If Wishes Were Horses...

Conner crossed to the highboy, his gaze snagging on a grouping of three framed photographs. He picked up one, his chest tightening as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of Abby, one he had taken years ago. She was laughing at him, the wind molding the soft folds of her dress against her protruding belly. When that photograph had been taken, she was pregnant with Cody, and everything that Abby was, was captured in that picture.

Yeah, he could write a book on heartache, all right. And secrets? He had ’em by the truckload. Most of them were stored up in a whole lot of pain. But there was one that gave him comfort. And it was a secret he would take to his grave without ever giving it up.

He touched the face in the snapshot, the hole in his chest getting bigger. No one would ever know that the baby she carried in this picture wasn’t his brother’s.

It was his.

Dear Reader,

Once again, we’ve rounded up six exciting romances to keep you reading all month, starting with the latest installment in Marilyn Pappano’s HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries. The Sheriff’s Surrender is a reunion romance with lots of suspense, lots of passion—lots of emotion—to keep you turning the pages. Don’t miss it.

And for all of you who’ve gotten hooked on A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, we’ve got The Way We Wed. Pat Warren does a great job telling this tale of a secret marriage between two SPEAR agents who couldn’t be more different—or more right for each other. Merline Lovelace is back with Twice in a Lifetime, the latest saga in MEN OF THE BAR H. How she keeps coming up with such fabulous books, I’ll never know—but I do know we’re all glad she does. Return to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, with Judith Duncan in If Wishes Were Horses…. This is the kind of book that will have you tied up in emotional knots, so keep the tissues handy. Cheryl Biggs returns with Hart’s Last Stand, a suspenseful romance that will keep you turning the pages at a furious clip. Finally, don’t miss the debut of a fine new voice, Wendy Rosnau. A Younger Woman is one of those irresistible stories, and it’s bound to establish her as a reader favorite right out of the starting gate.

Enjoy them all, then come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

If Wishes Were Horses…

Judith Duncan

JUDITH DUNCAN

is married and lives, along with her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured extensively in Canada and the United States. Currently she is involved with the Alberta Romance Writers Association, an organization she helped to found.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Chapter 1

The sun blazed in the bright blue cloudless sky and beat down on the rolling rangeland, the relentless heat shimmering up in waves. The hills and gullies lay like enormous, heaving wrinkles in the earth’s surface, the folds held in place by the sharply defined mountains rising up in the west. A vast cloud of dust hung in the air, forming a golden aura that cloaked the landscape and distorted the horizon. Overhead, two red-tailed hawks circled, watching for unwary gophers.

The bawling of calves and the shouts of cowhands carried in the thin mountain air, echoing in the crystal clarity. Hundreds of white-faced cows and their spring calves plodded onward through the rolling terrain, marshalled into a long meandering column by watchful riders. The cloud of yellow dust hung suspended above the undulating herd, the fine grit coating the newly unfurled leaves of the cottonwoods and wolf willow, finally settling on the new shoots of grass struggling through last year’s thatch.

It was spring roundup on the Cripple Creek Ranch, and it was a scene that had been played out over a hundred times before. Nothing much had changed, except the faces of the riders. It was a scene that was as much a part of the rolling country as were the great cottonwoods standing tall along the winding creek.

Conner Calhoun pulled up his mount at the crest of the small hill, giving the reins a light jerk as the big buckskin gelding danced and tossed his head. With his gaze fixed on the rim of a far-off ravine, he reached down and flipped open the case strapped on his belt and removed a cell phone. Not taking his eyes off the dark shapes, he hit the redial button, waited, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Jake, there’s four or five strays heading for the south ravine. Send Bud with one of the dogs to bring ’em in.”

Conner watched a rider and one dog break from the main herd, then replaced the phone in the case. His horse threw his head again and impatiently tugged at the reins, and Conner gave him a second command, then settled back in the saddle. The slant of the late afternoon sun angled beneath the brim of his Stetson, and he squinted against it, the taste of dust drying in his mouth as he surveyed the state of his grassland.

