“Where’s your little boy?”

Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen and paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”

“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”

“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” He moved to the cubbyhole, where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out his breath, relieved. “Here he is.”

Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into a bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag over one shoulder and the boy over the other.

Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease with the other and she wondered why.

“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.

Available in April 2010 from Mills & Boon® Special Moments™

Fortune’s Woman by RaeAnne Thayne & A Fortune Wedding by Kristin Hardy

Reining in the Rancher by Karen Templeton & His Brother’s Secret by Debra Salonen

Healing the MD’s Heart by Nicole Foster & Welcome Home, Daddy by Carrie Weaver

The Bravo Bachelor by Christine Rimmer

The Nanny Solution by Teresa Hill

An Ideal Father by Elaine Grant

Not Without Her Family by Beth Andrews

An Ideal Father

By

Elaine Grant

MILLS&BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

When Elaine Grant was five years old, she decided she wanted to be a writer who illustrated her own books. Her first short story was published in the local weekly newspaper when she was nine. There was no turning back after that! At sixteen Elaine began her first manuscript ndash; an English historical about a highwayman. That one is still in the closet. In 1998, her dream came true when her novel Roses for Chloe was published, a story combining romance with the Southern lore of ghosts and long, sultry days perfect for falling in love. An Ideal Father is the second book set in Little Lobo, Montana. Elaine loves horses, cowboys, gardening, baseball, travel and eating sushi with her son when he’s home from college. She lives in Louisiana with her husband, son, a psycho cat and a lovely Australian shepherd, and loves the food and the unique culture of the area. Visit Elaine’s website, www.elainegrant.com.

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This book is dedicated to my family and friends, all of whom enrich my life constantly.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I’d like to acknowledge several people for their patience and expertise in answering my questions. They graciously gave of their time and knowledge and any misinterpretations or errors belong to me, not them.

Thanks to Bori Sunsuri for answering my questions about adoption; Billy Cocreham and Otto Buehler for their expertise on construction and restoration; Frank Stedman III for all his help on managing a restaurant; Jim Mayer, Bud Bailey and Mark Pencil for information on and demonstrations of fly-fishing; and Sandra Cahill, 63 Ranch, for answering questions on fly-fishing specific to Montana.

CHAPTER ONE

South Louisiana

June

“NOW YOU JUST STAY there for a minute. Everything will be all right.”

The low, gruff voice came from outside the construction trailer where Cimarron Cole was working at a paper-strewn desk. Frosty air from a window air conditioner blasted the side of his face and ruffled his hair, but at least it beat the stifling humidity outside. Cimarron glanced at the large clock on the opposite wall as the doorknob turned.

Cimarron’s brother, R.J., popped his head around the door, a sheepish look on his face. “Hey, little bro. Late again. Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Get to work. You’ve put the painters behind schedule already.”

“Well, see, ah…” R.J. screwed up his mouth and glanced behind him. “I’ve got a little problem.”

Cimarron waited in silence. R.J. had a lot of little problems. He was good-looking, with curly dark hair and the Cole family’s legendary doe-brown eyes that women couldn’t seem to resist. The thirty-eight-year-old still considered himself a ladies’ man. Well, at least until the past few years, when he’d been forced to slow down.

“You see, Erica ran out on me this morning. Left me. Told me to…Well, you probably can figure out what she told me.”

Cimarron grunted and made an impatient gesture with his hand. “So, what’s new? You trade girlfriends like most people trade cars. And come inside—you’re wasting energy and letting the cool air out, to boot.”

R.J. twisted around in the doorway and motioned. A five-year-old miniature R.J. stepped hesitantly into the tiny office. R.J.’s son, Wyatt. Cimarron tensed. What now? Why the hell had he caved and hired his brother on this project?

“See, she just up and left. And I ain’t got nobody to watch Wyatt, so I thought maybe he could sit here while you…”

Cimarron’s jaw clenched and he shoved his chair back and went around the desk, taking R.J. by the arm and forcing him outside onto the narrow stoop. Cimarron shut the door and they faced off with their chests almost touching.

“You think I’m going to babysit for you today? No way in hell. I have got work coming out my ears. I’ll be here till midnight as it is. I told you when you talked me into taking you on, you had to be reliable.”

R.J. pressed back against the porch rail to put another inch between himself and his brother. “Okay, okay. But I’m here now, just a few minutes—”

“Over an hour late! And dragging your kid with you.”

“Look, I’ll have a sitter by tomorrow. Hell, Erica might be back by then. He ain’t going to bother you. I swear, he’ll sit right there in that chair.”

“No. You just go home for the day. I’ll get somebody to finish painting the molding.”

“That’s not right, Cimarron. I need the money. More than ever now, if I gotta hire a sitter. Just let him stay in there while you work. I’ll hurry and look for a sitter over my lunch hour.”

Cimarron’s shoulders sank at R.J.’s imploring look. Nothing but problems. The whole family. All his life. Nothing but problems.

R.J. grinned. “You’ve always been a good little brother.”

“Yeah, I’ve always been a pushover,” Cimarron said. “You get your work done this morning and come get him. You know I don’t know a damn thing about kids.”

“He’s a good boy. Won’t give you a lick of trouble. And you gotta admit he’s pretty cute,” R.J. said, winking, with a lilt of pride in his voice.

“He looks a hell of a lot like you.”

R.J. grinned. “And that means he looks just like you, too.”

That much was true. Cimarron and R.J. could have passed for twins, except for the four-year difference in their ages.

“I’ll be back for him in a couple of hours.”

R.J. bounded off the porch and trotted along the tree-lined allée leading to Cimarron’s current restoration project, a grand antebellum plantation house. Once finished, the home would be the crowning glory, so far, in his body of work.

A sultry Louisiana breeze drifted by, stirring the leaves of an overhanging oak branch, leaving Cimarron’s skin hot and sticky. He longed to suck in the cool, clean air of Idaho, but he’d been gone so long now the place didn’t seem like home anymore. Besides, there was nothing left there for him. No home, no family. Even R.J. didn’t know where their good-for-nothing father was—or so he said. And the sad thing was, Cimarron doubted his brother would be around for Wyatt any more than their own father had been around for them, once the rodeo bug bit him again and he got bored with “daddying.”

The phone ringing in the trailer caught his attention and he ducked back inside. Wyatt perched on the chair in the corner, watching Cimarron’s every move with wary eyes.

“Hello,” Cimarron said into the receiver, his gaze wandering to avoid looking at the child as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone.

“Cimarron Cole?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Bobby James. We met at the casino in New Orleans last year.”

Cimarron frowned, trying to recall the meeting. “Sorry, I can’t…”

“I own that old fishing lodge in Montana. Near Bozeman. Remember?”

“Ah, okay, it’s coming back.”

“Look, I wonder if you…”

Wyatt squirmed on the chair, setting Cimarron’s teeth on edge. Kids made him nervous. In a way, he’d never been a kid himself, and maybe that was why he couldn’t seem to identify with them.

“Hold on a minute.” Cimarron put his hand over the mouthpiece and turned his attention to the child. “What’s your problem? Can’t you be still?”

“Gotta go to the bathroom.”

Cimarron jerked his head toward a door behind him. “There’s one in there. Can you go by yourself?”

The child looked at him as if he had sprouted snakes on his head. “I’m five years old.”

“I guess that says it all. Have at it.”

“Go ahead,” he said to the other man, who launched into a long spiel about his house in a place called Little Lobo.

Listening to the muffled noises behind the bathroom door, Cimarron had to ask Bobby to repeat his words twice. Finally, he gave up. “Let me get back to you. Give me a phone number where I can reach you.”

“Okay, but you’d better call pretty soon.” Cimarron jotted down the number, then rolled his chair back and tapped on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

“I’m pooping.”

Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Fine.” After a moment of guilty hesitation, he asked, “You need any help?”

“No.”

Cimarron stuck Bobby James’s number on his bulletin board with a note to return his call that afternoon when he could count on being undisturbed. Finally Wyatt came out, careful to close the door behind him.

“Stinks,” he said.

“I imagine.” Cimarron lifted his chin toward the chair in the corner and Wyatt obediently climbed into the seat again. “Your daddy’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Unca Cimron?” Wyatt asked softly. “Do you have something I could draw on?”

Curbing his impatience, Cimarron shuffled around in a drawer and found a legal pad and a pencil, which he handed over. When Wyatt bowed his head over the paper and began to write, Cimarron gathered his thoughts and tried to figure out where he’d left off when his day jumped the tracks.

He studied the costs ledger. This project was almost finished, under budget and on time. Another few weeks, tops, and he could put the house on the market for a substantial asking price. After some time off, he would buy another building that should turn over a good profit after renovation.

