Her Cowboy Hero. Tanya Michaels
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the hell had he—a man who’d lived like a monk for the better part of two years—been fired for “sexual misconduct”?
Raising younger siblings had taught him patience the hard way, but right now his temper was providing uncharacteristic daydreams of shaking Delia McCoy’s shoulders until her professionally whitened teeth rattled. She’d had no business showing up naked in his bed. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that his former employer’s wife didn’t even want an affair. There had been plenty of other men working the ranch who would have taken advantage of her adulterous offer. So why target the guy who’d never once returned her flirtatious smiles? Was it possible she only wanted to shock Sean McCoy into paying more attention to her? Ranches took a lot of work, and Delia had complained to anyone who would listen that her husband neglected her.
Maybe she had cause to be bitter, but that sure didn’t give her the right to screw up Colin’s life.
He was supposed to have stayed on at the McCoy place for another month. The McCoys were crossbreeding Angus and Hereford cows, and Colin, the former owner of a large-animal vet practice, had been hired to help deliver calves and see them off to a healthy start. His job would have included routine disease prevention and facilitating adoption for the expected twin sets and any heifers that lost their babies. His next contract—helping move two herds to the high country for summer grazing—was all lined up, but the cattle drive was nearly six weeks away, after his brother’s wedding.
What was he supposed to do in the meantime?
An old trail guide acquaintance had given him a possible lead, but he had sounded skeptical about it. “There’s a lady in the northwest, not far from where I hired on, who’s been looking for help. The Widow Shaw. None of the qualified ranch hands will waste time working for her, because her place is going belly-up any day now. Everyone knows it ’cept her. Frail little thing is clearly addled. Bakes the best rum cake I’ve ever had in my life, though.”
Despite his friend’s warning, Colin thought the job sounded promising enough to head for Bingham Pass and call on the Widow Shaw.
After his last two jobs—which had included the naked Mrs. McCoy and, prior to that, a moony-eyed teenage daughter of a foreman in Routt County—an elderly, absentminded woman who liked to bake sounded perfect. Colin wouldn’t stay long, but while he was there, he’d do what he could to get her back on her feet. And if that proved impossible...well, life sucked sometimes.
Who knew that better than him?
* * *
INHALING DEEPLY, HANNAH SHAW took stock of her situation. The early evening sky was starting to darken sooner than it should, and she had a flat tire on a stretch of road where cell service was nonexistent. How was it possible that astronauts could tweet from space, but there were still places in modern Colorado where a woman couldn’t get bars on her phone?
Bright side, Hannah. Find the bright side. After four years, her mantra was automatic. She tried every day to keep the vow she’d made in that hospital bed, to live with courageous optimism. Of course, that vow was currently being challenged by unyielding loan officers and the countless maintenance issues she’d inherited along with the Shaw family ranch. But she hadn’t survived this long by whining or embracing negativity.
The silver lining here was that Evan was spending the night at her friend Annette’s house instead of watching with worried eyes from his booster seat. Also, Hannah had successfully changed a flat tire once before, so there was no reason to think she couldn’t do it again. If the problem had been, say, her carburetor, she’d really be screwed.
“I got this,” she muttered, flipping on her hazard lights. She wished she’d been able to move the truck farther off the road, but there wasn’t exactly a reliable shoulder on these winding curves. She shrugged out of the lightweight blazer she’d borrowed from Annette. Beneath it, Hannah wore a white blouse that strained at the buttons down her chest, a premotherhood relic from the back of her closet. It was one of the few items in her wardrobe professional enough for a bank meeting, and the neatly buttoned jacket had camouflaged the imperfect fit.
As she twisted her long black hair up in an elastic band, she tried not to dwell on the banker’s condescending expression. She’d once again been told that maybe after she made significant improvements on the ranch, demonstrating that it was a solid investment, she could reapply. How was she supposed to make “significant” improvements without funds? She’d planned to rename the spread the Silver Linings Ranch, but it might be more accurate to call it The Catch-22. She’d received money after Michael’s death, of course, but a good chunk of that was in savings for Evan. Despite her careful planning—and the money she’d set aside to hire competent help—she had underestimated how much work the ranch would need before she could realize her plans.
One thing at a time. Fix the tire now, save the ranch tomorrow.
She climbed down from the cab and went to the back of the truck, where the tools and spare tire were kept under a cover that could be worth more than the vehicle. Note to self: maybe you should start keeping spare work clothes in the bed of the truck. While she wouldn’t necessarily mourn the ruination of the tight blouse, getting on the ground to change the tire was going to be murder on her pretty navy skirt.
A rumble of thunder echoed off the surrounding mountains, confirming Hannah’s suspicions about the prematurely dark sky. Rain hadn’t been in the forecast until tomorrow, but spring storms could move fast. Which meant she had better move fast, too.
Hurrying, she found a couple of good-size rocks on the side of the road to place in front of the tires. She was reluctant to completely trust the pickup’s emergency brake. The air seemed to crackle with expectancy, and wind whipped around her, chilling her skin. She’d only ever changed the tire on a car, and there had been a notch where the jack belonged. The truck did not have one. She was feeling around, trying to determine the correct place for the jack so she didn’t crack anything on the undercarriage, when the sky opened. Fat drops pelted her with enough force to sting.
But on the bright side, after a couple of years of drought, ranchers like her really needed the rain.
* * *
THE SHOWER HAD moved in fast, catching Colin by surprise. He’d anticipated getting into town before the rain started. He was scanning the side of the road for possible shelter when he rounded the curve and saw a stopped truck.
A woman knelt by a tire in the path of traffic. Not that there were any cars in sight, but lives could be taken in an instant. Stifling unwelcome memories—the call from the hospital, the twisted wreckage—he steered his motorcycle off the road and lifted his helmet.
“Need a hand?” he called over the rain.
The woman stood and he realized that, while she didn’t even reach his shoulder, she wasn’t tiny everywhere. She looked like the generously endowed winner of a wet T-shirt contest. A blouse that had probably once been white but was now translucent was plastered to an equally see-through lace bra. He abruptly glanced away but not before catching a glimpse of dark, puckered nipples.
In one motion, he ripped off his leather jacket and shoved it toward her. “Here.”
“Thanks.” Cheeks flushed with color, she accepted the coat, her hazel eyes not quite meeting his.
Watching her put on his clothing felt uncomfortably intimate, and he found himself annoyed with her for being here, in his path. “Don’t you have some kind of road service you could call?”
“Even if I did, there’s no reception here. But I’m not incapable of—”
“Wait in the cab,” he ordered. “No sense in both of us getting drenched.”
Her posture went rigid, and she drew herself up to her full—what, five feet? But she didn’t argue. “Far be it from me to look a gift Samaritan in the mouth.” Once inside, she rolled down the window. Literally. The truck had one of the manual window cranks that had been replaced with electric buttons in most modern vehicles. She seemed to be supervising his work.
“This