It was dry—too damned dry—but thick cumulous clouds were racking up behind the jagged ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and Conner could almost taste the rain in that cloud bank. There had been very little snow during the winter, with one Chinook after another drying out the soil. It was the first of June, and they hadn’t had one really good rain since the snow-pack had melted. There had been just enough to keep the grass going, but his grazing land needed a good soaking, and soon. Unless he missed his guess, one was on the way—even the animals could sense it.

A series of shrill whistles pierced the din, and Conner’s attention shifted as the point man gave the signals to two hardworking Border collies to move up and turn the lead cows into a narrow draw. Three other riders also moved up, hazing the outside stragglers back into the ranks and crowding the herd into the gully, forcing them through the natural funnel. The lead cows, heads swinging, calves crowded against their sides, lumbered through the wide gate, while other riders flanked the herd, trying to prevent any of the range-wary animals from bolting.

The move today was the last stage of the roundup. Over the past couple of weeks, the Cripple Creek cowhands had collected cattle from the winter range. The steers and bulls had been driven onto the summer range and the remaining cows and calves were driven here, onto the home pasture for spring branding. Beyond the gate and hidden from view in a natural holding area, additional Cripple Creek hands were making the final repairs to the vast network of corrals, preparing for the job ahead. Today was the final drive. The cut would take place the following day, when the calves would be separated from their mothers. Then the day after that, the backbreaking work would begin. Tagging, vaccinating and branding each spring calf, and dehorning and castrating those that needed it. A rancher’s entire year and the viability of the herd revolved around that operation. And Cripple Creek’s future and fortunes depended on it.

And had for over a hundred and twenty years.

A strange feeling unfolded in Conner’s chest as he considered the history behind him. He surveyed the herd, his gaze snagging on the ragged line of old cottonwoods snaking through the valley below.

Sometimes he felt a real kinship with those big old trees. They had stood tall along Cripple Creek for decades—big, indestructible, able to withstand any storm. He respected their tenacity and durability. It was as if they were the silent sentinels, watching over Calhoun land. As if they were a fundamental part of it all.

Just as he was. For forty years, he had breathed this clean mountain air and tasted Cripple Creek dust. Yeah, this land was as much a part of him, as he would, eventually, become a part of it.

He had been born in the huge old Victorian ranch house, and he had spent his entire life in this part of southwestern Alberta, rooted in this ranching country. In fact, the Calhouns had been one of the original settlers in these parts, one of the American families who had been given huge land grants by the British Crown as an inducement to settle the rolling uncharted land. And there were many descendants of the settling families who still ranched in the district—the McCalls, the Ralstons, the Stewards, the Calhouns.

Because of that inducement, his forefathers had come here and put down roots, just like those old cottonwoods. His ancestors had been running huge herds of cattle when that part of western Canada was still a territory. And the Calhouns had been there ever since. Still ranching, still running huge herds of cattle, still part of the never-ending landscape. And although he would never admit it to a living soul, Conner considered it both an honor and a privilege to carry on that heritage—as had his father before him, his grandfather before that, and his great grandfather before that. He felt he had a responsibility to all those who had gone before him, to provide good stewardship of this land.

Impatient with his rider’s stillness, the big gelding pranced and yanked on the bit, his hooves striking against a rocky outcropping. A small twist of humor lifted the corner of Conner’s mouth, and he reached forward and patted his mount’s neck. “Getting antsy, are you, old boy?” Big Mac tossed his head and pranced again, and Conner responded with another half smile. He got the message. Big Mac had been on enough roundups to know his owner had picked one helluvah time to go woolgathering, when a year’s crop of calves and their mommas were heading toward the home pasture.

