A Cowboy To Call Daddy. Sasha Summers
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Went on to get several specialty certifications. But horses were his true gift. Clearly, the man was passionate about his work.
She respected that. And already well versed with his résumé, she expected that. She hadn’t expected him to be so abrupt. Intense. Or condescending. Of course, he didn’t know who she was—that would impact the way he treated her. Not yet.
The biggest surprise was how ruggedly attractive he was. Eden found him exceptionally handsome. More than once she’d found herself watching him out the window in the tiny makeshift office. He had a presence, one that made an impact. And watching him made a few things immediately clear.
Archer Boone did not like people. At all. Sitting in her lumpy office chair several hundred feet away she could hear the snap to his words and impatience in his voice when speaking to the men who worked there.
But everything about Dr. Archer Boone changed when he was working with his horses. He went from rigid and tense, impatient and frustrated, to fluid and graceful. She couldn’t hear him, but there was no denying he spoke to the animals. Their ears pricked toward him, their gazes riveted. They seemed almost mesmerized by him. It was no wonder. He cared about them. Deeply. And the horses knew it.
“Are you the new bookkeeper?” A tall woman stood in the door. Jeans, worn brown boots, a sun-faded checkered blouse and a straw hat hung around her neck by a cord. “You don’t look like you’re ready to run. Yet.” She had a nice smile. And vibrant blue eyes.
“Should I be?” She tried to look nonchalant as she pulled another file on top of the one she’d been reading. A temp would not have a file on her employer.
Eden glanced at her, but the other woman just shrugged.
“Sorting papers isn’t the most exciting way to pass the time, but I have no complaints.” Eden was cool, her heels were off, and she’d refilled her bottle with cold water and washed the dust and sweat from her hands, face and neck. Considering the way her day had started, sitting here sorting receipts in uninterrupted quiet was a welcome relief.
“The last four he brought out here did. I’m not sure it was the paperwork. Or if it was my darling brother and his...way with words.” She pushed off the door frame and stuck out her hand. “I’m Renata Boone—the sister.”
“Eden. Eden Caraway,” she murmured, shaking Renata’s hand. It wasn’t a complete lie. Her married name had been Caraway—which she’d dropped as soon as the divorce was done. But after what Dr. Boone had said, she couldn’t admit she was a Monroe.
Oddly, she had no knowledge of the review letter Archer Boone received. Odd, because she was the one who sent the review letters. Alarm bells were ringing. Why hadn’t her father told her about it?
But the alarm bells weren’t new. They’d started ringing when he’d been so eager to send her off on her “long-overdue vacation.” Her father was a workaholic. He didn’t do vacations, not in the traditional sense. Vacations always mixed business with pleasure, turning a Mediterranean cruise into the ultimate networking opportunity. That was why she was here, changing her reservations from the Palm Springs spa he’d booked to an extended stay in Stonewall Crossing. She would show him she was capable and indispensable and worthy of respect.
“The savior,” Renata tacked on. “You might not know it, but you’re important. Archer’s freaking out over the dreaded Monroe visit, worrying they’ll decide his request for funding will be denied—even though they’ve never denied him. I say he’s being paranoid. He says it’s a feeling.”
Renata’s blasé delivery was almost callous, but Eden stayed quiet. Renata’s words hit a little too close to home for her liking. Her father had all but said those very words. He’d made up his mind that the Boone Ranch Refuge no longer needed the funding, that it was time to give other worthy nonprofits a chance. And even though going against something her mother had been so passionate about was hard, Eden knew this was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up. If she helped her father pull funding here, maybe he’d finally see her as the asset she was. Please, God. Getting out of bed already feeling like she’d failed was mentally exhausting.
The tension headache she thought was gone began to pulse slowly at the base of her skull.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother.” Renata frowned. “And I support him one hundred percent. But I worry over how consumed he gets by this place sometimes. He holds on so tight. This review thing has turned him into high-stress, grumpier-than-ever Archer. Which makes for miserable family dinners.”
She glanced out the window at Archer Boone. He was nose to nose with a skin-and-bones red horse. The horse was blowing into his hands, looking exhausted—defeated.
“Surely the refuge doesn’t rely on the Monroes for all its funding?” Eden asked, needing to ease the guilt choking her. She knew the answer: the refuge received funding from a variety of places. The real question was: Why was Monroe funding so important? “It doesn’t make sense for a nonprofit to rely on one source of support. Or for a foundation to agree to be a sole funding source, for that matter.”
Renata perched on the edge of the beat-up table. “It’s the whole tradition thing. Mrs. Monroe only visited twice, but she cared about this place, my father, my family and the people who live here. She’d talked about starting an endowment but then... Well, Mrs. Monroe’s death was tragic and unexpected.” Renata glanced out the window at her brother.
Eden was reeling. Her mother had visited—been actively involved in—the refuge? She’d cared about this place, enough to form an endowment? She swallowed, still processing. “Is there a reason Monroe would pull funding?” she asked, hoping Renata might shed more insight.
Renata shrugged. “Not on paper, no. Archer’s work is hard to argue with. I have my suspicions, though.”
Eden waited, wiping her palms on her skirt. “Suspicions?” Why was she encouraging the woman? She should ignore her and pretend that the pile of invoices in front of her was riveting. But she waited, holding her breath, to hear what Renata Boone had to add.
Renata smiled. “Chalk it up to being the only girl in a house of men, but I think it’s a personal thing. Am I assuming a lot here? Yes, yes I am. But my mother had hinted that things weren’t good between Mr. and Mrs. Monroe, that Mr. Monroe and my father had a falling-out, that she’d stayed here to clear her head. Maybe now that his wife is gone, he wants to remove painful reminders?” She shook her head. “I could be way off. I’ve never met the man. He could be great and one hundred percent behind Archer, just like his wife was. For all we know, Archer is sweating over nothing.”
Eden tapped her pencil on the pile of papers in front of her. She and her mother had been close, sharing secrets and dreams. But Eden hadn’t known any of this. Her mother had come here to clear her head? When? Had her parents fought over the refuge? Her death had robbed them all of closure and healing. Where there had been happiness and merriment, now there was only anger and resentment. Her baby girls would never know the beauty of their grandmother’s smile or her infectious laugh. It had been three years since her passing but sometimes Eden missed her so much, the pain was inescapable.
“Sorry. Too many television movies or epic family novels. You should have stopped me before I went overboard.” She shook her head. “I should have said the name Monroe puts Archer on the defensive and left it at that.” She laughed, her blue eyes inspecting Eden closely. “I’m thinking you’re not a country girl?” Renata asked, reminding Eden where she was and what she was doing here.
“No, I’m not.” Eden shook her head. What the hell was she doing? She had a plan, one that didn’t need to get muddied by the unfounded speculation of a stranger. But Renata’s words eased some of Eden’s guilt over lying. Being Eden Caraway would make her job easier. And that was why she was here, period—to find justification to pull funding from Boone Ranch Refuge.
Renata seemed to be waiting for additional information—
“Renata?” Disapproval colored Archer’s tone. Not as sharp as when he was speaking to his employees,