His family committed a terrible wrong

Ben Blackwell wants to make it right

The last time Ben saw Rachel Thompson was when her best friend left him at the altar. Now Rachel’s suing the Blackwells over river water rights. Rachel’s a triple threat—rancher, fellow attorney and single mom—and Ben’s plan to win in court hits a snag when mutual attraction blooms. If he divulges a long-held secret, will his family forgive him? Will Rachel?

Award-winning, USA TODAY bestselling author MELINDA CURTIS is an empty nester married to her college sweetheart. However, she didn’t feel old until her oldest son and his wife became pregnant during the writing of this book. Topics at family gatherings eventually turned to what Melinda wanted to be called by her grandchildren. Grandchildren! Her three children eventually came up with a name for her: Grandma Overlord, a name derived from her mastery of all things, or at least her ability to fake it on the page. Is that supposed to be a compliment? Now they lovingly refer to her as GO (pronounced “gee-oh”). Check in with Melinda a few years from now to see if the “endearment” stuck.

Melinda writes sweet contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis (Brenda Novak says Season of Change “found a place on my keeper shelf”) and fun, sexy reads as Mel Curtis (Jayne Ann Krentz says Fool for Love is “wonderfully entertaining”).

Also by Melinda Curtis

Time for Love

A Memory Away

Marrying the Single Dad

Love, Special Delivery

Support Your Local Sheriff

Marrying the Wedding Crasher

A Heartwarming Thanksgiving

Married by Thanksgiving

Make Me a Match

Baby, Baby

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Rancher’s Redemption

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07852-8

THE RANCHER’S REDEMPTION

© 2018 Melinda Wooten

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To Carol Ross, Cari Lynn Webb, Amy Vastine

and Anna J. Stewart. I know I often scare you

with my writing ideas—“Come on! Let’s write

connected cowboy stories!”—and I admire

your courage for falling into step with me…

And then having my back so I don’t face-plant

on a public sidewalk. Love you, ladies!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

NEVER LOOK BACK.

That’s what Ben Blackwell’s grandfather, Big E, always said.

At least, that’s what he used to say. Back when he and Ben used to talk. Back before Big E eloped with Ben’s fiancée. Back before Ben left behind trail dust and boots and Montana to be a top public utilities lawyer in New York City.

And now, Ben was doing more than looking back—he’d gone back. Home to Falcon Creek and the Blackwell place, which had been a cattle ranch for five generations, but was now also a dude ranch.

“Big E wants us to call it a guest ranch,” Ethan, Ben’s twin, had corrected Ben when he’d muttered something about dudes on the phone last week.

Seemed like Ben had been muttering ever since—about his bossy older brother, Jonathon, who wanted him home ASAP; about his younger twin brothers, Tyler and Chance, who couldn’t seem to be bothered to help at the family homestead; about the grandfather whose picture was in the dictionary under selfish; and about the small-town attorney who was suing the ranch for water rights.

At thirty-two, Ben was too old to be dragged back into the family drama that orbited Big E and the Blackwell Ranch.

Too big for your city britches, more like.

That was his grandfather’s voice in his head. That voice had been talking nonstop since Ben had agreed to return to Falcon Creek.

You have arrived, big shot.

And he had.

Ben got out of his Mercedes, punched his arms into his suit jacket, ignoring the stifling feeling from being buttoned-up in the early afternoon heat. He’d flown from New York to Montana, and then driven to Falcon Creek without stopping. He didn’t plan to stay more than a few days—a week, tops.

Across the street, Pops Brewster looked up from his chess game on the Brewster Ranch Supply porch to get a good look at the city slicker. Annie Harper slammed too hard on her truck brakes as she pulled up to the stop sign, gaze ping-ponging between Ben and the intersection. In the Misty Whistle Coffee Shop parking lot, Izzy Langdon tipped his straw cowboy hat up, the better to ogle Ben’s ride.

Rachel Thompson opened the door to the law office of Calder & Associates, crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Ben. “Late as usual, Blackwell.”

“Welcome home,” Ben muttered, walking around a knee-high weed bending over the sidewalk. He stopped in front of the steps of a white clapboard shack, which had probably been built over a hundred years ago when the town had been founded. “Traffic was gridlocked, it was impossible getting out of Bozeman.” That was like saying traffic in the Mojave Desert was bumper-to-bumper.

Overexaggeration. Hyperbole. Sarcasm.

It was completely lost on Rachel. She spun on her high heels without so much as a roll of her eyes.

Reluctantly, Ben followed. It took him two tries to get the front door closed behind him. The building had settled, and the doorframe was no longer plumb. He slammed it home, earning a dry, “Really?” from Rachel.

“Really,” Ben said airily. “You should run a planer on that door.” And think about practicing law elsewhere.

The narrow, rectangular building was divided into two offices and a waiting area with a black couch that was so old it had butt impressions in the cushions. The building’s hardwood floor was worn to the nails that kept it in place and there was a crack in the ceiling plaster that spoke louder of foundation issues than the ill-fitting front door.

Everything about the office screamed struggling law practice, from the receptionist’s bare desk to the unread magazines perfectly fanned on the coffee table.

Rachel settled behind a large oak desk in her office, which had a clean blotter and a few neat, low stacks of paper.

By contrast, when Ben had left his office at Transk, Ipsum & Levi, his credenza had piles of depositions and his desk had been buried in briefs and court filings.