He worked uninterrupted while Wyatt occupied himself in the corner. Once in a while Cimarron glanced over, surprised that the child could remain quiet for so long. Wyatt looked up briefly when Cimarron closed the ledger. Then, a commotion outside drew their attention. Another yell from the direction of the house brought Cimarron to his feet. As he opened the trailer door, he saw his project superintendent, Ron Gibbs, sprinting toward him. Beyond Ron, a couple of workmen were rushing into the house.

“What’s going on?”

“Accident!” Ron yelled, breathless. “Get an ambulance.”

Alarm shot through Cimarron. He grabbed the cordless office phone, punching in 911 as he hurried out the door. On the porch, he turned around to stick his head inside again.

“Wyatt, you stay right here. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Understand?”

Without looking up from his drawing, Wyatt nodded.

“What happened?” Cimarron asked when he caught up to Ron.

“Somebody fell.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Ron said. “One of the men came and got me.”

The 911 operator answered and Cimarron summoned help, keeping the line open. He matched Ron stride for stride into the stately foyer of the refurbished house. Through the arched entry to the dining room bright sunlight flooded the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the wet paint on the moldings glisten.

Several workers gathered around the base of the high scaffolding that had been erected to reach the twenty-foot ceilings. Cimarron handed the phone to Ron and pushed his way through.

“Oh my God,” he whispered, kneeling beside his motionless brother, who was lying faceup on the hardwood floor. “R.J.?”

Cimarron laid his fingers against R.J.’s neck, finding a weak, halting pulse.

“R.J., can you hear me?” He glanced up at the men surrounding him, their faces drawn with concern. “Anybody see what happened?”

A young painter spoke up. “We’d finished and I was getting the brushes and pails ready to go. He was going down to catch them at the bottom. I heard him grunt and when I looked around he was falling. I don’t know what happened. Yesterday he was complaining about the fumes making him light-headed and he said living in Louisiana was messing up his sinuses, but he didn’t mention anything today. He was just in a big hurry to get done.”

R.J.’s eyes fluttered, then opened. He squinted up at Cimarron and managed a lopsided grin. “I must have missed a step,” he whispered.

“Just stay still. You’ll be okay,” Cimarron said with more confidence than he felt.

“Little bro,” R.J. said. “You take care of Wyatt, you hear?”

“Come on, R.J., you’re going to be around to do that.”

“Don’t…think…so,” he managed to say with effort. Cimarron tried to keep him quiet, but he insisted on speaking. “I made a will…before I came down here. Meant to tell you.” He attempted to grin again, but failed. “I made you Wyatt’s guardian…”

Cimarron stared at his brother in shock. “What?”

“You’re the only one I trust…to see that he’s done right by. You gotta do it for me, little bro. Give him a good life.”

“R.J.—”

R.J.’s eyes rolled back. Cimarron’s probing fingers found no pulse this time.

“R.J.!”

No sign of breathing.

“Don’t you die on me!”

By rote, Cimarron started CPR, his own heart pounding, drumming out every other sound. Breathe, breathe, pump, pump, pump…

His expression fixed, his face turning blue, R.J. looked just like their mother had when Cimarron turned her over that night so long ago. Sweat poured down his body as the panic grew. He glanced in the direction of the construction office, where a little boy sat waiting…Cimarron would be the one who had to tell him his daddy wasn’t coming to get him after all.

No way. No way in hell!

“Damn it, R.J. Don’t you die and leave me with that child!”

CHAPTER TWO

Little Lobo, Montana

July

OKAY, WHAT DID I DO to deserve this?

Sarah James ducked her head to check the big black knobs on the industrial griddle again. All on and set to Medium-High. So why was half of her first pancake crusty brown and the other runny goop? She muttered under her breath and twisted one of the knobs to Off, then back to High, hoping by some miracle the malfunctioning burner would begin to heat.

A customer tapped his menu impatiently on the counter. The pancake was a no-go. She scraped it into the waste bucket that she used to save scraps for a local farmer’s pig slop. An apt description, too. Pig slop.

Pushing a damp lock of red hair off her forehead, she turned to the impatient customer. “Sorry. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

“I ain’t got all day, shug,” Big Buck Flannigan said. A bull of a man, with a face that was weathered like cowhide, beefy bare arms and a ten-gallon hat perched high on his head, Buck delivered goods from a Bozeman feed distributor to regional hardware stores. He stopped in every few weeks when he came over the pass from Bozeman.

“I know. I’m really sorry. Problems with the griddle.”

“I gotta git back on the road. Think you can scrape me up two eggs over easy, order o’ linked sausages, some hash browns scattered and slathered, biscuits with gravy and orange juice?”

Sarah jotted down the order, wondering how in the world these foods were going to materialize on her haphazard griddle. Her helper Aaron Dawson would pick a morning when the café was filled to capacity to go AWOL. Sometimes he could make the ancient appliance function when she couldn’t. She didn’t have time to try to run him down right now, but, boy, when she did find him…

She quickly brought Buck’s juice and surveyed the room for other impatient customers. Normally she served and Aaron cooked on the large range in the kitchen. She was finding it almost impossible to do both, with the café so crowded. Now she wished she had hired that high-school kid who was looking for a part-time job last week, instead of trying to cut corners and save money.

A stranger opened the door and glanced around until he spotted the only vacant booth left, a table for two tucked into a narrow alcove at the far end of the room. He motioned behind him and a young boy came in. The man lifted the child onto the booth bench, then sat down opposite him. Sarah gave them a cheery “Good morning, be right with you” that she hoped masked her frustration. She noted the resemblance between the two—dark curling hair, striking brown eyes, and the man had a nice smile. But before she could get to them, another customer demanded her attention.

“Look, Miss Sarah, you need to decide if you want me to do the work for you or not. I got other jobs lined up.” Harry Upshaw raked his food onto his fork with a piece of biscuit.

He’d been the first to come in this morning and he’d ordered eggs over easy, so that hadn’t been too bad. Then half the griddle quit on her, and now she was forced to cook a lot of food on an extremely limited surface. Her only alternative was to cook in the kitchen, but that meant leaving the front and the cash register unattended.

“I do want you to work for me,” Sarah said, wishing they could discuss this another time. Like after her customers were gone. “But first we need to sit down and go over the plans and talk about my ideas for the place.”

“Now, missy, you know I’ll do the job right.” He winked. His blue eyes were set in a face roughened and baked by long hours in the sun building houses and running a small cattle operation on the outskirts of town. An ample belly attested to his love of food—he was in the café several times a week.

“I know you will, but I want to be sure that we’re on the same track. I have some ideas sketched out and—”

“I don’t need no sketches. You just tell me what you want done and I’ll make it happen.”

“I’ll just take the biscuits and gravy now, while I wait,” Buck broke in. “I’m goin’ to starve here, with you two jabbering.”

“Sorry. Hang around just a minute, Harry. I’ll be back.” At least she could serve biscuits. As always, she had come in early, baked biscuits and brewed urns of coffee using the special house blends that had become her trademark around Little Lobo.

The tiny Montana town just north of the Bozeman Pass made up for its lack of citified entertainment with stunning scenery, wide-open spaces, a tiny school, the basic stores necessary for survival and Sarah’s Little Lobo Eatery and Daily Grind. Her special and often exotic coffee and her luscious, fresh-fruit tarts drew regulars from as far away as Big Sky and Helena.

After she served the biscuits, she took a menu and water to the stranger and his little boy. He nodded thanks.

The man was far more handsome than she’d first thought. Black lashes fringed eyes the color of rich Creole coffee and dark, thick hair curled over his forehead, giving him a devil-may-care look that suited his faded jeans and well-worn chambray shirt.

“Do you need some time?” Please!

“Sure,” he said, opening the menu to study it. From his smile and his glance around, she knew that he realized he was doing her a favor. “Bring a couple of orange juices when you have time.”

“No problem.” She brought the juice and then made a quick run around the room, refilling water glasses and coffee cups and taking orders from customers who had already been waiting too long.

Ordinarily she would have been overjoyed with the crowd, but today the chatter in the room sounded more like grumbling. Every eye cut her way seemed critical. All she could do was keep smiling and try to get them all fed.

Behind the counter again, trying to cook a dozen things at once on a half-cold griddle, she looked around at Harry. “I want to have Nolan draw up a contract, too. And I still need that estimate I asked for.”

Harry downed the last gulp of coffee and ran a pink napkin across his greasy lips, then belched and said, “Puh, contract. We don’t need no legalese bull. ’Scuse my language, missy. Anyway, you got a contract with your brother to buy that old house from him?”

Sarah shook her head. “Not yet, just a verbal agreement. But I’m going to pin him down as soon as I can get in touch with him.”

