The Rancher She Loved. Ann Roth
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there he was, as imposing and magnetic as ever.
He pushed his longish brown hair off his forehead, momentarily exposing the faint scar along his right temple, the result of an angry bull’s attempt to rid himself of his tenacious rider sometime during Clay’s brilliant career as America’s champion bull rider.
As talented and good-looking as he was, Clay Hollyer was also cocky and full of himself. He was one of the biggest players Sarah had ever met, let alone profiled for a magazine article. The buckle bunnies who buzzed around him, vying for his attention like bees around a honeycomb, only increased his inflated opinion of himself.
That Sarah had been one of them—not a buckle bunny, but just as smitten—made seeing him now all the worse.
It had been nearly three years. Plenty had happened since then, and she doubted he even remembered her. Hoped and prayed he didn’t. But the striking jade eyes known to every rodeo fan in the world narrowed, and his lips compressed into a thin, flat line, and she knew that he did.
She wanted to sink into the ground. Or better yet, make a beeline for the car. But she was no coward. She forced a smile. “Hello, Clay. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Sa—”
“Sarah Tigarden. How could I ever forget you?” His expression hardened, belying his light tone. “What the hell are you doing here?”
* * *
OF ALL THE women Clay had known, one of his least favorite was standing on his doorstep. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d trampled through the dead flower bed to snoop through the window.
He was so not amused.
Despite his nasty-ass scowl, she barely flinched. She lost the phony smile though, and clutched the strap of her purse in a stranglehold. “I’m looking for Mr. Tyler Phillips.”
“You want to talk my landlord.” Clay snorted. “He doesn’t live here, and FYI, he doesn’t know anything about me.”
“But this is his house.”
“And he rented it to me. I don’t do interviews anymore.”
Even if he did, he wouldn’t talk to her. A few years back, her big oh-so-guileless blue eyes and great legs had all but reeled him in. That and the habit she had of pushing her then long black hair behind her ears and catching her provocative lower lip between her teeth.
He’d soaked up her interest in him, had liked her enough that he’d even considered dating her. She didn’t have the voluptuous curves he preferred, but those legs and her sweet little behind compensated for the small breasts.
Early one memorable morning, after ten days of letting her shadow him and answering her endless questions, he’d kissed her, in the stable with the horses, leaning against a clover-scented bale of hay. A sizzling kiss he’d thought about for months—and sometimes still did.
At the time, she’d seemed just as awed by the wallop that kiss had packed. Yet for some reason she’d cooled off, fast.
For the rest of the day and the night, she’d avoided being alone with him. The following morning, a full day before she was supposed to leave, she’d taken off without even thanking him for his time. She’d ignored his calls, emails and texts. Then she’d slammed him in print, calling him shallow, a player with a big ego that needed constant feeding. As if he were responsible for the women who threw themselves at him.
His buddies had laughed and said they wouldn’t mind a similar article written about them, but that article had caused him no small amount of pain and trouble.
“I’m not here to do an interview, Clay.”
Yeah, right. She was probably here to write a scathing piece about the life of a has-been. No, thanks.
Those big eyes widened, once more tempting him to fall under her spell and stay awhile. Not about to get suckered in again, he tore his gaze away. “How’d you find me?”
Not that his living here was a secret. He’d put out the press release himself, mostly to announce his new business venture. Since the accident and his forced retirement, interest from reporters had been all but nonexistent. Which suited him fine.
“Believe me, you’re the last person I expected to run into,” Sarah said. “I have no interest in you at all. None.”
Why that bothered him was anyone’s guess. She wasn’t the first to feel that way. The angry bull that had crushed his knee had ruined more than his career. The buckle bunnies he’d once taken for granted had quickly turned their attention to other bull riders. Never mind that he’d driven them away. He didn’t need their pity.
“Then why are you here?” he asked, not hiding his displeasure.
“I was hoping I could see the house.”
Right, and he was a ballet dancer. “You’re telling me Phillips wants to sell this place? Too bad—a couple of months ago, I signed a nine-month lease. I’m not leaving until the contractor finishes my house, and he just broke ground.”
His bad leg was beginning to ache. He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms.
“You’re building a place in Saddlers Prairie.” She frowned. “I thought you lived in Billings.”
“I relocated.”
“You’re not riding anymore?”
She hadn’t followed the stories, then. Just went to show how far he’d slipped from the radar. “Nope,” he said. “I retired a year and a half ago.”
The ache in his leg advanced to low-level pain, a sure sign that hell was on its way. He shouldn’t have pushed himself so hard this morning.
“Thanks for stopping by.” He backed inside and started to close the door.
“Wait—please!”
Her voice had a desperate ring to it he couldn’t ignore. He hesitated.
“If I could just peek at the house,” she said. “I won’t stay long, I promise.”
Vulnerability he hadn’t noticed the last time they’d met made her look softer and even more attractive. Leaning heavily against the jamb, he eyed her. “Give me one good reason why I should believe you.”
“How about the truth? I’m researching my family roots, and I found out that my mother and her parents once lived in this house.”
He barely hid his surprise. “Can’t you just ask them what you want to know?”
“I would, but both my parents are gone now—my adoptive parents, that is—and there are no other relatives to ask. This was my biological mother’s house.” Shadows filled her eyes. “Until recently, I didn’t even know about her.”
Interesting. “Closed adoption, huh?” he guessed.
“Something like that.” She ducked her head, as if wanting to hide from him.
Curious, he cautiously flexed his bad leg. “When did she live here?”
“Twenty-nine years ago—when she was pregnant with me.”
“And you’re looking to learn something about her in this house, after all that time.” Clay didn’t buy it.
“I know it’s a long shot, but it’s all I have. Tyler Phillips bought this place from Bob and Judy Becker—my biological grandparents. The private investigator I hired said that Mr. Phillips still lived here. His phone number is unlisted, so I wrote to him for information, but he never replied. I thought that if I came in person, if he talked to me and showed me around, I might...never mind. Thanks for your time.”
She turned away, but not before Clay saw her crestfallen expression.
Hell. He wasn’t doing anything right now, anyway, so what could it hurt to let her in? “I’ll give you ten minutes. Then you have to