Chapter 2

      The stares and whispers didn’t surprise her. Brooke Palmer walked onto the Broward Ranch with her head held high and her insides trembling. In the distance she saw herds of cows grazing and men on horses. Although other ranches now used dirt bikes and four-wheelers, the Browards still used horses to move cattle through the rough and steep terrain. But no one was paying attention to that; everyone was staring at her. She was the anomaly. A Palmer had not been on Broward land in the past ten years and it was all her sister’s fault. Meredith had been a fool to let Jameson go and damage the tie the Browards and Palmers had. Back then, if Brooke had been older than fifteen, she would have asked Jameson to marry her instead.

      She’d dreamed of showing up in a white wedding dress at the church and telling Jameson to marry her. She understood him in a way she felt no one else did. At times, he seemed to stand in the shadow of his father, whose radical ways of breeding high-end cattle and heritage farm animals had made them incredibly wealthy. His father also had secured an advantageous marriage into the Webb family, who’d made their fortune breeding rare stallions and quadrupled the profits of the ranch. Jameson wasn’t as charming as his younger brother, Wes, but she thought he was better looking. His intense ways could be off-putting, but she knew how much he loved the land and, from her point of view, he was all a man should be.

      Unfortunately, Brooke knew that Jameson saw her as a child. He’d never looked at her the way he’d looked at her sister and other women. She was just a little girl to him. He was a man planning his future. She’d even thought of buying him at the recent cowboy charity auction, but she hadn’t been bold enough, considering the history between their families. But now she had a reason to meet with him. She knew he wasn’t a man who liked to date, but she wondered what he thought about marriage.

      Brooke took a deep breath then raised her hand to knock on the door just as it swung open. Laney took a step back in surprise. Jameson’s younger sister was as beautiful in person as she was in all the pictures taken of her. Even more striking actually.

      “Hi, Laney,” Brooke said when the other woman just stared.

      Laney shook her head, as if coming out of a stupor. “Hi.” She opened the door wider. “Sorry, I’m just surprised to see you.”

      “Congratulations on your medals. It must be hard getting back to the ordinary life and routine of Granger.”

      “No, it’s a relief.”

      When she didn’t expand, Brooke searched her mind for something else to say. “You look great.”

      “Thanks.”

      Brooke shifted, feeling awkward. Laney obviously didn’t want to talk. She was usually more bubbly, but she seemed quiet and reserved. Perhaps she resented her for being the sister of a woman who’d broken her brother’s heart. “I don’t want to keep you. You were getting ready to go somewhere. I just want to see Jameson.”

      Laney gestured for her to come inside, clearly eager to leave. “Oh, he’s in the back of the house, gazing at his mistress.”

      Brooke felt her heart race. “Mistress?”

      “You know,” she called over her shoulder as she stepped outside. “The ranch.”

      “Right,” Brooke said, feeling her pulse return to normal. “Thanks,” she said, but Laney was already out of hearing range. Even though Jameson had his own house on the property, people knew he spent most of his time at the main house. Brooke closed the door then walked through the hallway off to the side and saw Mr. and Mrs. Broward sitting in the Great Room. They stared at her, stunned.

      “Hello,” she said, wanting to break the silence. She absently pointed to a vague space down the hall. “Laney told me Jameson was down here.”

      “How have you been?” Steven said. “We were sorry to hear about your father.”

      “Well, thank you.”

      Gwendolyn stood up. “Where are my manners? It’s lovely to see you. Would you like something to drink or—?”

      “No,” Brooke said, relieved that their welcome had been a bit more cordial than Laney’s. That gave her hope that the favor she needed from Jameson might get a good response. “I just need to ask Jameson something.”

      “Well, if you need anything let us know.”

      “I will.” Brooke headed to the back of the house and saw Jameson standing just outside the doorway. As he stood staring at the horizon, she took a moment to stare at him. She looked at him through the eyes of an artist. If she were to paint him, she’d depict him as a landscape with shoulders as wide as the Montana sky, skin smooth as the sharp edge of a canyon and height as tall as a mountain. He was lean but muscular, with the intensity of a raging river. Her heart began racing, even though she’d told it to behave. Jameson had always had that kind of effect on her.

      Brooke opened the door and cleared her throat to let him know she was there and not startle him.

      Jameson didn’t turn and he didn’t seem startled; it was as if he already knew she was there. “Yes? What do you want?” he said, his voice a low, deep rumble.

      Brooke swallowed. If he could affect her like this with his back to her, how would she fare when he faced her? She had to find out.

      “I want to talk to you,” she said, her voice higher than she wanted, but steady.

      She saw his shoulders stiffen. It was just a flash and if she hadn’t known him so well, she wouldn’t have seen it. He turned, in a slow, deliberate manner that only increased the anticipation of seeing his face again. His cowboy hat kept his face in shadow, so she couldn’t clearly read his expression. Brooke braced herself for his response, half afraid of what he would do. Would she get the cold politeness of Laney?

      “Brooke Palmer,” he said in a low, deep voice that to her was as sweet as hot maple syrup drizzling on warm pancakes. It sent a thrill through her; no one said her name the way he did. He didn’t seem surprised to see her and gestured to one of the chairs inside the house. “Sit down,” he said, walking past her and taking off his hat.

      “Thanks.” Brooke took a seat and fought not to stare. Without his hat, his brown eyes were clear, reminding her of Montana oil—dark and rich. He was better than the finest wine. And he also got sexier with age.

      “I’m sorry about your father.”

      Brooke blinked, touched by the compassion in his eyes. She forced herself to focus on her reason for coming. Her father had died suddenly and he was the main reason she was there. “Thanks.”

      “How’s Meredith?”

      She paused, surprised he’d even ask. “She’s