“Didn’t think so. Never understood why your uncle Eual split up that property and left the house to Bobby. He shoulda just left everything to you and give Bobby some money to blow. You was the one always spent your summers and holidays here helping him out. Don’t recall Bobby so much as lifting a hand in the café or the fishing end of the business.”

“I think he hoped Bobby would settle down if he had the responsibility of the house. But Little Lobo is too tame for him. He says that house is just a heap of junk and not worth fixing up.”

“He ain’t far off about the house, I’m afraid. But if you want to try, I’m here to do the job. And you don’t need no contract with me, neither. Round here, we don’t do business that way. Just give me the go-ahead and ’fore you know it, you’ll have a real nice bed-and-breakfast.”

Harry shifted a toothpick around in his mouth.

“’Course, I’ll need money up front for the initial supplies.” He threw a ten on the counter and stood. On his way out he stopped to talk to a couple of townspeople, then left.

“Of course, always the money first,” she muttered, rearranging sizzling sausage with another batch of pancakes to try to get them all cooked through. The buzz of conversation behind her began to sound like a hive of angry bees.

She remembered the stranger and his son. Turning around, she found the man watching her. The child colored on a place mat with one of the crayons from a small glass Sarah kept on each table.

“Coming,” she said and hurried around the counter to their table. “I’m so sorry for the delays this morning.”

“Don’t worry about it. He’ll take cereal and milk—” the man nodded toward the child, who didn’t bother to look up “—I’ll have a biscuit with gravy.”

“No problem.”

He glanced toward the griddle. “Your eggs are burning.”

“Oh my gosh! I’ll be right back.” She raced over to the temperamental griddle, squelching an urge to kick the tar out of it. She doubted that would work and besides she might break a toe. Quickly she put together the order and carried it to the table, laying down the bill at the same time. When she thought to look again a few minutes later, the small booth was empty and payment for the meal rested on the receipt.

IN THE CROWDED parking lot shared by the café and a veterinary clinic next door, Cimarron headed for his truck with Wyatt on his heels. Every step he’d taken for the past month, he’d been dogged by this miniature R.J., like the ghost of his brother constantly reminding him that he’d screwed up. Again. And it was driving Cimarron crazy.

He hoisted Wyatt onto the seat in the cab. “Wait here till I get back.”

Wyatt’s eyes widened in dread. “Where are you going?”

“Just right up there to look at that house. I won’t be gone long. Stay in the truck and don’t touch anything.”

This morning didn’t seem to be the best time to talk to Sarah James, but he could at least look at the old house, which was looming in a forlorn state of disrepair on the hillside behind the café. Square and bulky, three stories high, with dormers and tall chimneys sprouting from a slate roof, the structure’s classic bones had been altered over the years by clumsy additions to the sides and a utilitarian porch that hid the craftsmanship of the original molding around the front entrance. The front door stood open, beckoning Cimarron to explore.

“I want to go, too,” Wyatt said, his eyes and voice pleading. He hadn’t liked to be alone for a minute since his daddy died.

An occasional car passed on the two-lane highway leading out of town, the drone of tires on asphalt rising and then ebbing away to nothing as each vehicle disappeared around the bend. Cimarron hesitated with his hand on the door of his truck. Finally, he exhaled hard and put the kid back on the ground again. “Just don’t get in my way and don’t touch anything.”

“Okay.”

Always okay. Never any protest unless Cimarron tried to get out of his sight for two seconds.

Cimarron shook his head and strode off, with Wyatt right behind. When he entered the musty-smelling parlor, a rush of images came to him, some faded, with tattered edges like old photographs long misplaced. This place had been a fishing lodge in its prime and Cimarron could imagine the boom of laughter as fishermen warmed themselves with whiskey and a roaring fire and told tall tales of their day in the stream.

With a practiced eye, Cimarron assessed the condition of the once-proud room, which had deteriorated over time into a shadowy dust-covered ruin. The bad news? Rotting ledges at the bottom of two of the tall windows facing the mountains; holes in the plaster; dry, splintered floorboards that creaked under his weight as he crossed the room. The good news? The house had good bones and the problems Cimarron noticed at first glance appeared to be only superficial. He ran his hand appreciatively along the intricately carved mantel over the parlor fireplace before climbing the elegant staircase to inspect each of the six bedrooms and a miscellany of smaller rooms. Wyatt stuck to him like a shadow, but he’d given up trying to pry the child away weeks ago. Easier to just keep him pacified for the time being.

Downstairs once more, he pulled a small pad and pencil from his pocket and sat on a windowsill in the parlor to jot down his thoughts and make note of a few measurements he’d taken. The morning sun warmed his back through the rippled glass panes. He was in no hurry to leave and had nowhere to go.

CROWDING EVERYTHING on the hot side of the griddle, Sarah managed to finish the morning cooking without losing her mind. An hour and a half later, the last table cleared as a tourist family of four that had run her ragged finally left. At least her regular customers had understood her dilemma and been patient with the poor service, so she’d cut a percentage off each ticket, even though she needed every penny of income. As soon as the front door clicked shut, she grabbed the phone and called Aaron’s cell number. No answer. Furious now, she punched in another number and drummed her fingers on the counter waiting for an answer.

“Hello?” she said in surprise when a woman answered. “I’m trying to reach Aaron. He didn’t show up for work today.”

“I know, Miss Sarah.” The woman’s voice wavered. “I’m his mother, Martha, and I just got home. He’s so sick he can hardly lift his head off the pillow. He only managed to call me a few minutes ago.”

“Oh, I see.” Sarah’s anger waned. “Does he need a doctor?” She didn’t know the family very well, only that Aaron worked and saved most of his money by living at home.

“I think it’s just a stomach bug, but if he’s not better tomorrow he won’t be in.”

“I understand. Please have him call me when he feels better to let me know when he’ll be back.”

“I will. He really likes that job, so I know he’ll be there as soon as he can.”

Sarah settled the phone into place on the wall cradle and leaned against the counter for a weary moment before tackling the messy tables. She filled a large garbage bag and hauled it out the back door to the Dumpster. Glancing up, she noticed movement in her uncle’s old house on the hill. She shaded her eyes against the bright sunshine and frowned. Somebody was definitely sitting in the window. Who was on her property and why?

Several vehicles were parked at her best friend Kaycee Rider’s veterinary clinic next door, but on this side a lone black extended-cab pickup with a fancy camper shell sat in the parking lot. She glanced at the magnetic sign on the door, which sported a colorful “house” logo with the scrolled letters VRR intertwined and overlaid on a red C. Below that Vision Restoration and Renovation and an out-of-state phone number appeared.

Some consultant Harry had called in? He hadn’t mentioned any outside firm to her. She started up the hill, noticing Kaycee and an assistant in the corral behind the clinic working with a lame horse.

Quietly she went through the open door. Lock it next time. From the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the main parlor, she could see the stranger who’d eaten in the café sitting in the bay window, his dark head bent over the tablet on his knee as he wrote.

“Excuse me,” Sarah said.

He looked up and shot her a heart-stopping smile. “I see you survived the breakfast crowd.”

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded.

“Interesting house,” he said, rising.

“This is private property. Are you working with Harry Upshaw?”

The little boy beside him stopped playing with the toy in his hand. He looked up at Sarah with big brown eyes and crept behind the man’s legs, peeking around at her.

“Was that the contractor you were talking to in the café?”

“Yes, he’s going to start working on the house next week.”

“Nope. I don’t work with anybody.”

“Then what are you doing in here? Did it occur to you to ask permission before you trespassed?”

“You were somewhat rushed this morning.” He tucked his pad and pencil into his shirt pocket. “It’s a beautiful old house.”

Sarah stared at him. “You’re the first person who’s said that in a long time.”

“Obviously well built. Just a bit run-down. Most of the problems are cosmetic.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I’m going to remodel it and turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Remodel? This house deserves to be restored.”

“Love to, but I can’t afford it.”

His lips pressed together and his brow knitted.

“That’s too bad.”

“Why?”

“I’d hate to see a fine old mansion like this messed up any more than it already has been. The craftsmanship is irreplaceable.”

“What business is this of yours?”

He blew out a long breath, rubbed his hand across his mouth and said, “It belongs to me now. Your brother Bobby sold it to me.”

CHAPTER THREE

SARAH SUCKED IN a shocked breath. She clamped her fists against her hips and glared at him. He hoped she wasn’t the fainting kind.

“That’s a lie!” she snapped, alleviating his worry that she might swoon. But the nearly imperceptible tremor in her chin belied her bravado.

He almost smiled at her pretty face, which was suddenly as pale as porcelain except for a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks. Her turquoise eyes were shooting sparks.