Ben paused in the doorway to Rachel’s office, assessing his adversary for any apparent weaknesses other than inadequate resources.

Rachel was still easy on the eyes, and still favored suits that lacked the sophistication and designer cachet most of his female opponents in New York wore into battle. Joe Calder was probably behind the closed door of the other office. He had to be ancient. When they’d met in court five years ago, Joe had shuffled into the courtroom slower than a turtle in deep sand.

Beware! Remember the tortoise and the hare, boy.

Well, this hare had won the last go-round, but not without a bit of finagling of the racecourse.

That’s what lawyers are supposed to do, boy, bend the law.

Ben ran a hand over his hair. “Where’s Joe?” He leaned back to see if the other office door was opening. “Will he be joining us?”

“Joe died last winter.” Rachel’s tone indicated she didn’t think she needed Joe. “He left me the practice.”

It looked like Joe hadn’t done Rachel any favors.

Ben dusted off the seat of a chair across from her before he sat down, but his gaze never really left Rachel.

They’d known each other since kindergarten, both raised as ranch kids on bordering properties. His grandfather hadn’t much cared for the Thompsons and hadn’t encouraged a friendship.

Ben had targeted Rachel in dodgeball in the fifth grade, because she wasn’t much of an athlete beyond being able to ride. She’d asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the seventh grade, but they’d both been awkward about it, because what did you do with the opposite sex when you were almost thirteen? When Ben was fourteen and in high school, he had the answer to that question, but he’d moved on to dating Rachel’s best friend, Zoe Petit. Back in the day, Rachel and Zoe were always made-up and dressed-up, looking like they went to school in a Beverly Hills zip code.

After Ben graduated law school, he and Zoe had made wedding plans. Rachel had been Zoe’s maid of honor—meaning she was supposed to stand up at the altar, smile serenely and hold Zoe’s bouquet while the preacher said his words. Instead, Rachel had stood up to Ben in the church aisle, smiled like she wanted to kill him and then told Ben that Zoe had run off with a wealthier Blackwell—Ben’s grandfather.

Kind of made it hard to look at Rachel’s pretty face after that.

Today, Rachel wasn’t so put-together. She’d straightened her blond hair, but missed a long lock on the side. The eyeliner beneath her left eye was heavier than the line beneath her right. And the pink blouse beneath her navy suit jacket was wrinkled with a stain near the neckline. He wasn’t so principled that he didn’t take a little pleasure in seeing how far the mighty had fallen.

“Lookin’ good, Rach.” Ben ran a hand over his hair once more. Behind her on the credenza was a picture of a baby, a cute one as babies went. Round face, big brown eyes, a thatch of blond hair. Brought to mind another baby and another court case. Ben didn’t let his gaze linger. He gave Rachel a peacemaking smile and reached across the desk to shake her hand. “Is that another one of your sister’s babies?”

“Still the charmer, I see.” Rachel’s fingers were small and cold. They convulsed around Ben’s hand before she drew back, rubbing her palm over her skirt as if he had germs.

No surprise in that handshake. As adults, the Blackwells and the Thompsons were about as friendly as the Hatfields and the McCoys.

Ben flattened his smile out of existence. Best get to the point. “I hear there’s an issue over river water rights.” That’s why he’d returned to Falcon Creek. At his twin’s urging, not his grandfather’s. Big E had apparently gone on drive-about in his thirty-foot mobile home and wasn’t taking calls.

For centuries, ranchers in Montana’s high country had been fighting over water rights. Water nourished crops. Crops fed cattle. Cattle was sold to pay bills. Limited water meant skinny cattle, small herds and limited income. Permission to divert river water for agriculture or to communities was determined in court and by the state water board, and was based on several factors, including historical use and legal precedent. Properties and towns were assigned allotments and priorities. Those in first position had first rights to river water even if they were farther downstream. Ben and Big E had won the first position from the Double T five years ago with a slick piece of legal wrangling that should be iron-clad.

“The Double T has decided it’s time to revisit your rights.” Rachel opened a thin manila folder. “I’ve done some research with the water district and it appears the Blackwell Ranch hasn’t been using their allotment of water, which—as you know—means the claimant with secondary rights can divert more river water. And the ranch with second rights—as you know—is the Double T.”

She’d done research?

Ben was surprised, but not worried. This was Rachel Thompson. She used to copy off his test in Mrs. Whitecloud’s science class. There’d be no competition here. He’d graduated from Harvard and practiced law in New York City. Rachel had graduated from the University of Montana and only ever practiced in Falcon Creek.

Rachel thought she could break the deal Ben had drawn up five years ago? Not on her best day.

He gave her a pitying smile. “I haven’t seen your brief yet, but—”

“I have a copy for you here, along with Exhibit A, the Blackwell Ranch’s year-to-year river water usage.” Rachel handed Ben a few pages, a challenging spark in her brown eyes.

For the first time since arriving in Falcon Creek, Ben felt like doing more than muttering.

He sat up straighter and scanned the brief. But his mind was chugging along an unpleasant train of thought. Both ranches relied on the river for water. The Blackwell Ranch also had rights to an underground reservoir, although it was their practice to use aquifer water only if the river was low. But there was a third player in the water game. Decades ago, the Falcon County Water Company had won legal access to the metered pumps monitoring river water use on both ranches, claiming someday the community’s needs might supersede theirs.

Rachel shouldn’t have the Blackwell Ranch’s water information. She shouldn’t have filed a lawsuit with the court either. There were new housing developments south of Falcon Creek. Unused water would make the water company salivate. There were legal firms out there being paid to watch for opportunities just like this.

