced visit as she was to be delighted. Bree didn’t call because, right up until the last minute, she couldn’t bring herself to commit to really, truly going to Bell River Ranch at all.

      Every mile along the way, she kept assuring herself she could always change her mind. Drive away. Get back on an airplane and fly home to Boston.

      But somehow merely saying that phrase, “home to Boston,” made her realize how little she belonged there, even after sixteen years. And so she didn’t turn around. She kept driving, from the Gunnison airport toward Silverdell, every minute bringing her closer to the one place in the world she had ever thought of as home.

      And the one place in the world she’d ever thought of as hell.

      She skirted Silverdell’s downtown area, not ready to be seen by anyone she used to know. Instead, she took the loop-around on what the locals called Mansion Street—though maps and strangers called it Callahan Circle. Bell River was the first ranch you encountered as you exited the city limits, so after she passed the elegant old Harper estate she knew she had only about two more miles to go.

      Her heart beat faster, and she tightened her fingers on the wheel. Dread...or excitement? She no longer knew.

      Man-made structures thinned out the minute she crossed the city line, giving way to open spaces, acre after acre of rolling country greening with spring. The occasional cow or horse gazed placidly at her as she coasted by, and a pair of brown falcons watched her sternly from a fence post, but for those two miles she didn’t see another human being.

      And then, too soon, the acres that spread out beside the road were Bell River acres. She knew every undulation, every tree, as well as she knew the lines and pads of her own palm. The rippling pastures were achingly the same as they’d been twenty years ago when she’d ridden her bike home from elementary school along this same road.

      The same—except better. Much, much better.

      She hadn’t visited since the wedding four months ago. It had been winter, then—and Rowena had still been in the early, messy stages of renovations, the part of the process where you saw only the broken eggs, not the promise of the omelet.

      Now it was April, the time when Colorado clouds began to lift, as if the tent of blue sky actually were being winched up higher and higher each day. The air felt fresh, green with sunshine and sweet breezes.

      And the creation of the dude ranch was much further along. The first thing Bree noticed as she turned into the long front driveway was how well the grounds had been groomed. The palsied bristlecone pines on either side of the rickety front fence had been pruned up, as if by dancing masters obsessed with posture. The fence itself had had been replaced with a pair of scrolled wrought-iron gates that stood crisply open, smiling a glossy black welcome.

      Muddy patches that once had pitted the fields on either side of the driveway had been converted to smooth carpets of emerald grass.

      A few more yards and she got her first good look at the house, set like a jewel in its setting of sparkling white paddocks. It had been freshly painted pale green, with a brand-new hunter-green roof and a wide white porch trimmed in lush hanging baskets of ferns, ivy and lipstick-red geraniums.

      Her foot almost stalled on the gas, and the rental car slowed to a crawl. “Wow,” she said to the empty car. Rowena had worked a miracle, considering how tight their budget was and how short the timetable.

      It was gorgeous. No longer a downtrodden, half-neglected white elephant, but a home. Wholesome, peaceful and inviting. All the things the ranch had never been, even before their mother’s death.

      Bree determined to make a point of telling her sister so. Maybe that would help break the ice...get them off on the right foot. She would show Rowena right away that she wasn’t here as judge, or spy, or critic. She was here as a friend.

      As a sister.

      Sister. As if the word were emotionally electrified, a frisson of fear sizzled through her. It had been a long time since she’d been comfortable with that word, at least in relation to Rowena.

      She mustn’t let herself get carried away. While the ranch might look inviting, the “invitation” wasn’t designed for her. The beautiful scene was, quite literally, a stage set for an ad in a glossy brochure. The goal was to coax paying guests into booking their vacations here.

      Her only incontestable credential was her status as co-owner of the soon-to-open enterprise. Her name, Brianna Allison Wright, was listed on those thick loan documents—loans that haunted her every time she thought about how big the numbers were.

      She had every right to show up, with or without advance notice, if only to check on the renovations and see how her money was being spent.

      Besides, about twenty windows overlooked this front driveway, so she probably had already been spotted. She hit the gas again, pulled around to the back of the house where a nicely landscaped parking lot had been created and slipped the car into a space.

      Then, squaring her shoulders, she got out.

      She left her suitcase in the trunk, though. She still felt more comfortable having an escape, just in case. She could pretend she had just stopped by to say hi. She could say she had a reservation in Aspen, or Crested Butte, or anywhere, to...to do...

      Something else. Anything else. In case Ro made it clear Bree wasn’t welcome to stay here.

      She climbed quickly onto the back porch and made her way to the door, which used to open onto a laundry room, but now, she knew, would lead into the expanded kitchen. She smelled coffee, so she knew Rowena was up, even though it was only a little after eight.

      All three sisters had always been early risers. Work on a ranch started before the sun came up, and their father wouldn’t have tolerated sleeping in.

      Eventually, being early birds had been more than a pattern—it had been in their blood. In all the years Bree had lived on the East Coast, she’d never truly adjusted to night-owl hours. Charlie had often laughed at her, saying they should have called the company “Cinderella’s” instead of “Breelie’s.” What a joke, a high-society event coordinator who started yawning at midnight!

      “Watch out! Hey, lady! Watch out!”

      Startled