“No, ma’am, it’s not. I’ve got the documents in my truck, if you want to look them ov—”

She gave an adamant shake of her head, unleashing several red curls that immediately fell across her forehead. Brusquely she shoved them back. “I don’t care what papers you’ve got. Bobby can’t sell this property to you.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m buying it from him.”

“You’ve got a legal document to that effect?” Cimarron asked, recalling the earlier conversation he’d overheard between her and the local contractor.

Wyatt’s hands squeezed Cimarron’s leg in a death grip. He fought the urge to shake the boy off so he could concentrate. Sarah hesitated for a second, lips pressed tight.

“No, not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“We have a verbal agreement. It’s always been understood that he would sell the house to me.”

“An ‘understanding’ is not going to hold water. I’ve got a legal bill of sale.”

He considered ducking to avoid the daggers being thrown from her eyes.

“I don’t care. Your papers aren’t worth a plug nickel. A verbal agreement is binding, too. Bobby can give you the money back and the deal’s off.”

That underhanded brother of hers hadn’t told Cimarron that anybody else wanted the place. In fact, he’d never mentioned a sister at all. He’d acted like the house was his, free and clear.

“It’s not that easy.”

“Why?”

“Couple of reasons. For one thing, did it occur to you I might not want to negate the deal? I’ve got plans for this house.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What plans? Who are you anyway, and how do you know my brother? Why do you want my house?”

“Cimarron Cole. I met your brother last year in New Orleans and he told me about the house. I had a friend check the place out, and I made an offer. Bobby turned me down back then, but he called a few weeks ago to see if I was still interested. It seemed like a good investment…at the time.”

“How could he do this to me?” Bewilderment clouded her face for a moment, then she clenched her jaw and straightened her back. “And how did somebody check out my house without my permission?”

“Don’t guess he realized he needed permission. Bobby said the house was his, which I get the feeling is the truth. Maybe you were busy in the café and didn’t notice. I doubt he’d have been here long.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bobby and I had a verbal agreement and I want my house back. Just let me find him and make him return your money.”

“Good luck,” he said with a smirk.

“What do you mean by that?”

Cimarron gently disengaged Wyatt from his leg. “Go over there and play,” he said. Wyatt hesitated, still leery of the stranger. “Go, I said.” Cimarron gave the boy a slight push and Wyatt reluctantly crossed the floor to sit on the edge of the hearth, ready to bolt back at a moment’s notice.

Cimarron leaned against the window frame and crossed his arms. “The last time I saw your brother, the taillights of his brand-new Coachman RV were disappearing around the bend, and his new showgirl-turned-bride was waving her bejeweled hand out the window. I doubt the ink was dry on the sales contract.”

“What? He got married? Again?” Her exasperated voice rose to a squeak. “A Coachman? Isn’t that the big…”

Cimarron nodded. “Yep. About a hundred thousand dollars big. And the wedding rings were probably another fifteen grand.”

He thought the woman was going to faint for sure this time. Her hand flew to her throat and her mouth fell open. “How much did you pay?”

“A hell of a lot more than I would have if I’d known the real situation. But the fact is, Bobby’s already run through most of it and I don’t think you’re going to be seeing him for a while.”

She sank to the windowsill. “I don’t have that kind of money,” she whispered.

“I don’t want your money anyway. I want the house. Bobby never mentioned your interest in it.”

“He’s such a rotten brother,” she said.

Cimarron agreed, but held his tongue.

“This property has been in our family for generations. Bobby promised he’d sell his part to me.”

“I believe dear Bobby went for the bucks, not family loyalty. If I hadn’t bought it, his plan was to move on to the next bidder.”

She surprised him by muttering, “The little shit.” Then she looked up with bold determination. “I’ll get the money to buy it back. I’ll get a loan.”

“No bank’s going to loan you the amount I paid for this house. Not the way it looks right now.”

“I thought you said it was in good enough shape.”

“It is, but not to the casual eye.”

“I’ll get an appraiser.”

“It won’t appraise for what I intend to sell it for. Besides, you’d spend the rest of your life paying back that kind of loan, even with a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I don’t care.” She faced him squarely, her eyes glinting fire. “You’re not going to get it. I’ll sue you.”

“For what? It’s a binding bill of sale. We’ll be tied up in legal red tape for years. Can you afford that expense?”

“That’s my business.”

“Okay. But it’ll be a waste of time and money for both of us.”

“It’s not fair!”

Cimarron didn’t like the heaviness that had settled in his midsection. He hadn’t anticipated this stumbling block when he bought the old house, but he was pretty sure Sarah James couldn’t buy the place back at his price and he wasn’t about to lose money on the deal. “It’s life. And I won’t lose.”

“We’ll see about that,” she retorted and stalked over to the door. She turned back in the entryway. “You and your son can leave now. I’m locking the door.”

“Fine,” Cimarron said and motioned to Wyatt, who came to heel like a puppy and followed him outside. He didn’t mention the fact that Bobby had given him a set of keys to the house. No need to provoke her more.

At the truck, Wyatt slid into the backseat and Cimarron moved behind the wheel, then sat for a while with the door open, a boot propped on the dashboard, pondering his options. He’d never get any money back from Bobby. Sarah might risk everything she had to regain the house and Cimarron would have to add that guilt to the bundle that already weighed him down. Yet he couldn’t just throw his money to the wind. He’d intended to start work on this place right away, while he figured out what to do about Wyatt.

He thought about Sarah working so hard in the café that morning and recalled that her griddle was broken. They would never work things out as enemies. If he had to make a conciliatory move, so be it. He was a businessman and every day of lost work meant lost money.

Busy printing a lunch and dinner menu on the large chalkboard behind the counter, Sarah purposefully ignored Cimarron when he came into the café again. Without help and with only one side of her griddle working, she would be hardpressed to handle more than a few simple items today.

To her advantage, Saturdays in Little Lobo were usually slow. Working people took off to Livingston or Bozeman to shop and restock groceries. Ranchers and farmers had to catch up while they could. Usually, after breakfast no more than a dozen folks stopped by the café on a given Saturday. She planned to serve cold sandwiches and a big pot of soup. Even without Aaron, she could manage that.

Cimarron waited in silence for her to finish.

She laid her colored chalk in the tray at the bottom of the board and turned to face him. “What do you want?”

“Is your griddle working now?”

“No.”

“I could probably fix it for you.”

“Jack-of-all-trades,” she said with an edge of sarcasm that could have sliced beef. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I’m offering.”

“No, thanks.”

His jaw hardened and a fist clenched, but he maintained his stony composure. “I didn’t intend to mess up your plans when I came here.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“It’s not me you should be mad with. Your brother’s the one who misled us both.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m mad with him. I just can’t get my hands on him right this minute.”

“That doesn’t bode well for me.” He shot her a disarming grin that revealed beautiful white teeth and warmed his eyes.

His charm almost worked. Almost. Sarah wasn’t going to be sucked in by a handsome face. “No, it doesn’t. So why don’t you leave?”

“We’re never going to come to an agreement if we can’t even talk.”

“There won’t be an agreement. You and Bobby cheated me, and I’m going to rectify that.”

“I didn’t cheat you. Long story short, I can’t afford to lose my money and you can’t afford to pay me back, so we’re going to have to work something out. In the meantime, let me look at your griddle before you open for lunch.”

“I don’t need it for lunch, but…” Grudgingly she gave a curt nod.

She moved out of his way as he came around the counter. At least that would be one thing she wouldn’t have to worry about. He fiddled with the griddle controls, then inched the heavy unit away from the wall.

“Where’s your little boy?”

“Wyatt?” He glanced at his knee. “You mean he’s not attached to my leg?”

She looked around for the child, noticing a small foot sticking out of one of the booths. The child was lying on his stomach on the bench, his head resting on his arm.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asked him.

“He’ll be fine,” Cimarron said as Wyatt lifted his head to look at her. He put his head back down and said nothing.

Sarah frowned. “I don’t mind giving him—”

“Do you have any tools in here. If not, I’ve got mine in the truck.”

None of my business. She pulled a worn leather tool pouch from under the counter. Cimarron chose a screwdriver and took the back off the unit.

“Here’s the problem,” he said. “One of your burners is shot.”

“So you can’t fix it?”

“Not without a new part. Any appliance-repair places around here?”

“Bozeman,” she said glumly.

“Okay. I’ll drive into Bozeman and try to find a replacement.”

“That’s too much trouble.”

“Do you have any other options?”

Sarah gave that some serious thought. Seemed she was fresh out of options on all sides.

“Not at the moment. I called around and the local repairman is out of town for several days. Of course, nobody from Bozeman will come this far out without adding a surcharge—and never on a weekend.”

“Then I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I…I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want to owe you any favors.”

