Roping In The Cowgirl. Judy Duarte
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said he wasn’t available, but I heard his voice in the background.” Blake turned to Carol, unable to mask his feelings. “Can you believe it? For the first time in my life, my uncle refused to talk to me!”
“Ouch.”
“And to make matters worse, I just got sucker punched with this.” Blake tapped his finger on the document lying on his desktop. “I’m not sure whose idea this was, but I’m not going to stand by and watch my uncle get taken advantage of by a woman intent upon taking him to the cleaners. I’m going to fly to Texas and check things out for myself.”
“Under the circumstances,” Carol said, “that’s probably a good idea. I’ll make your travel arrangements. I assume you’d like to go as soon as possible.”
Blake would leave right now, if he could. But he’d have to brief whichever attorney would be covering for him while he was gone.
“What’s on my calendar?” he asked.
The ever-efficient Carol smiled. “Nothing that can’t be postponed, canceled or handled by someone else, so consider it cleared. You’re free for as long as you need to be.”
Blake must have appeared skeptical—and hesitant—because she added, “Oh, come on. You haven’t taken any significant time off in years. And while this isn’t the same thing as a real vacation, at least it will get you out of the office for a while. Some evenings I was afraid we’d have to move a bed into the supply closet for you.”
He smiled at the thought—and at the woman who knew him better than anyone probably ever had. “You’re one in a million, Carol.”
“So are you. And one day, when you finally put that broken engagement behind you, some sweet, unselfish woman is going to see that, too.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not interested in striking up another romance—or in finding a sweet, unselfish woman. Right now I’m going to confront that gold-digging, green-eyed brunette who’s gotten her hooks into my poor old uncle. So book me a first-class seat on the next available flight to Houston—nonstop.”
“Will do,” she said. “I hope you plan to stay for more than a day or two.”
He’d probably have to. It might take a while to talk some sense into the stubborn yet naïve old cowboy. “Let’s make it a one-way ticket for now.”
Blake wasn’t sure what kind of resistance he was going to meet from his uncle or the woman who’d turned his head, but come hell or high water, when he returned to California, he was bringing Sam home with him.
* * *
Shannon Cramer gripped the steering wheel, slammed on her brakes and skidded to a stop as a flat-bed truck spun out in front of her, spilling its precariously stacked load of hay bales onto the road and blocking traffic to the Rio Rico Bridge in both directions. The driver, a befuddled teenager who’d probably just gotten his license, climbed from the cab and gazed at the mess.
Several cars had already lined up behind Shannon, and more than one driver honked. She had half a notion to join in their frustration, but the blaring horns and angry voices weren’t going to help or do anyone any good.
Of all days to have this happen. She never overslept, although for some reason, she’d forgotten to set her alarm last night. And now she was going to be more than just a little late to work.
The wide-eyed teenage boy, his cheeks flushed, pulled the bill of his baseball cap down, as if attempting to hide his face. Apparently he had no idea what to do about the problem he’d caused or the angry motorists he’d inconvenienced, because he slunk back to the cab of his truck and climbed inside. When he placed his cell phone to his ear, Shannon assumed he was calling someone to help him clear the road.
She reached for her own cell to dial the Rocking C and let them know she’d get there as quickly as she could. Only trouble was, the call didn’t go through.
That was the problem in this part of the valley. For some reason, the cell tower wasn’t able to pick up signals in the low-lying areas. And even if you did manage to get a bar or two, the reception was terrible.
Dang it. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She needed to relieve the night nurse at the ranch. Darlene, the LVN, also had a part-time afternoon job waiting tables at the truck stop café along the interstate and needed to get some sleep before she started her shift.
Shannon glanced at her wristwatch, then at all the hay that blocked both sides of the road and the entry of the narrow, two-lane bridge. On any other day, she might have gotten out of her car and started clearing the mess herself. Heck, she’d grown up on a ranch and had been handling hay since she was a kid. But last Friday, while helping an elderly man get out of a rocking chair on the front porch, she’d pulled something in her back. The pain had finally eased and she was feeling much better now, but she didn’t dare try to drag eighty-to ninety-pound bales of hay out of the street and risk hurting herself again.
She frowned at the blocked road. Maybe she could encourage a few of the other drivers to help out. She’d no more than opened the door of her Toyota Celica when a couple of lanky cowboys jumped out of their pickup and started toward the chaos. One, who looked remarkably like the champion bull rider who’d been raised on a ranch on the outskirts of Brighton Valley, got right to work.
The other knocked on the window of the teenage driver’s door. When the boy glanced up, the cowboy hollered, “Dammit, kid. You passed us two miles back, driving like a bat out of hell. Didn’t anyone tell you to tie down a load? Get your butt out here and help us get this cleaned up.”
Thank goodness. Still holding her smartphone, Shannon got out of her car, made her way around the hay bales and walked to the bridge, hoping to get a few bars and to have better reception there. After a couple of tries, she finally reached Sam Darnell, the Rocking C foreman. At least, it sounded like Sam’s voice through the crackling on the line.
“I’m afraid there’s been an accident on the county road,” she said. “No one was hurt, but I’m going to be late to work.” When Sam didn’t respond and the crackling stopped, she lowered her phone and glanced at the display. No Service.
She let out a ragged sigh. The single bar she’d seen moments earlier had completely disappeared. Hopefully Sam got the message and would pass it on.
A few minutes later, as one of the cowboys began to wave the cars through, Shannon slid behind the wheel and started her engine. Finally, she was on her way. Yet while the ranch was only two miles away, she was still twenty minutes late when she pulled into the yard.
As she parked near the barn—which Sam and a couple of hands had painted red last week—she glanced at the clouds that loomed on the northern horizon. They weren’t dark yet, which was good. Whenever heavy rain hit the valley, the bridge washed out, making it impossible for vehicles to get in or out of the ranch for days at a time.
The TV weatherman had said the first incoming storm had stalled and probably wouldn’t hit until tomorrow or the next day. But predictions were sometimes wrong. Either way, she had a well-stocked medical supply room and could handle more than basic first aid. However, a serious accident or illness would require a trip to the Brighton Valley Medical Center, which was forty-five minutes away.
She’d no more than started toward the back entrance of the sprawling ranch house when a late-model white Lexus pulled up beside her and parked.
That was odd. The ranch owners were out of town for the next few weeks. And the elderly residents, as well as the ranch hands who worked at the Rocking C, didn’t get many visitors, especially arriving in fancy vehicles.
By the time the driver, a handsome man in his early-to midthirties, got out of the car, her curiosity had grown to the point that even though she needed to get inside, she couldn’t seem to move her feet.
He wore an expensive suit and fancy loafers—Italian leather, no doubt. At well over six feet tall, with blue eyes and dark hair that must have cost him a pretty penny to have cut at an expensive salon, he was more