Picking up the reins, Conner cued his mount forward, and Big Mac instantly responded, lunging down the hill, stirring up more dust as he headed toward two stragglers grazing down by a ring of willows. Conner grinned. Right on the money. He’d had cowhands who weren’t as smart as this horse.

By the time Conner was ready to pack it in for the day, the sun had settled behind the horizon, setting the gathering clouds on fire. He had been in the saddle since dawn, and he was feeling every second of it. It had been a very long day, and he’d had his fill of range-ornery cows, heat, dust and, most of all, the new saddle he was using. A damned stupid thing to do—to use a brand-new saddle on a cattle drive. But his foreman had a bad hip, and his favorite old roping saddle suited Jake better. The good thing was that Conner’s butt had gone numb hours ago.

Turning Big Mac in a pivot, Conner did another pass of the herd, narrowing his eyes in the fading light as he surveyed the cattle, relying on his years of experience to detect anything amiss. Satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned his mount toward the lone figure of his foreman hanging over the pole gate at the north side of the pasture.

The effects of a fourteen-hour day in the saddle and some hard riding immediately piled in on him, and Conner wearily rolled his shoulders and glanced toward the western horizon. From the fading colors of the sunset, he figured it had to be after 9:30 p.m., maybe even later. Damn. Another day gone.

He shifted against the stiffness and rested his free hand on his thigh, thinking how the time had disappeared. There just weren’t enough hours in the day this time of year. It had been the better part of a week since he had made it into Bolton to visit his stepmother, and there was just no excuse for that. Although she tried not to show it, he knew that Mary worried if she hadn’t heard from him in awhile. And worrying about him was the last thing she needed.

She was only in her late sixties, but she had been fighting arthritis for many years, and a couple of years ago, she had decided to move into an assisted-care facility in Bolton. He had wanted to get home care for her so she could stay on the ranch, but Mary had been adamant.

And even though it was her decision to move into Bolton, Conner knew that she missed Cripple Creek, especially at this time of year. She had played an active part on the ranch for a lot of years, and had gone on more than her fair share of cattle drives. A skilled and fearless horsewoman, she could ride with the best of them. Though the choice to leave had been hers, he knew her heart was still here, planted in Cripple Creek soil.

Beginning to feel as if he’d gone a few rounds with a bucking bronc, Conner pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the dust and sweat from his face, then jammed it back in his pocket. He recalled a bright yellow patch of buffalo beans he’d seen at the edge of the driveway, and he made a mental note to pick Mary a bunch of the flowers the next time he went to town. They were particular favorites of hers— “spring sunshine,” she’d always said.

The fiery sunset reflected off the windshield of the pickup parked alongside the fence, and the sound of country music blared from the radio within. A bantylegged man stood at the gate, one booted foot propped on the lowest rail, his arms hooked over the top one. His battered Stetson was tipped low over his eyes, and he had a piece of straw stuck in his mouth. As horse and rider approached, the Cripple Creek foreman undid the rope hitch and swung the gate open, leaving a space just wide enough for Conner to ride through. A grin split Jake Henderson’s weathered face, and he spit out the straw he’d been chewing. “Took you long enough. What was you doing out there? Picking posies?”

Experiencing a twist of humor at how close his foreman had come to the truth, Conner guided the gelding through the gate, giving Jake a firm reprimand. “I thought I sent you to the house two hours ago, with specific instructions to get into that hot tub of yours.”

Jake swung the gate closed and fastened it. “Hell, Conner. The wife would skin me alive if she knowed you was still aworking out here, and I was lazing in the tub. She just might turn up the heat and cook my hide for me.”

Backing the horse away from the fence, Conner watched the older man, another flicker of amusement surfacing. Jake had been telling the same tale about Henny for over thirty years—ever since he’d come to work for Conner’s father at the Cripple Creek Ranch. Jake and his stories were an institution.

Hunching over, Conner stacked his forearms on the saddle horn and narrowed his gaze at the older man. His tone was stern when he spoke. “I don’t want you out here again tonight, Jake. You get one of the hands to check the herd.”