“The only thing I ask in return is that you quit skewering me for something your brother did. Let’s see how things look in the morning. Can you just do that?”

Still in shock, and with two more meals to serve before she could rest, Sarah was in no mood to capitulate. But if this stranger wanted to fix her griddle, let him.

“I’ll pay you to fix it, but your stealing my house still won’t look any different to me tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

THE AIR WAS COOL and clear at the top of Bozeman Pass and the unrelenting wind whipped through Cimarron’s open truck windows as he enjoyed the panorama spread before him. This part of Montana called to his heart, even more than his native Idaho.

Why return to a place that triggered unhappy memories of the medicinal smells, sickbeds, and the depression and hopelessness of watching one parent die while the other spiraled into a void of alcohol and irresponsibility? Where roots no longer existed, except in the lonely country graveyard where his brother was now buried next to their mother. His only remaining family—that he was willing to claim, anyway—was firmly planted in the backseat of the pickup as they barreled along.

Cimarron hadn’t expected the determined challenge from Sarah James, but he stood a good chance of wearing her down—especially since he suspected she didn’t have the money to put up a convincing fight. He’d just have to hang around until everything was resolved.

That had a definite upside. Cimarron arched an eyebrow and smiled. Even at her maddest, she was cute as a freckled puppy, with her shining red hair, flaming cheeks and eyes the color of an endless sky.

Maybe everything would actually work out. Unless she managed to destroy the big house while he was gone. Not a good thought. He barely knew the woman, and judging by her brother’s character, anything was possible. He pushed the speedometer up a notch. She could burn his place to the ground by the time he made the round-trip to Bozeman.

“Unca Cimron, are we gonna live in that house?”

Cimarron glanced at Wyatt, then back at the highway. Buckled into a booster seat, Wyatt rotated his toy truck in his hands, pretending to study it.

“Maybe for a while. Why?”

A small shoulder shrugged. “Don’t look very nice.”

“Well, I plan to fix it up.”

“Oh. Do you have a house somewhere else for us to live?”

“No. I don’t have a house. I live in this truck. And sometimes I live in a trailer, when I’m working on a house.”

“Can we live in a trailer while you work on that house?”

“Might be fun to live in the house. We can pretend we’re camping out.”

“That lady said no.”

“That lady doesn’t know everything.”

“It’s kinda spooky. That old house…”

“You scared?” In the rearview mirror, Cimarron caught a glimpse of Wyatt’s lower lip trembling. “Come on, you’re a big boy. Besides, it’s just old. Nothing in there to be scared of. Anyway, we won’t be here that long.”

Wyatt brightened. “Okay.”

“Listen, Wyatt…” Cimarron licked his dry lips. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you’d be happier living with somebody besides me? I mean, I’m on the road all the time and…”

“My daddy,” Wyatt said softly. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, I understand. But you know how that is. I was just wondering…” Cimarron let the words trail off as his palms grew sweaty on the steering wheel. Sooner or later, he had to tell Wyatt about his plans, but somehow he chickened out every time he tried to explain. He had no business scoffing at Wyatt for being afraid of a spooky old house. He was completely frightened by a five-year-old. Not to mention his brother’s ghost.

“I don’t want to live with nobody else.”

Cimarron pulled into the parking lot of a large home-improvement store, hoping to find the part he needed. Three stores later, he found a replacement burner and they headed toward Little Lobo once more. Cimarron breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled into the parking lot. The house was still standing.

He took the new burner and the tools required from the back of his truck. Sarah was nowhere to be found, but the rear door to the café stood open and the screen was unlatched. The place was spotless. Apparently she’d made it through lunch. Cimarron put Wyatt in the booth with his backpack of toys and went behind the counter to work.

Sarah came in the kitchen door a few minutes later and busied herself there while he continued to work in the dining area. Half an hour later, he wiped the last trace of grease from the stainless griddle. He walked into the other room to clean his hands.

Chopping an onion with a vengeance on a cutting board near the double sinks, Sarah didn’t look up. Through the windows the disputed house loomed, a reminder of the reason for the tension hovering in the room.

“Your griddle’s fixed.”

Silence.

A to-do list hung on the corkboard above the counter.

Chop onions

Soup base

Fry bacon

Slice tomatoes

Peel boiled eggs

Ice in front bin

Slice deli meat

Brew fresh coffee

Cimarron stopped reading and put a large skillet on the stove. Adjusting the heat, he rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a butcher-paper packet marked Bacon. He laid the strips side by side until the bottom of the pan was covered, the only sound in the room that of the meat beginning to sizzle and the rat-a-tat-tat of Sarah’s chopping. Sarah cut her eyes around at him.

“I don’t want your help,” she said.

“I know you don’t. But you need it.” He turned the crisping bacon with tongs taken from overhead hooks that were laden with a conglomeration of kitchen tools. A larger rack hung nearby, loaded with industrial pots and pans.

While the bacon continued to cook, Cimarron peeled one after another of the boiled brown eggs that were sitting in a bowl on the counter. Sarah scooped her chopped onions into a container, popped the top on it and began to slice the blood-red tomatoes nestled in a colander set in the sink.

The comforting smell of bacon filled the room, making it hard to hold a grudge.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For the griddle…and this…”

“I don’t see how you do it alone.”

“I usually have help. He’s sick.”

“Just two of you?”

“Yes. Bobby used to help out, but—” She laid the sliced tomatoes in a container, then diced the rest. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Lots of practice when I was young.”

“I see. Why?”

Cimarron busied himself moving the bacon to a paper towelndash;lined pan. “Do you want this bacon whole or crumbled for the salad?”

“A third of it whole, the rest for the salad.” She turned and leaned against the counter, her eyes on him as she dried her hands on a towel. “You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

He met her clear gaze straight on. “Nope.”

“Why are you helping me like this? To bribe me?”

“No. I don’t work that way.”

“How do you work, Mr. Cole? How did you talk my brother into selling out to you without so much as a word to me?”

Cimarron almost told her the truth, but then he bit back the words. She probably loved her brother, even though right now she’d never admit it. No need to paint her a picture of the louse Bobby really was. He shook his head and went back to his task with the bacon.

“What? Did you get him drunk? Or just keep offering him more money until he couldn’t resist?” Lingering fury smoldered in her words. “Have you been after him for a long time? Until finally you wore him down?”

She dumped stock and sautéed vegetables into a tall soup pot, seasoned the mixture and put a lid on to let it simmer.

“I think you’re a cheat.”

“Well, I’m not. I didn’t cheat your brother out of anything. Have you located him yet?”

“No.”

“Not likely to, either,” Cimarron muttered.

Sarah huffed, but backed off. “Where’s your little boy now?”

“Playing in a booth.”

“He’s very quiet. Most kids that age make a lot more racket. What’s his name?”

“Name’s Wyatt. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

The bell over the front door tinkled and Sarah threw the towel aside, smoothing her hair back.

“Thanks for helping. Do you want to feed Wyatt before you go?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, really, I’ll get by tonight. There’s no need for you to stay. If you’ll leave your name and a way to get in touch, I’ll have my lawyer contact you to straighten this out.”

Cimarron shook his head, amazed at her stubbornness.

“You won’t have a problem there. We’re going to sleep in the house.”

“You are not! I won’t let you in.”

Cimarron reached in his pocket and brought out the key ring, dangling it in front of her. “Why would I buy a house and not get the keys for it?”

She stiffened and stared at the jingling keys. “Ooh, I’m going to kill Bobby.”

“I’d better get Wyatt out of your way.”

“Wyatt is not the one who’s in my way. And we’ll deal with this later.”

Cimarron followed her as she pushed through the swinging doors and went to greet the first dinner customers. He motioned for Wyatt, and the child came obediently through the kitchen door. Cimarron had a look through the cupboards and coolers until he found some sliced turkey and bread. He made Wyatt a sandwich and found a safe corner for him to play away from the kitchen appliances.

“Sorry, bud, you’re on your own for the rest of the evening.”

Wyatt settled down with his backpack at his side and took the sandwich and glass of milk Cimarron offered. “Okay.”

Enough with the okays! Maybe one day the kid would learn another word.

Cimarron continued to work in the kitchen, doing most of the cooking according to Sarah’s clipped directions while she waited tables through the next three chaotic hours. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the kitchen intensified by Sarah’s anger. He held on to his own temper by the thinnest thread. No place for a blowup between them, with a café full of customers who would have very long memories and very loose tongues, if Cimarron’s recollection of small-town life held true.

When all was quiet and the last customer had paid and left, he let out a long sigh as he heard Sarah click the lock on the front door. He was whipped, tired to the bone, just as he was at the end of every long day since his brother died. The feeling was nothing like the exhausted satisfaction of hard physical labor on a house. Not at all. He could leave now and let Sarah finish on her own, but knowing she would be stuck working for hours if he did, he started scrubbing the pots and pans.