He should know. Up until last week, he’d worked at one and as soon as he wrapped things up here, he hoped to work for another.

And then Ben noticed something odd in her brief. Battle alarms went off in his head, ringing in his ears. “Why are you mentioning aquifer rights? I thought this case was about river water use.”

Rachel’s smile contradicted the wrinkled blouse and frizzy lock of hair. “We’d like to establish with the court that the aquifer provides you with more than enough water. More than enough,” she repeated.

More than enough as in...more than enough to share?

There was something about Rachel’s attitude that made Ben wonder...

Is she going to make a run for aquifer access?

She couldn’t. Not without a land ownership claim. And to do that, she’d have to suspect the Double T had rights to the property above the reservoir. Or she’d have to have proof of...

The alarm bells rang louder.

She knows.

Ben sucked in thin mountain air.

She couldn’t know. Big E may be the worst grandparent on the planet, but he was one of the best businessmen Ben knew. The proof Rachel needed to obtain aquifer water rights was in Big E’s safe.

Or it had been five years ago.

A lot can change in five years, boy.

Ben wanted to tell his brothers this was nothing serious.

But there was something about Rachel’s smile that made him nervous.

And nervous lawyers didn’t run.

* * *

RACHEL THOMPSON’S HANDS SHOOK.

She clenched her fingers and tucked her hands beneath her arms, watching Ben pull away in a black Mercedes blanketed with dust that dulled the expensive car’s shine.

Ben Blackwell was going down, along with the rest of his swindling family.

Thanks to her anonymous guardian angel, Rachel thought she had what she needed to get the Double T’s river rights back and to put the Blackwell Ranch in secondary position for water from Falcon Creek. Her confidence should have been unflappable.

And yet, her hands shook.

Because Ben Blackwell was intimidating. Perfect walnut brown hair. Strong chin. Cold blue eyes that judged her just as harshly as she’d judged others as a teenager. Tailored suit and red silk tie. Ben spared no expense to look like a rich and powerful attorney who’d crush the opposition beneath his fine Italian loafer.

For heaven’s sake, those shoes cost as much as the used truck she was driving.

He’d looked at Rachel as if she was a speck of dust, an inconvenience that ruined his shine, just like the dust on his car.

Five years ago, she’d been a speck of dust. She’d been a young, green lawyer paired with a crotchety old man who’d been no match for Ben. The Blackwells had stolen their river resources, forcing Dad to sell off some of their land or pay through the nose for water that should have been theirs. Three years later and the stress of the struggle to keep the Double T alive had sent Dad to an early grave.

Win back the water rights.

Set the ranch to rights.

Those were her mantras lately.

A shiny red truck parked in front of the office where the Mercedes had been. Rachel’s ex-husband got out of the vehicle that used to be hers. Ted Jackson was uncouth, compact and cowboy rough—everything Ben wasn’t. Everything that shouldn’t throw Rachel off her game. She repeated her mantras, adding one:

Win back the water rights.

Set the ranch to rights.

Get a signed custody agreement.

Everything threw her off her game lately, especially the thought that she should add more to her list of mantras.

Rachel opened the door to the June heat with a hand that still trembled. “The custody papers are ready for you to sign.”

Ted paused on the porch, staring at her with bloodshot gray eyes. “I didn’t say I’d sign. I said I’d look.”

She wanted to slam the door and shut Ted out of her life. She wanted to press the reboot button and start her adult life over. It’d taken her three months to get Ted to sign the divorce papers. Three more to get this close to him signing the custody papers. No way was she dividing custody of her nine-month-old baby equally with this drunk.

And yet, if he didn’t sign that was exactly what the court demanded.

Rachel gave Ted her lawyer smile, polite but withdrawn. “Let’s review the papers and see what you think.”

He came inside and waited for Rachel to shut the out-of-kilter front door before following her back to the office, not taking off his straw cowboy hat. “One weekend a month. That’s what we agreed to.”

“Only at your parents’ house.” His mother watched Poppy sometimes. She was a capable and trustworthy adult.

“That’ll work since I don’t change diapers.” Ted slouched in a chair and stared at her with a lecherous smile.

Rachel’s stomach did a slow, sickening roll. Ted was proof the pickings in Falcon Creek were slim. A ticking biological clock, a night of dancing, and she’d been convinced she could make her father’s handsome, blond ranch hand into something. She hadn’t counted on a prior, much stronger claim being staked by whiskey. Whiskey made Ted something else. Something sour and dangerous.

She clicked the point on a pen and slid it with the papers across her desk. She’d flagged the places Ted needed to sign with red sticky notes. If he agreed to this, she’d file the agreement at the county courthouse within the hour.

Ted didn’t reach for the paper or the pen. “I was talking to the boys down at the Watering Hole...”

He’d been taking advice from his drunk buddies at the bar again? Rachel straightened her spine and cleared her throat of angry responses that would do her no good.

Ted pointed at the custody agreement, still not touching it. “I want you to put in there that you can never take Poppy away from Falcon Creek.”

Rachel’s neck twinged. She was a fool for once telling Ted she’d like to try life outside of Falcon Creek.

“I want that moving bit in there because I deserve to watch my daughter grow up.” Ted stood, scraping the chair across the wood floor. “I deserve things, you know.”