The foreman looked a little peeved. “I ain’t an old woman yet, boss.” He smacked the hood of his truck. “Me and ol’ Bessie here will do that check on our own, thank you very much. I don’t trust that bunch to find their butts with a road map, a spotlight and both hands, let alone check this here herd.”

The laugh lines around his eyes creasing, Conner continued to watch as Jake Henderson climbed into his truck. “You never listen to a damned thing I say, do you?”

Jake grinned and gunned the engine to life. “Not if I can help it.” He pointed to the big, muscled, high-spirited buckskin Conner was riding. “Now you take that puny little horse of yers to the barn and give him his sissy bath. His feelings will get all hurt if he don’t get his bath.” Throwing the vehicle into reverse, the foreman gave Conner a two-finger salute and roared backward toward the buildings, trailing another cloud of dust.

Conner watched his foreman skillfully maneuver up the rutted trail; then he picked up the reins, cueing his mount forward, a wry smile appearing. He wondered if Jake was ever going to let up on Big Mac. Probably not.

True, most working horses preferred a good roll in the dirt after getting rid of their saddles after a hard day. Not Big Mac. Big Mac liked a good, long hosing down, and the longer the better. His shower habits had become the butt of some well-thought out Cripple Creek Ranch pranks. Like bath mitts and shower caps.

Once again aware of the numbness in his rear, he turned his horse toward the trail that led up to the barn. He didn’t know about Big Mac, but for him, it was definitely time to call it a day.

By the time they reached the crest of the hill, dusk had settled and a mountain breeze had blown up, carrying the clean smell of rain. The light wind rustled through the leaves, making shadows dance under the high, bright quartz yard lights.

Swinging down from the saddle, Conner pulled the reins from around the horse’s neck, then led his mount toward the darkened barn, unbuckling his chaps as he went. He paused briefly outside, straightening the horse’s mane as Big Mac took a long noisy drink from the watering trough. Having drunk his fill, the horse tossed his head, flinging water and making his bridle jingle. Noticing the first glimmer of stars overhead, Conner led Big Mac through the wide barn door, reaching for the switch mounted on a panel.

Light sprang from four bare bulbs quartering the long alleyway between the big box stalls, casting the cavernous structure in murky light. The sudden burst of illumination startled a flock of barn sparrows in the rafters, and Big Mac raised his head and paused, pricking his ears as three birds darted through the open door. Responding to a tug on his bit, the horse started moving again, his shod hooves making a hollow clip-clopping sound on the thick plank flooring, the sound echoing in the stillness of the barn.

Conner led his horse past the row of stalls to the far end of the barn, where he looped the reins through an iron ring mounted on the wall. Bone weary, he undid the buckle at his waist and stripped his chaps away, hung them on a hook, then stripped the horse of his tack.

By the time he led Big Mac into the wash area, most of the vibrant color had faded from the sky, and a deepening darkness pressed against the open door. He picked up the hose and turned on the tap, the sound of running water percolating loudly through the silence. For some reason, that sound made Conner very aware of how alone he was, and he didn’t like it much. He should be used to that by now; it was a feeling that had become his shadow over the years. And one he did his damnedest to ignore.

Trying to focus on what he was doing, he hosed his horse down. Satisfied that there wasn’t a trace of sweat left anywhere, he turned off the water and picked up a lead shank. Then he looped the rope around the horse’s neck and led him back to his big box stall, the horse’s hooves repeating the hollow clip-clop on the heavy planks. There was a fresh flake of hay and a measure of oats ready and waiting. Removing the lead, he gave the horse a smack on the rump; then he dragged the heavy door shut, shooting the bolt as he hung the lead shank on a hook by the door. He was feeling so damned beat up, he wasn’t sure he had the energy to make it to the house.