SARAH PAUSED in her cleanup of the dining room to cock an ear toward the kitchen. In there, Cimarron whistled softly amidst the clatter of metal as he washed dishes. He had worked like a Trojan tonight and now he was cleaning the kitchen, yet anger still roiled inside her. She didn’t want him doing anything else thoughtful to make her feel guilty.

She knew she was taking out her frustration with her brother on Cimarron, but she couldn’t help it. All her dreams, her plans, her future income had been blown to pieces by her brother’s greed. Cimarron seemed like a nice enough guy, but under the circumstances he could be a saint and she’d still feel the same way. She wanted her property back.

She rolled the cleanup cart to the doorway. “You can go now. I’ll finish up.”

“Most everything’s done in here, anyway.”

The pans sat on the drainboard, shining clean, the counters had all been wiped down. Damp dishcloths waited in the laundry basket in the corner. Unused food had been put away. All Sarah had to do was load the dishwasher and start the linens washing.

“Wow…thanks,” she said, wishing she liked him better. He’d saved her a ton of work. “I…I can handle breakfast myself in the morning. That’s the only meal I serve on Sundays.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“There’s a little motel a few miles down the road.” She hoped he’d take the hint.

“I know. I saw it on the way to Bozeman.”

“So, you can stay there.”

“I think not. I don’t have to pay to stay in my own house.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.” She jerked open the door to load the dishwasher, then straightened and looked around. “Where’s Wyatt?”

Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen, started to speak, then paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”

“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”

“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” Cimarron moved to the area where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out a breath of relief. “Here he is.”

Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into the bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag by its strap over one shoulder and lifted the boy over the opposite.

Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease and she wondered why. Newsreels of kidnapped children ran through her mind. True these two looked just alike, but family abductions happened all the time.

“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.

“I knew where he was.”

Sarah shook her head. “I saw that look of panic. You’d forgotten about him. Didn’t have a clue if he was still in the room.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. “I’m going to put him to bed now.”

“In that dirty old house?”

“We’ll sleep another night in the back of the camper.” Cimarron lowered his voice as Wyatt shifted and mumbled something. “You and I will talk tomorrow about the house.”

The screen door slammed after him and Sarah was left alone and thoroughly dispirited. When all the closing chores were done, she did a final circuit of the café, double-checked the locked doors and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She loved living above the café for convenience, but she was looking forward to having more space when she moved into the bed-and-breakfast—a prospect now put on hold because of her double-crossing brother.

Although the café was decorated in pink, she’d chosen an array of other colors for her personal quarters—sunny yellow for the spacious living room and kitchen, and peaceful celadon green for the bedroom. Casual furnishings and a minimum of clutter made the apartment a perfect retreat after long hours in the café.

She opened a window and let the cool air and soothing night noises calm her nerves as she looked down on the parking lot. Cimarron’s truck, dark inside, was parked at the back. Hoping it would be gone in the morning, she began to get ready for bed. But she was pretty sure her worst nightmare would still be around when the sun came up.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE CUSTOM CAMPER shell on the back of Cimarron’s pickup was outfitted with bare-bones necessities assembled to suit Cimarron’s vagabond lifestyle, but there was little space for an extra person—even one as small as Wyatt. His presence in the cramped space made Cimarron almost claustrophobic.

Cimarron settled Wyatt into the camouflage sleeping bag they’d bought after R.J.’s death. Wyatt considered sleeping on the floor of the camper “adventure sleeping.” Cimarron just considered it inconvenient. He had been stepping over and on toys, small articles of clothing and Wyatt for weeks, and he was at his wit’s end to find a minute of privacy in order to regroup and try to figure out a solution. He’d intended to stay in the house just to have a bit of room to move around, but Sarah’s stubborn resistance might make that difficult.

When Wyatt’s even breathing assured him the child was asleep, he slipped outside for some fresh air. The dark night was tempered by a half moon and also the warm glow of Sarah’s security light on a pole in the parking lot. Cimarron paced the lot for a few minutes to work off his tension.

What the hell was he going to do with this child? How could he raise Wyatt and give him a decent life? But there was nobody else to take him. Cimarron had no idea where his noaccount father might be—dead or alive. Even if he was alive, he’d never get his hands on Wyatt, considering the childhood he’d inflicted on Cimarron.

R.J. hadn’t talked much about what had happened with Wyatt’s birth mother, Joy, but Cimarron got the idea that R.J. hadn’t been the only bull in the pasture and Joy hadn’t had the ability or inclination to take proper care of a baby. She signed over her parental rights to R.J. soon after Wyatt was born. Remarried now, she’d made it clear when Cimarron called to tell her about R.J.’s death that she had no intention of claiming her son. Hell, she hadn’t even told her new husband she had an illegitimate child. There was no denying Wyatt’s paternity, however, and that left Cimarron stuck with the total responsibility of a family member—again. He muttered under his breath and kicked the light pole as he passed. Stupid move. He hobbled the rest of the way to the truck, choking back curses. About his foot, his fate, his future. Just wasn’t right. He hadn’t fathered that kid, and he didn’t want any more responsibility for other people. He hadn’t done a good job before, and he had no reason to believe he’d fare any better with Wyatt.

Sitting down on the broad bumper of his truck, he leaned back against the camper and closed his eyes, trying to allay the coil of panic that squirmed in his gut every time the undeniable truth hit him. His life would never be the same again.

Cimarron opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle turning into the parking lot. He squinted as a blinding spotlight flared to life, pointing directly at him. Red and blue lights reflected off the nearby buildings and his pickup.

“What the hell?” he muttered, throwing a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Don’t move. Keep your hands up where I can see them!”

A sheriff’s deputy eased toward Cimarron with one hand on his sidearm, the other moving a powerful flashlight around.

Cimarron raised his hands, turning his head to the side and grimacing at the bright lights. At least the deputy hadn’t drawn on him—yet. Cimarron glanced up at the window above the café and saw Sarah staring down. Damn it, did she call the cops on me? The deputy caught his attention again, moving enough to one side that Cimarron could turn away from the spotlight to face him.

“What are you doing here this time of night? The café’s been closed for hours,” he said. “Let me see some ID.”

“I’m sleeping in my truck. Sarah knows I’m here.”

“Yeah, sure she does. Now get behind the wheel of that truck and get moving, or I’ll give you a different option for a few nights.”

“Look, Deputy—” Cimarron eyed the deputy’s badge “—Whitman, I don’t want any trouble.” He slowly lowered his hands. “I’ve got a right to be here.”

“That ID?”

“It’s in my wallet.” Cimarron reached for his back pocket.

“Easy now, real slow,” Deputy Whitman said.

Cimarron withdrew his wallet and fished out his driver’s license.

“I bought that house. I have a right to be here.”

The deputy guffawed. “I know who owns this land, mister. And it ain’t you.”

“I’ve got the paperwork. Can I get it to show you?”

“Where is it?”

“Front seat of my truck.”

The deputy moved with Cimarron to the side of the truck. Cimarron opened the door and pointed to the folder lying on the console. He’d intended to show it to Sarah, but he’d never gotten the chance.

“Just have a look at the paperwork. I own the house and the property around it.” He pulled out the title and handed it over.

The deputy shined the light on the paper and checked the signature at the bottom. “Well, that sure looks like Bobby’s signature. Lord knows I’ve seen it enough on traffic tickets. But it might be forged.”

“It’s not forged.”

“Come around to the front of my car while I check this out.”

The deputy took the folder and Cimarron’s license with him and called in the information. Cimarron leaned against the fender of the patrol car, arms crossed, staring up at Sarah’s now-empty window, stewing over the possibility that she was responsible for him being on the brink of going to jail. A light came on downstairs a few moments later. If she’d reported him, there would be no more Mr. Nice Guy—and no more kitchen boy, for sure.

“Well, you checked out okay. But I’m not happy with you hanging around here. Find yourself somewhere else to stay.”

Cimarron rolled his eyes. “Give me a break. Sarah knows I’m here and I don’t see why I have to leave. Especially since—”

“Hey, Griff,” Sarah said, coming across the parking lot in silky long pajamas and a robe. Sexy as hell, with her hair down and brushed to a satin sheen. The pale green color of the pajamas complemented her freshly scrubbed face.

“Hey, Sarah. Sorry to disturb you,” Deputy Whitman said.

“No, that’s okay.” She eyed Cimarron. “I’m glad you’re looking out for me.”

Cimarron lifted an eyebrow and shot her a wry look. Probably everybody in this one-horse town was protective of her.