He did. He deserved a stay in a rehab facility or dry out in a county jail cell. He didn’t deserve Rachel’s truck, her money, her daughter or her freedom.

“I deserve things,” Ted repeated, spinning in slow motion until he found his bearings and headed toward the door. He yanked it open and slammed it on the way out.

Rachel tried to breathe normally. She shouldn’t feel trapped in Falcon Creek. This was home. It always had been. It was just...

She had dreams. She sometimes wondered. What would it be like to be a lawyer in California or Florida, someplace it didn’t snow? Or even New York, where...

It was foolish to think she was good enough to practice law in New York. It was foolish to think about anything but this life—managing the ranch, handling a few small cases, raising Poppy.

She had to be strong for the Thompson legacy, for the Thompsons left. Mom and Nana Nancy. Her sister and her kids. Poppy.

There was a noise in the second office. A thin wail. Poppy was waking up. The sticky front door had been slammed too many times.

Rachel squared her shoulders. Dreams were for sissies. She had to accept the consequences of her choices and be strong.

If not for herself, for Poppy.

CHAPTER TWO

THE BLACKWELL FAMILY RANCH.

That’s what the new, grand metal arch over the gravel road proclaimed. Ben’s childhood home.

Family? Not hardly. The only Blackwells who lived there were Big E and Zoe. Mom and Dad were dead. All five Blackwell brothers had vamoosed.

Ben drove the Mercedes down the road with a speed that matched his reluctance to return.

A new green metal roof rose above the rolling pasture, lifted by log framing. But it wasn’t a simple log cabin. It was a huge building. Two stories. Two wings. An imposing porch. Twenty or so vehicles parked in front. This must be the guest lodge.

Farther behind the lodge, a huge gazebo shaded several wooden picnic tables. Beyond that sat a fire pit big enough to roast a pig in. Adults and kids milled about in T-shirts, shorts and flip-flops. In a nearby corral, two mares and two foals watched the afternoon proceedings with bright eyes and ears cocked forward, as if they couldn’t believe the West had been invaded by suburbia.

Where were the blue jeans? The plaid button-downs with pearly snaps? The boots?

“So much for the dude ranch,” Ben muttered.

At the fork in the road, he steered to the right and drove on to a much smaller, white two-story home with green shutters and a wraparound porch. He took his foot off the gas and slowed to a crawl. The house was surrounded by lawn on all sides. He’d bet the big elm in the backyard still held the tire swing and that there’d be a picnic table and two benches near a modest fire pit, a place the Blackwells had enjoyed gathering around over the years.

“Listen.” Mom had tucked Ben under one arm and Ethan under the other as the red flames crackled in the darkness. “Can you hear the owl hoot? He’s telling you he’s out hunting for food tonight.”

“Boo!” Ben’s older brother, Jon, dug his fingers into Ben’s and Ethan’s shoulders from behind, like an owl striking its prey.

Ben and Ethan screamed. But their screams turned into laughter as Jon ruffled their hair and handed them marshmallows to toast.

“Jon, you need to take care of your little brothers.” Dad handed out sticks sharpened for s’more making. “And not wake up the babies.” The babies being Tyler and Chance, asleep upstairs.

“Let the boy have his fun,” Big E said, smoking a cigar at the picnic table. “Ranch life has a way of making boys into men before you know it. And then they’ll have too many responsibilities to laugh.”

His grandfather had been right. When Ben was twelve, his parents had drowned in a flash flood as they tried to cross Falcon Creek in their truck. After that, there wasn’t a lot of joking in the house for quite some time. Jon had taken on the burden of mother hen. Heaven knew the women Big E married, one after another, hadn’t been able to fill a mother’s role. Big E resumed running the ranch after his only son had died.

Ben parked between two trucks in front of the white house—one newer and one on its last legs. Ben got out, grabbed his designer suitcase and expensive silver briefcase with his laptop inside and moved up the walk.

“Late, as usual.” Ethan stood on the porch, looking like a true ranch hand. Dirt-smudged blue jeans, dusty boots, sleeves rolled up on a blue chambray button-down. The junker truck had to be his. Ethan tilted his worn blue baseball cap back and surveyed Ben as if he was one of his veterinary patients with an unknown illness. “You sure you don’t want me to roll out the red carpet? You might get those fancy shoes of yours dirty.”

“Never joke about your lawyer’s shoes.” Ben climbed the porch steps, stopping one riser away from the top, just short of the shade. The last time he’d been on this porch had been the day he was to be married. They’d taken pictures—five brothers and the old man who’d finished raising them, who’d guided them, who’d betrayed each of them in turn. Ben had worn a tux that chafed his neck and shoes that pinched his feet. He should have known those uncomfortable clothes were a sign that his marriage wasn’t meant to be.

“We can’t joke about our lawyer’s shoes? Is that kind of like saying never joke about a man’s cowboy’s hat?” Jonathon appeared in the doorway, a black-and-white dog at his side. He had the Blackwell dark brown hair and was dressed similar to Ethan, except he didn’t look as dirty. He stuck his gray Stetson on his head, looking the part of a respectable rancher.

Jon had his own spread farther north and two twin girls he’d been raising alone until recently. Gen and Abby had to be about six by now. Ben’s assistant sent them birthday and Christmas gifts every year. With any luck, Ben would be breaking in a new assistant before long and instructing them to add the girls to his gift list.

“Shoes say a lot about a man.” Ben gave his brothers a hard stare and let it drift down to their footwear. The last time Ben had faced these two, they’d tried to convince Ben that Zoe jilting him at the altar was a good thing.