At the doorway, he paused, resting his hand on the frame as he stood staring out. Through the row of trees, he could see the darkened shape of the big old Victorian ranch house, the windows black and empty. Not even a glimmer of light to call him in. Knowing his mood was heading into a dark, empty place, Conner pushed away from the door, set his jaw and turned back toward the lighted shed row. He wasn’t ready to face that empty house just yet. And there was always tack to fix.

A big old gray tabby cat was already curled up on Big Mac’s saddle blanket, and she rose up and arched her back in a mighty stretch when he turned on the light in the tack room. He scratched her neck, then unsnapped his cell phone and set it on the ledge as a reminder to put it on the battery charger.

Selecting three new, unused headstalls from wooden pegs on the bare plank wall, he carried them to the workbench in the corner, then reached for the brown bag containing new snaffle bits and new reins. He always had extra tack on hand during branding—and getting these assembled was a job he should have taken care of days ago.

Turning on the dust-covered radio, he reached for the tray that held his leather tools. Above the soft country music coming from the radio, he could hear the wind change outside, and the fresh smell of rain spilled into the barn. A few moments later, the first raindrops spattered against the small window over the workbench. And Conner could tell by the way it was coming down that it was going to be a steady, all-night rain. Just what his grassland needed.

As he turned his head, his gaze caught on the old faded picture that hung above the workbench, the glass and frame also covered in dust. It was a picture taken of his father and stepmother years ago, shortly after Mary had come to live at Cripple Creek. She was astride a black horse, the wind ruffling through her dark hair. And she was laughing down at his father, who stood with his hand braced on the neck of the horse looking up at her. That dusty, faded picture had hung there for well over three decades—and was identical to the one that Conner’s father had always carried in his wallet. It was, in an odd way, a significant marker in Conner’s own life. He sometimes wondered how he and his father had gotten so lucky. Because Mary McFie had changed both their lives.

Conner had no recollection of his natural mother. She had died when he was just a baby, and John Calhoun, a taciturn, reserved, unsmiling man had raised his son alone. Then when Conner was four, a pretty district nurse had come to Bolton, and within weeks, Mary McFie and John Calhoun were married, setting the entire district on its ear. And not only had John Calhoun found a woman who changed his life, Conner had gotten the only mother he had ever known. She had fought John over the raising of his son, treating the somber little boy as if he were her own, and she had made a home for both of them. Once Mary came, it was as if a light had been turned on in their lives as she taught John Calhoun how to laugh. And then when Conner was five, Scotty was born, and Conner had learned what being a family was all about. He could understand why his old man had always kept a copy of that picture close by. It marked the beginning of a whole new life.

He was just replacing the screw in the last bridle when his cell phone chirped. Conner glanced at the clock on the radio. Ten-thirty. Strange time to get a call.

He reached for the phone, flipped down the mouthpiece and hit a button with his thumb. Bracing his arm on the top of the workbench, he put the phone to his ear. “Cripple Creek.”

There was a brief pause before a tiny voice spoke. “Uncle Conner?”

Going very still, Conner glanced at the clock again, an uneasy feeling unfolding in his gut. It was a Tuesday, a school night. And his eight-year-old nephew was calling from Toronto, which would make it half past midnight there. He straightened and turned to face the door, his hand tightening on the phone. Keeping his voice quiet and easy, he spoke. “Hey, Chucker. This is pretty late for a call. How come you aren’t in bed?”

There was another brief pause; then the boy spoke, a funny catch in his voice. “Remember how you told me—remember after Dad died and when I was only six, you said that if I ever was…um…was…um, you know, worried about anything, I was to call. Do you remember saying that?”

The uneasy feeling turned to something sharper, and suddenly Conner’s heart felt too big for his chest. His whole body tensed, he licked the sweat off his lips and spoke, forcing himself to use the same quiet tone to answer. “Yes. I remember.” He hesitated, looking for the right words, then spoke again. “Maybe you should tell me what’s got you worried, all right, sport?”