“He’s got some kinda paperwork here, says he bought out your brother Bobby.”

Sarah glanced at the paper and frowned. “Yes, I know. But I’m contacting my lawyer first thing Monday morning to see if it’s legal.”

“It’s legal,” Cimarron said.

Both of them ignored him.

“Do you want me to take him in?”

“Now, wait a minute…”

“No,” Sarah said quickly. “I told him he could stay here for the night. Bobby sort of tricked him into buying the property. I’m sure I’ll get it straightened out next week.”

Deputy Whitman looked dubious as he handed back the paperwork. “I don’t like it. And I’m going to see that you’re locked in before I leave.”

“Really, Griff, there’s no need for that. Like I said…”

“Either I make sure you’re safe for the night, or I lock him up.”

“On what charge?” Cimarron demanded.

“I’ll think of something,” Deputy Whitman growled.

This was more than professional concern for Sarah. Cimarron sensed a strong undercurrent of male competitiveness in the deputy. Did he have an eye for the lovely Miss James? Cimarron couldn’t blame him, but that wasn’t grounds for arrest.

She held up her hands in appeasement. “Stop this. See me to the door if it makes you feel better, Griff.”

The deputy handed Cimarron his license and paperwork. “You find a better place to camp after tonight. And trust me, I’ll be back by here a few times before morning.” He guided Sarah toward the café.

Cimarron returned to his truck but stopped short of getting in, curious to see what move Deputy Whitman might put on Sarah. She quickly disappeared inside, however, leaving the officer standing on the stoop. He waited a moment longer and Cimarron took that opportunity to climb into the camper and close the door.

THE NEXT MORNING, Cimarron rose early. Wanting to avoid another visit by the overzealous law officer, he moved his truck behind the mansion out of sight of the road. Since Sarah had made it clear she didn’t want any help in the café this morning, he pulled out fishing gear, packed a lunch for two, then got Wyatt up and moving. He’d wait until the café closed to clear out a spot to live in the old house. Maybe Sarah would go visiting this afternoon and he could work in peace.

Finding a map for the house and surrounding property among his paperwork, he located the trout stream that Bobby had mentioned. According to the surveyor’s markings, Cimarron’s two hundred acres adjoined Sarah’s much larger holding halfway between the house and café. The property narrowed to about seven hundred feet of road frontage, more than enough for access to both buildings, and then spread out like a fan across the valley and the lower reaches of the closest mountain. On the map, a broad tributary of the Little Lobo River meandered diagonally through both pieces of property, and Bobby had sworn it was teeming with trout. Bobby’s credibility had taken a dive since he’d given Cimarron that map, but just casting a rod could relieve a world of tension.

Wyatt was a trouper, Cimarron had to give him that. In his worn cowboy boots and the black cowboy hat that his daddy had given him, the boy trudged through the underbrush without complaint, even when Cimarron had to extricate him from the thorny clutches of a bramble bush.

The dense woods suddenly opened onto a sweep of sunbejeweled water rushing by a grassy expanse of bank. Jutting boulders split the pristine current, and the hope of silversided trout in the deep pools lifted Cimarron’s spirits. The soft touch of the rising sun warmed his face. The scent of evergreens hung heavy on the morning air and the murmur of the water was the only sound to be heard. This was as close to heaven as Cimarron ever expected to get.

“Unca Cimron?”

Zap! The euphoria vanished.

“What?”

“Are we going to fish now?”

“I’m going to fish. You’re going to sit on the bank and eat your breakfast.”

Cimarron pulled a sandwich from his gear bag along with a bottled orange juice and handed them both to Wyatt. He’d confiscated the sandwich fixings from Sarah’s kitchen the evening before and stashed them overnight in the ice chest in the camper.

“I can fish,” Wyatt insisted.

“I don’t have another rod. Now sit there and be quiet. You’ll scare the fish off.”

Wyatt took the food and sat on the bank to eat, an unhappy scowl on his face. To access the items in his bag, Cimarron took out the other two sandwiches, tucked them into his jacket pocket and laid the jacket across a low bush, then pulled on a pair of stocking-feet waders and lightweight folding boots. From a hard cylindrical case, he removed a custom Winston fly rod with his name lettered in gold on the side. He’d done a modest reconstruction on a cottage that belonged to one of the managers of the company and had taken part of his fee in fishing equipment. Light and agile, the rod never failed to amaze him.

He rigged the rod and reel under Wyatt’s watchful eye, then fixed a tiny fly with a pinched-down hook to the tippet at the end of the leader and tightened the knot with his teeth. Rather than kicking the bushes himself to see what the trout delicacy of the week might be, he’d checked in Bozeman the day before for the current hatch and bought suitable flies and a fishing license.

Striding into the cold water, he flicked the rod back and forth, letting out line with a smooth, graceful motion. He allowed the fly to settle for a moment on the calm surface of a deep pool behind an outcropping of rocks, hoping for a rise to the bait.

He had spent a lot of hours like this as a youth, fishing a favorite stream near his home, escaping his burdens for a few hours at a time. Nature was better than any therapy.

When the fly floated downstream, he cast again and placed the fly once more. Once in a while, R.J. would fish with him, on the rare and brief occasions when he and their father came home. As much as he resented their inevitable abandonment, Cimarron always enjoyed spending time with his brother. R.J. could usually outfish him, but it didn’t matter by the time they got home and fried the succulent trout. Today Cimarron missed his brother’s camaraderie more than ever. He tried to get his mind off R.J. and everything else that had dragged at his heart lately.

A trout rose to his fly but didn’t bite. Patiently mending his lie closer to the rocks, Cimarron watched the concentric circles disturb the pool’s smooth surface.

Like the ripple effects of his brother’s death. Complications Cimarron didn’t want or need—he’d never know if his tirade at R.J. that morning had caused his brother to rush so much that he was careless and fell off the scaffolding. He’d probably always believe he was responsible. He carried enough guilt around, without adding his brother’s death to the list. And Wyatt. Exhaling heavily, he looked to the endless blue sky above for an answer, a measure of peace from the terrible conflict that tore at him.

The trout rose, then darted away, like Cimarron, not yet brave enough to take the bait. Roll casting, Cimarron set the fly near the boulders again and again, searching for the elusive trout, but he found concentrating difficult today.

He hadn’t fathered that child. Why in hell would R.J. saddle him with a lifelong responsibility? There had to be other avenues. Adoption. Foster care. Something. Anything!

Then he felt the satisfying jolt. His trout was back. The fly disappeared. Line taut, rod bent double, the reel squealed as the trout ran. Cimarron played him, let him run, patiently stripping the struggling fish in. Its scales glinted silver in the sunlight as it leaped for freedom.

Unpleasant memories disappeared from Cimarron’s mind with the thrill of conquest. He could just stay right here in Little Lobo, guard his house from Sarah’s wrecking ball and fish until his problems resolved themselves.

“You got one, Unca Cimron!” Wyatt pranced along the bank. “You got a big one!”

Jolted from his concentration, Cimarron flinched. The trout took advantage of the slack line and escaped. Even had the gall to give a victory leap a few yards away before vanishing. Cimarron swore the damn fish grinned at him.

“Why the hell did you do that?” Cimarron shouted, turning to the child. “You made me lose my fish. Can’t you do anything…”

Wyatt crumbled visibly, his shoulders quivering as he backed away.

Right. Cimarron bit back the word. What was he doing? Saying the same devastating things to his young nephew that had so often sent him scurrying for a hiding place before his father could see the tears and give him still more grief. He was becoming the man his father had been.

“Hell, no!” he muttered. He sloshed to shore. “Look, Wyatt, I’m sorry I yelled.”

But the damage was done. The child retreated to the spot where he’d sat to eat, hugged his knees and hid his face. Cimarron squatted in front of him.

“Wyatt, look at me.”

Wyatt shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you, it’s just that the fish got…”

Got away. So what? It was a damn fish. He would have released it anyway.

Cimarron reached out to touch Wyatt’s shoulder but stopped short. He shook his head and stood up. What was the point? He didn’t know how to get through to the kid. He was rotten at this daddy charade anyway. He had to find a good, loving home for his nephew—with two parents who knew what they were doing.

From the corner of his eye, Cimarron saw a flash of movement. Adrenaline jolted his system.

“Don’t move, Wyatt,” he commanded softly. The child reacted by lifting his head to look at Cimarron. “Don’t move. Stay real still.”

CHAPTER SIX

SARAH PRESSED HARD against the cordless screwdriver, forcing the screw into the brittle wood. The soft whirring sound grew weaker by the moment as her batteries lost power.

“Just two more,” she begged between clenched teeth. She drove another one flush with the plate of the metal hasp. Her screwdriver finally ground to a stop with a few threads left on the last screw, but the result was good enough.