“She was only interested in your money,” Ethan had said.

“If nothing else, her running away with Big E proves it,” Jonathon had added.

“But you knew they were eloping,” Ben had spat back.

It hadn’t been enough that Ben had suffered through the humiliation of standing at the altar as friends and family filled the church. His brothers had known their grandfather and Ben’s fiancée were running away together. And they hadn’t said anything!

They’d let Rachel tell him.

Rachel.

For the love of Mike, she was Zoe’s best friend and his opposing counsel even then.

Rachel had tossed her blond ringlets over one shoulder and glared at Ben. Gone was the casual camaraderie they’d had as teenagers; not surprising given she’d just lost the Double T’s water rights the day before. “Did you honestly think Zoe would move away from her family and friends to live with you in New York City?”

Ben had to keep himself from shouting, Yes! Instead, he’d said through stiff lips, “Marriage to me seemed more likely than my twenty-seven-year-old fiancée eloping with my seventy-two-year-old grandfather.”

Big E, Zoe, Rachel, Jon, Ethan. Five people he’d thought were family. Five people he’d never trust again.

He’d done little more than exchange text messages with his brothers in five years. Even then, his replies were often brief—I’m fine. Can’t get away. Not coming home for Christmas.

And then ten days ago, Ethan had texted and left voice mail, and then texted and left voice mail again: Big E has run away from home. Double T taking us to court over water rights. Help.

Ethan’s second text and voice mail had come on a bad day. Ben had been coming down from the sixty-seventh floor in the elevator, escorted by Transk, Ipsum & Levi security, carrying a box with his personal belongings. His stomach had long since reached the lobby, having plummeted there when his boss told him he was being removed as lead counsel on a big case and—oh, by the way (as if it was an afterthought)—fired for unethical practices.

Unethical practices? Being a lawyer was about bending the law to justify your client’s stupidity. The utility company had broken federal laws regarding safety standards and people had been killed. In their homes, no less. Leaving husbands without wives and kids without fathers. Ben had been brokering generous settlements with survivors, apparently, not to the client’s satisfaction.

A cherubic face drifted through his memory. Big brown eyes. Gummy smile. That baby didn’t know what it meant to be orphaned yet.

That child had made Ben rethink what constituted a fair settlement in a legal case that was spinning out of control, spun faster by Ben’s actions to make things right. And coming down in that elevator, he’d felt the need to lean on someone.

In that moment of weakness, he’d stepped out of the building in midtown and called Ethan back, agreeing to return to Falcon Creek to defend the ranch.

Now here Ben stood, back where the cow pie had hit the fan five years ago, staring at the faces of the brothers who could have warned Ben he wasn’t getting married.

“You think Ben convinced Rachel to back off?” Ethan said to Jon.

“Nope.” Jon eyed Ben like the time he’d caught him trying to feed his beets to the family dog under the table.

Ethan tsked. “Then he’s going to need a pair of jeans and boots.”

“He’s your size, not mine.” Jon knelt and rubbed his dog’s black ears.

“I’m standing right here, gentlemen.” Ben shook his head. “I’m not going to be staying long enough to wear boots.”

“He’ll be in boots by sunup.” Jon gave Ben a half smile.

“Definitely.” There was nothing half about Ethan’s smile. It was wider than a pregnant heifer’s hips.

The sun beat down on the back of Ben’s neck. He sighed and shook his head once more. He had things to do. The latest in Montana water rights to research. And the legal precedents behind those rights. “I don’t have time to play home on the range.”

“He wants us to think he hasn’t forgiven us for being right,” Ethan said smugly.

“I haven’t,” Ben said as darkly as any villain.

Jon ignored him, continuing to pat his dog on the head. “But we know better, because there’s no other reason he’d show up in Falcon Creek.” Ben’s older brother was far too smug when he added, “Family means forgiveness.”

Ben scowled, possibly with his entire body. “When you apologize for humiliating me, then I’ll forgive you.”

Five years ago, Jon and Ethan had presented their case for letting the revised wedding plans and ensuing drama play out. They’d thought Zoe was wrong for him. And sure, Ben had probably dodged a bullet when Zoe chose to marry a wealthier Blackwell, but he lived by the strict rules of the court. He’d been wronged. Restitution had never been made. His brothers owed him a sincere apology and a reason to trust again.

“You’re lucky I’m here at all.” Ben lowered his chin. “I wouldn’t have come if Big E and Zoe were home.”

“That solves where he’s sleeping.” Ethan pointed toward the henhouse near the main barn.

Jon chuckled, albeit briefly, and then stood. “But seriously, Ben, I’m glad you came home. All hands on deck tonight. We’ll need you to bus tables for the ranch guests. Mrs. Gardner is helping us out and making tamales.”

“I’m not the hired help,” Ben said firmly, despite the prospect of homemade tamales. “I’m your lawyer.” For two weeks and two weeks only.

“Prima donna, more like,” Jon muttered. “I suppose your pride won’t let you come inside until you’ve had a poke at someone. Go ahead. Give it your best shot, little brother.” He angled his jaw Ben’s way.

Ben’s fingers clenched so hard around the handles of his briefcase and suitcase, his knuckles popped.

Ethan hurried to stand between the two. “Or we could go inside, have a beer and give Ben a chance to get even with a couple hands of poker.” Ethan wasn’t smiling when he turned to Ben. “I told you. Big E and Zoe have run away. The ranch is in trouble, both financially and in terms of resources. Primarily, water resources. We need you.”

Without another word, Ethan and Jon walked inside their old family home. With one inquisitive look at Ben, the black-and-white dog followed, leaving Ben little choice but to do the same.

Ben crossed the threshold and stopped. “What the—” He nearly dropped his bags. He turned, looking outside to make sure he was still in Montana. There were the Rockies. No mistaking those peaks. He turned to take in the interior once more.

The house looked like a Wild West boudoir. Red velvet wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers. Furniture that wasn’t for flopping on at the end of a hard day on a ranch. The chairs and sofa were white and prim, not to mention they weren’t made for anyone over six feet in height. A black lacquered table with gold pinstripes sat in the dining room in front of a large gilded mirror that looked like the one the evil queen used in Snow White.

“Zoe redecorated.” Jon sounded disgusted.

“You should see the master bedroom.” Ethan sounded horrified.

“Or not,” Ben murmured.

Both brothers turned to Ben, who was trying to remember what the place had looked like when he’d left. Blue plaid couch. Brown leather recliner. Coffee table scarred with circles from glasses of ice tea and cold cans of beer.

“You dodged a bullet,” Jon said.

“In other words...” Ethan slung his arm around Jon’s shoulders and grinned at Ben. “You should thank us.”

Jon tipped his hat back. “Yep.”

“Nice try, but you’re missing the point.” Ben didn’t want to come inside, but he did anyway. Far enough in that he could see the kitchen, with its white marble counters, pink-trimmed cabinets and sparkly pink tile backsplash.

“He’s not forgiving us,” Ethan said, hanging his head.

“Not yet,” Jon said.

Not ever. That’s what Ben wanted to say.

But the words stuck in his throat as firmly as that red velvet wallpaper was stuck on the wall.

* * *

THE DOUBLE T was quiet when Rachel pulled up in front of the main house after she’d left her office.

The late afternoon heat lingered, but would soon give way to the evening mountain chill. Rachel took a moment to study the ranch house, seeing beyond the white clapboard that needed paint to how it must have looked in the 1920s when it was new. Dormered windows. Black shutters. Gray metal roof. Great-Grandpa Thompson had built the house for his bride.

When Rachel was growing up, at this time of day, there would’ve been ranch hands finishing up their chores, preparing to go home or to cook something in the bunkhouse. Today, only Henry, the ranch foreman, and Tony, a part-time ranch hand remained. And the yard was empty.

“Ga-ga-ga-gahhh,” Poppy said from the rear seat of the truck. How Rachel’s baby loved the sound of her own voice.

“Yes, sweetheart.” Rachel smiled as she walked carefully around to open the door. She was still wearing her suit and heels, not having time to stop at her little house on the other side of town and change. She had a number of chores to do here before Poppy’s bedtime. “We’re going to see your grandma and mine.” Her mother would feed Poppy and give her a bath while Rachel did some ranch paperwork. She freed Poppy from her car seat and grabbed her diaper bag.

“Na-na-na-nahhh.” Poppy clapped her little hands and then pointed to the house, a regal command that made Rachel laugh.

“You’re a princess, just like I was.” She’d had the best of both worlds—a cowgirl with Daddy’s credit card. Although nowadays, she wished she’d been raised differently. If Dad had demanded she work on the ranch, she’d be better equipped to run the Double T.

She drew her daughter closer, breathing in the scent of baby powder and shampoo. Poppy was so perfect, sometimes Rachel never wanted to let her go. Those blond curls. Those big brown eyes. Those chipmunk cheeks. If her marriage had to fail, at least Poppy was more than worth it.

And what was the silver lining to her legal practice failing?

There didn’t seem to be one. Divorces. Living trusts. She barely cleared enough to earn a living wage. Pride made her keep the office open.

And the Double T? Things were just as grim here. Water was going to make or break her family’s ranch. But this time, she was going to beat the Blackwells. She was sure of it.

Ben’s handsome face came to mind. He represented everything she resented about the Blackwells. Ben and his brothers were raised to be ranchers, but they didn’t care about their family heritage or tradition. They’d all moved on, coincidentally after stealing the Double T’s water all those years ago. Even Zoe, who was only technically a Blackwell, had little sympathy for the struggles of the Double T.

Rachel opened the white picket gate surrounding the ranch house and carried Poppy toward the front door. The heat and her load made Rachel sweat. She kissed the top of her daughter’s golden head. “I love you, sunshine.”

Poppy grinned up at her. “Ma-ma-ma-mahhh.”

This was real. This was good. Mommyhood. Caring for family. Going to bed every night knowing she was making a difference.

A sound had her looking back. A white-faced heifer poked its head around the barn.

“How did you get out?” Rachel asked, hurrying to get Poppy indoors where it was cooler. “Remind me to text Henry,” she said to Poppy, hoping that saying it out loud would jog her memory once she got inside. Her memory lately was spotty, and Henry was ancient. He didn’t work after dinner, which was fast approaching.

Win back the water rights.

Set the ranch to rights.

Get a signed custody agreement.

Learn how to be a better rancher.

Her list was daunting.

“Ga-ga-ga-gahhh,” Poppy breathed, pointing at various items, including the comfortable brown sofa and matching recliner. She loved her grandma.