This was her third latch. She’d been lucky that Harry Upshaw was willing to bring them to her while she finished cleaning up in the café after breakfast. She didn’t tell him why she wanted them and she wouldn’t let him put them on for two reasons. One, it might actually be against the law to padlock the property if Cimarron’s claim was legal, and she didn’t want Harry to get in trouble; and two, she wanted the personal satisfaction of being the one to lock out the man who had stolen her property. Furthermore, she didn’t want Harry or anybody else to know about her predicament right now. Replacing the screwdriver in her toolbox, she threaded a heavy padlock through the loop and snapped it closed, as she’d done on the other two doors of the old house.

“There, maybe that’ll keep him out for now.”

She peered across the valley, expecting to see Cimarron return from fishing any minute. She’d watched from her bedroom window early that morning as he stalked off down the trail, fishing gear in hand, with his cute little boy trotting hard to keep up. She wondered about the story behind their odd standoffish relationship, but told herself she probably was better off not knowing.

Glad to finish her chore without being caught, she hurried back home and put away the tools, then changed into jeans, boots and a sweater and locked her own doors. She got into her small SUV and pulled onto the main road in the direction of the Rocking R Ranch. She needed to get away, to put distance between herself and her problem; to spend the day in the fresh air and solicit advice from Kaycee, who had been her best friend ever since she’d opened the clinic next door to the café two years ago. Sarah loved spending time at the ranch. Something fun was always happening on Sunday afternoons and the high spirits of the kids were contagious.

As usual, Sarah was greeted by two Australian shepherds and a mutt named Sam that Kaycee had rescued. Four of the seven Rider children raced from the house, waving and shouting when they saw her, and not breaking stride until they disappeared into the darkness of the barn.

Kaycee greeted Sarah from a paddock across the graveled parking area where she waited with two saddled horses.

“Come on, I’ve got the horses saddled. Let’s go for a ride.”

“Wonderful,” Sarah said, climbing the paddock fence to mount her favorite mare and follow Kaycee through the gate.

Kaycee’s tawny hair was pulled into a ponytail that was looped through the back of a baseball cap. Tall, slender and athletic, Kaycee could manhandle a yearling steer with the best of men and had earned the respect of even the surliest ranchers for her knowledge and quiet competence as a largeanimal vet.

A woman vet in a tough, mostly male environment, Kaycee could hold her own. Yet Sarah had seen her in tears, too, torn between the career she’d worked hard to build and the man she loved. Sarah would bet Kaycee’s vet skills weren’t what ultimately won the heart of widowed rancher Jon Rider. Probably it had more to do with the smile that lit her green eyes and the loving, nurturing disposition that allowed her to become an instant mother to seven kids under the age of twelve. Never in her wildest dreams could Sarah imagine becoming an overnight mother and suddenly having seven kids. It boggled the mind. Sarah missed having Kaycee living next door at the clinic, but she would never begrudge her friend the happiness that was reflected in her face every day since she’d fallen in love.

Given a loose rein, the horses meandered along the mountain path. Sarah lifted her face to the warm sunshine, enjoying the peace, letting the gentle sway of the horse’s back relax her a little.

Kaycee gave her time to wind down for a few minutes before she said, “You sounded upset when you called this morning. Everything okay?”

“No,” Sarah said abruptly. “Oh, Kaycee, all my wonderful plans have fallen through. My bed-and-breakfast…Everything.” Sarah pressed her lips together to keep from crying. That never solved anything and besides, Kaycee was so strong…She’d never let anybody steal her dreams and neither would Sarah.

“How?” Kaycee turned in the saddle and tilted her head toward Sarah. “What’s going on?”

“Some guy just showed up out of the blue yesterday and claimed he owns my bed-and-breakfast. That Bobby sold it to him.”

“No way! That can’t be right. Bobby wouldn’t do that, would he?”

“Yes,” Sarah said with a huff. “Yes, he probably would, if it meant money.”

“You saw where he signed it over?”

“No, I was too mad to look at anything, but Griff came by last night and checked him out because the nut decided to sleep in his pickup truck in my parking lot. Griff told me that the signature sure looked liked Bobby’s. No criminal background. The sign on the side of his truck claims he’s a restoration expert. Damn it, why did he choose my house to restore?”

“Did you ask him?”

“No, I didn’t even want to talk to him.”

“You’ll have to. You do plan to talk to a lawyer, right?”

“Yes, I’ll call Nolan in the morning, as soon as I can. I hope there’s something he can do.”

Kaycee reined her horse to a stop on a bluff overlooking the sweeping river valley that ran between two majestic mountain ranges. Myriad shades of green and blue swirled together with the brilliant flowers of summer. They formed a soothing tapestry that seemed to bring Sarah’s problems into a more manageable focus. Surely she could work something out with this guy. Or break the contract. She was anxious now to talk to her lawyer, to see what options she might have.

Kaycee leaned on her saddle horn, gazing into the misty distance. “You said he has a sign on his truck. Does he have a Web site? Maybe you could learn more about him.”

Sarah nodded. “Good idea. I’ve been so overwhelmed since yesterday, I haven’t been able to put two thoughts together. First Aaron didn’t show and my grill finally cratered. Then this guy comes in and drops a bombshell on me. He did fix my grill, though, and he helped me with dinner last night.”

Kaycee looked askance at her. “Wait. He buys your house, and then you let him help you out?”

“I know, I know. Stupid. But honestly, I wouldn’t have made it without help. Sometimes you do what you have to do, to just get by.”

“Let’s ride back and take a look at this guy, if we can find him on the Net.”

When they had unsaddled the horses and put them out to pasture, Sarah and Kaycee closeted themselves in Kaycee’s home office in the rear of the rambling ranch house. Kaycee made coffee in a pot on a side counter and they sat down to do a bit of research.

“What’s the name of his company?”

Sarah repeated the company name she’d seen on the truck logo.

“His name is Cimarron Cole.”

“Cimarron? Interesting name.” Kaycee clicked the mouse a few times, searching. Within seconds, over a thousand hits popped up.

“Wow,” Sarah said softly.

“Wow is right,” Kaycee agreed. The first entry was his Web site. She clicked. “Double wow.”

The impressive home page was a sophisticated layout with photos floating across the page, fading and merging. Always there was the same sequence. First, photos from several angles of a house in terrible shape, and then a montage of construction scenes, ending with spectacular restorations.

Kaycee slid the mouse to Sarah. “You go where you want to.”

Sarah began clicking links to various projects Cimarron had done—the final results always breathtaking. She leaned forward in her chair, with a different perspective now. Okay, so he could do what he said. In fact, he could make her house more grand than she’d ever dreamed it could be. His house. Not hers. She felt the sting of tears again. She wanted her bed-and-breakfast so much it hurt. She’d anticipated the excitement of different guests each week. She just wanted things to be the way they were before.

She clicked on his bio, and a photo of him popped up, along with a statement of his professional creed. No hint of family or personal information.

“Is that him?” Kaycee said, eyebrows raised.

“It is.”

“He’s a hunk.”

Sarah gave a wry grin. “He looks better in person. For what it’s worth.”

“Dang, Sarah. Too bad he’s the villain.”

“Yeah. Too bad. He’s got a sweet little boy with him, too, about the twins’ age.”

“That’s interesting. No wife?”

“Not that I know of. And he doesn’t seem to want the child at all.”

“Looks like you’ve got a plateful, all of a sudden.”

“More than I ever wanted, I assure you.”

Another click brought her to a page that listed the homes Cimarron had restored or refurbished. At the beginning of his career he’d apparently contracted out to others, restoring private family homes and historically relevant property.

Over the years, those jobs had given way to his own projects. Before-and-after photos of each house had a short caption underneath noting the beginning and ending dates of each project and usually included photos of the smiling new owners. A plantation house he’d just completed in Louisiana was on the market for several million dollars. No doubt he realized a significant profit on every house, otherwise why would he keep doing it? He’d recover his investment in Sarah’s house ten times over—when he sold it. Sarah’s optimism caved, leaving an empty spot that opened up like a sinkhole and swallowed her future.

Kaycee ran her finger lightly down the screen along the list of houses and prices. “He flips houses. Restores them and sells them off.”

“Looks like,” Sarah murmured. “What am I going to do?”

“If you need help buying it back or paying a lawyer, you know Jon and I will do as much as we can.”

Sarah put her hand over Kaycee’s on the desk. A true friend, who would no doubt dish out plenty of money for her. But this wasn’t Kaycee’s battle.

“Thanks. I know you would, but I don’t think it would do any good. I can see why he’s dead set on restoring the house and making a killing off it. But you never can tell…Maybe fate will intervene.”

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