The small living room was empty. As was the kitchen, which had been remodeled in the 1980s when Rachel’s parents married. Oak cabinets. White ceramic tile counters. Flowery linoleum nearly worn away in front of the sink. The room may have been dated, but it was filled with the warm smell of something good in the oven. Nowadays, Rachel appreciated someone else cooking for her.

“Hey! Where is everybody?” Rachel dropped her diaper bag near the front door.

“Back here,” Mom called.

With Poppy on her hip, Rachel went in search of the family.

Mom was pinning quilt pieces on the bed in the master bedroom, bright red-and-green material that formed pinwheel blocks. Fanny, Mom’s white toy poodle, leaped off her dog bed and began yapping at Rachel and Poppy. She was hard of hearing and had to make up for the pair sneaking up on her with faux indignation.

Mom shushed Fanny and muted the TV. “We’ve been crafting to avoid the heat.” She stood on the other side of the bed wearing a blue-flowered blouse and black capris. Her highlighted blond hair was cut in a front-slanted, fashionable bob and her makeup was flawless. Lisa had married a rancher but had never quite embraced the wardrobe.

Rachel suspected her own makeup had melted off sometime after lunch when emotions had run higher than the heat. She’d prepped Nelly O’Ryan for a court appearance tomorrow, while Nelly’s toddler, Alex, and Poppy had played with plastic blocks on the floor. Nelly was seeing her soon-to-be ex-husband for the first time in a month and was scared to death that Darnell would take out his frustrations on her afterward.

There had been tears, not all of them Nelly’s.

When Rachel was younger, she’d been unflappable. Crying in public? That wasn’t her thing. Now that she had Poppy, her hands shook when she got nervous and she cried at every Hallmark commercial.

“Good thing you’re here,” Mom said in the overly bright voice she’d been using since Dad died. “We’re arguing over which is better—the BBC production of Pride and Prejudice, or the movie with Kiera Knightley.” The movie was playing on the television. “You can be the deciding vote.”

“You should pick Colin Firth and the BBC if you want a Christmas gift this year.” Nana Nancy was knitting in a chair in the corner. Rachel’s grandmother was short, short-haired, short-tempered and, like her knitting needles, slender and pointed.

“There can be no penalties for voting.” The cheer in Mom’s voice was tested. “I’m sure Rachel knows that the movie version empowers Elizabeth.”

“I’m as neutral as Switzerland.” Rachel looked for a place to set Poppy down where she’d be no trouble.

“Ga-ga-ga-gahhh.” Poppy bounced impatiently, extending her arms to her grandmother. Rachel set her down and she crawled over to Lisa’s feet, using her grandmother’s capris to bring herself to a wobbly stand.

Fanny circled, wagging her pom-pom tail as she sniffed Poppy for stray crumbs.

“Poppy only goes to you first because you feed her.” Nana didn’t like coming in second to anyone. “See?” She caught Rachel’s eye. “Your mother just slipped Poppy a Cheerio and yet she didn’t want me to bribe you for your vote on Pride and Prejudice.”

“Babies get low blood sugar if they don’t eat regularly.” Mom had the cereal stored in covered containers in the living room, kitchen and bedroom, reminiscent of the way Dad used to keep kibble around to train their ranch dogs.

Rachel loved her mother and grandmother, but neither woman asked how Rachel’s day went or about her meeting with Ben. Didn’t they care about the Double T? Didn’t they care that generations of Thompsons were weighing heavily on Rachel’s shoulders? Didn’t they respect her for taking on the reins of the ranch? She knew she shouldn’t say anything, but how could she not? Their fate was in her hands. “I go to court tomorrow against the Blackwells. They won’t win this time.”

“Water,” Mom grumbled. “That’s what broke your father’s heart. We should—”

“Don’t start about selling the Double T.” Nana clicked her knitting needles angrily, looping purple yarn faster than a drummer hitting a cadence for a marching band. “This land has been in our family for seven generations.”

“And it’ll be in it for seven more,” Rachel promised, mentally crossing her fingers and knocking on wood.

Mom lifted her gaze heavenward. “At least, tell me you got Ted to sign the custody agreement.”

Rachel’s smile fell. “He wants another stipulation.”

“What is it this time?” Nana put down her knitting needles. “Does he want you to be his designated driver on Saturday nights?”

“It’s nothing.” Rachel bent to pin a fan of the pinwheel together, unable to look at her family.

“From the expression on your face—” Nana thrust a finger in Rachel’s direction “—your nothing means something awful.”

“It’s not.” It shouldn’t be. “Ted wants me to agree to stay here to raise Poppy.”

“As if you’d leave us.” Mom picked up Poppy and gave her another Cheerio from her stash. “We wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“We sure couldn’t get Stephanie to run the ranch.” Nana harrumphed. “Your little sister is more interested in the color of her nails than in the color of a healthy heifer’s tongue.”

Rachel grimaced. She wasn’t sure she could confidently state the correct color of a healthy heifer’s tongue, either. And she resisted looking at her nails. She hadn’t had a manicure in who knows how long. Or a pedicure. Or gone shopping for clothes for herself. Or had highlights put in her hair. She missed the days when she could pamper herself, like Stephanie, who had two beautiful girls and a handsome architect husband in nearby Livingston.

Poppy giggled and patted her palms on Mom’s cheeks. “Ga-ga-ga-gahhh.”

Guilt wrapped around Rachel’s chest and squeezed. With such an adorable daughter and a loving family, Rachel shouldn’t resent Ted’s restriction.

The sound of wood cracking and snapping could be heard outside. She hurried to the window and peered out on the backyard. “Shoot. It’s that heifer.” She’d forgotten to text Henry. The cow had pushed her way through the pickets to the vegetable garden. “I’ll get her.” And now she could add fixing the garden fence to her long list of to-dos.

Rachel rushed to the mudroom, slipped out of her heels and into Mom’s pink and gold-trimmed cowboy boots. She grabbed Dad’s lariat from a hook on the wall and then ran out into the heat wearing her best suit and pearls. “Git! Git!”

The heifer looked up. The green feathery tops of Nana’s carrots dangled out of one side of the cow’s mouth. She didn’t budge, most likely because she didn’t consider Rachel a threat.

The cow lowered her head and resumed her grazing.

“Hey! Hey!” Rachel slapped the stiff rope against her boots and then ran down the porch steps, charging the heifer. “Get out of there. Git-git-git!” She sounded like Poppy, except not as happy. She swung the loop of rope at the heifer’s front flank.

Startled, the heifer rolled her eyes and backed up a few steps, reevaluating Rachel much the same way Ben had earlier.

“That’s right. Git!” Rachel swung the lariat in front of the cow’s face. “Back up. Get out.”

That worked. The heifer made a sound like someone had sat down hard on a whoopee cushion. She wheeled and trotted out through what was left of the fence posts, kicking up dirt clods at Rachel. Slimy mud spattered her good jacket and skirt.

A guttural wail filled the air.

That wail... It was hers.

Rachel had three court suits that fit her mommy hips.

Well...now only two.

Her mother tapped on the bedroom window glass, her face hovering above Nana’s. “Are you all right?”

Rachel nodded, even though she wasn’t. She marched across the ravaged carrots and torn-up grass, scrunching her eyes against the threat of tears, because ranchers didn’t cry. Not over ruined wool and silk.

The heifer headed behind the barn.

Rachel took off after her, rounding the corner only to find the escapee ambling down the weed-choked road that separated the Double T from the Blackwell Ranch, tail swinging happily as if she was high on carrots.

The gate was open, which gave rise to many questions. Why was it ajar? Who’d been careless enough to leave it open? How had the heifer escaped the large pasture? Was another gate open? A fence down? Were other livestock roaming about? The herd was supposed to be summering across the river in higher, greener pastures.

Rachel latched the listing gate, closing off the road and shutting the heifer in. Someone would have to saddle a horse and ride the property line to find how and why the heifer was free.

Personally, she’d like that someone to be Henry. She hadn’t expected to do anything but paperwork today and hadn’t brought a change of clothes. Although her clothes were already ruined, she reminded herself.

Rachel turned toward a small house behind the barn. It was the original one-room homestead. It had no front yard. No fenced backyard. No driveway. But a well-used green Ford pickup was parked near the front door.

“Come in,” Henry called after she’d knocked.

The tiny house had somber walls and exposed beams. A twin bed was in one corner next to a tall pine dresser. The doors to the closet and bathroom were ajar. The kitchen had a collection of empty soda cans on the brown Formica countertop. A burgundy recliner and television filled out the space, the latter perched on an old kitchen table with spindly wooden legs.

Henry sat in his recliner, an empty microwave container of macaroni and cheese in his lap. His scuffed boots were discarded near the door, as if he’d needed to take off his shoes first thing to pamper his aching feet. He muted the television. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

Is it too much to ask that he call me Rachel?

Probably, since he’d seen her as a toddler running through the front yard sprinkler naked.

Hoping to garner some respect, Rachel tugged down her blouse and buttoned her jacket. Her efforts to look like a presentable boss—one worthy of a title better than little lady—resulted in a fair amount of dung sprinkled on the floor. “There’s a heifer loose. I shut her in the road leading to the river, but there’s a break in the fence somewhere.”

“I’ll get to lookin’ tomorrow.” Henry was seventy-five if he was a day. He’d been with the ranch since he was in his twenties. Nothing upset him. Not loose heifers or flooded pastures. “Thanks for letting me know. If she continues to be a problem, we’ll have to make steak out of her.”

Rachel had never been good at eating animals she’d had a face-to-face with. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Let’s make sure none of the rest of the herd is loose.”

“Little lady.” Henry slid his glasses off his nose and stared at Rachel. “After your father died, we made an agreement. Unless there’s an emergency, I don’t put in more than my eight hours, or I retire.”

The last thing Rachel needed was to upset Henry enough that he’d retire. But still, she worried. They had so few cattle left. “What about Tony?”

“He left early to have a root canal in Bozeman.” Henry’s gaze drifted back to the television. “He won’t be in tomorrow by the way.”

Shoot. She’d forgotten. But still... “This needs to be done tonight.”

“Ain’t no hurry, little lady. We don’t live in a time of cattle rustlers.” Henry cast a disparaging glance at Rachel’s pearls and then at her mother’s pink-and-gold trimmed boots. “The Blackwells raise Black Angus. They aren’t going to confuse white-faced cows on their land with their own.” He unmuted the television. “You can’t run a ranch in heels and pearls. Now, you worry about taking care of that baby of yours and I’ll worry about the ranch.”

Rachel left, feeling as if she’d been given a glass of water, a pat on the head and then shooed toward her bedroom.

Little lady.

Rachel’s anger increased with every step she took. Dad wouldn’t have waited until morning. There was nothing for it. This little lady was going to have to ride out to the fence line herself.

Now all she needed was something to wear.

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