Ranch At River's End

Darci broke off the kiss as abruptly as Jordan did, her eyes snapping open to see his daughter standing in front of them on the deck with her friend Jenny, holding a Western tack catalog. Both girls stared wide-eyed at them, Michaela’s gaze accusing.

“How could you kiss her?” Michaela shrieked. Then she turned and fled down the steps below deck.

The look she’d given Darci could have melted the anchor and left them all to drift away across the reservoir. Darci was pretty sure Michaela would have run much farther than below deck if there had been anywhere else for her to go. Jenny looked embarrassed as she trailed after her.

“Oh, God,” Darci said. “Jordan, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m the one who kissed you,” he said, then headed after his daughter.

Dear Reader,

My dad taught me there is a reason for everything. I had a hard time believing that when he very suddenly passed away while I was writing this book. It took me many months to even begin to get back on my feet. But as clichéd as it may sound, my father’s death made me see life from a different angle.

I began to remember how he’d taught me not to ever say “goodbye,” only “so long for now.” This is a belief of our people—the Cherokees—and something I began to take comfort in. I know I’ll see my dad again, and I know his death, as devastating as it was, is a turning point for me.

I realized that my heroine in Ranch at River’s End had reached a turning point in her life as well. When Darci Taylor’s son scares a cafeteria full of students half out of their minds, Darci decides they need a fresh start in the small mountain town of River’s End.

But things don’t go as smoothly as Darci hoped with the transition to her new world. Jordan Drake is an emergency room physician whose own life was turned upside down two years earlier when his wife was killed and his daughter wounded. He’s protective of Michaela, and when Jordan finds out Darci and her son have moved in four houses down from his own, he isn’t at all happy.

I had a great time taking my hero and heroine down the path they had to travel, and in watching how they dealt with their individual issues and—most important of all—how they dealt with their growing attraction to one another. And trust me, they went kicking and screaming!

I love hearing from my readers. You can reach me at BrendaMott@hotmail.com. Please reference the book title on the subject line.

My best to you!

Brenda Mott

Ranch at River’s End

Brenda Mott

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

When Brenda Mott isn’t busy writing or rescuing animals—she has more than thirty dogs at any given time—she enjoys curling up with a good book (naturally!), or taking in the beauty of Tennessee’s Powell River on horseback, or on foot with a few of her dogs. Brenda can trace her family roots back to the Cherokees who walked the Trail of Tears, and her ranch—twenty-one acres deep in the Tennessee woods—is located on part of what used to be the original claims of the Cherokee Nation.

Brenda’s stories most often have a theme of strong family ties and values. They also reflect her love of horses—and of her home state of Colorado—by having a ranch-themed plot. Her works have won several awards including Best Series Romance from RT Book Reviews, but her greatest reward comes in entertaining her readers. She enjoys writing romance most of all, because there’s always a guaranteed happy ending. She loves hearing from her readers. Reach her at BrendaMott@hotmail.com.

This book is dedicated in loving memory of my phenomenal dad.

I miss you more than even a writer’s words can say.

Ah-nah-gee-sss-dee nahs-squah Oo-ney-tlah-nuh-he.

(Go with God.)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER ONE

JORDAN DRAKE WATCHED his daughter moving quickly up the sidewalk to school despite the cane she relied on. Hard to believe Michaela was already in the seventh grade. A now-familiar sadness threatened to overwhelm him. Sandra should be here, sharing this significant milestone in their daughter’s life with him. But this was no time for regrets—Sandra wouldn’t have wanted that. He had to keep moving forward.

The quiet drive to the hospital always calmed him, and he glanced up now at the rough-hewn mountain peaks, scattered with scrub oak, juniper and sagebrush, that surrounded River’s End.

The rural town was plunked down in the middle of some of the prettiest country western Colorado had to offer. With a small population, it was, Jordan had always believed, a good place to raise a child.

But tragedy had found him even here.

Shaking off the thought, he focused on the sun-filled, late-August day. He was sorry he couldn’t be outdoors, but he loved his job. Being an E.R. physician at River’s End Regional Hospital had its perks. Working three days on, three days off gave him plenty of time to spend with Michaela.

After parking his black Ford Explorer in his designated spot, Jordan headed inside. He’d barely scanned the reports when a patient—a boy Jordan knew to be the best fullback on their high school team—was rushed into the E.R. with a head wound. Typically, it was bleeding profusely.

“His brother hit him with a machete,” said the trembling woman hovering over Bruce Wilkins.

“It wasn’t a machete, Mom, it was a big knife.” The husky kid sighed in exasperation. “And it was an accident. I’m fine.” He grinned as Jordan pressed a wad of gauze against the wound with gloved hands. “But I don’t know about that lady at the check-in desk. She passed out cold when she saw this.” Bruce pointed at his wound.

Shirley? Had to be, Jordan thought. She was the one who usually handled the front desk. But he was surprised to hear she’d fainted. Shirley had worked at the hospital for years and seen all kinds of injuries.

“She did?” Go figure.

“Yep. And she hit her head, too, so you might be puttin’ stitches in both of us, Doc. I can wait if you need to stitch her up first.”

“You cannot wait!” Donna Wilkins scolded her son. “I’m sure Dr. Drake isn’t the only doctor here in the E.R.”

“Actually, I am the only physician on hand at the moment, but Dr. Samuels is just finishing his shift. We’ll page him if we need to.”

Jordan’s professional calm hid his concern. Someone needed to see if Shirley was okay.

He was about to duck out quickly to check on the receptionist when a wheelchair rolled into the adjoining exam room, which was partitioned off by a curtain. Jordan couldn’t see the patient, but he heard her protests over the squeak of the chair’s rubber wheels.

“This is ridiculous. I’m fine, really.”

Not Shirley.

“We’ll let Dr. Drake be the judge of that,” Molly Parker said. She’d been a nurse at River’s End Regional for as long as Jordan could remember. “Now get yourself up there on that exam table, Missy, and I’ll see where the doc’s at.”

If any more people came into the E.R., he’d definitely have to have Dr. Samuels paged.

“I’m here,” Jordan said. He parted the curtain enough to look discreetly through the opening.

A petite woman with short, blond hair was in the process of exiting the wheelchair.

“Is Shirley all right?” Jordan asked. “We’ll need to page Dr. Samuels, Molly, to check on her.”

The nurse gave him a strange look. “Shirley’s fine—why?”

“I don’t need a doctor at all,” the blond woman protested as she reluctantly climbed onto the exam table under Molly’s watchful eye. Gingerly, she touched the goose egg Jordan spotted on her forehead. “It’s just a bump.”

“You hit the corner of the desk and lost consciousness,” Molly said firmly. “But I think you can wait while the doctor stitches Bruce up, right, Dr. Drake? Or do you want me to page Dr. Samuels?” She looked as confused as Jordan felt.

He frowned. “I thought it was Shirley who hit her head.”

“No, no,” Molly said, her mop of dark curls bobbing as she shook her own head. “Dr. Drake, meet Darci Taylor, our new receptionist. Shirley’s training her to replace Tiffany.”

Who had gone into early labor yesterday afternoon. Now everything fell into place.

“Jordan Drake,” he said. “You must be from the temp service.” He held out his hand and the woman placed hers in it. She had a soft palm, but a surprisingly strong grip, and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The scent of vanilla perfume wafted his way, subtle and pleasant.

“That’s right,” she said. “Nice to meet you. Are you any relation to Dr. Nina Drake?”

“She’s my sister.” The psychologist of the family. He wondered how Darci Taylor knew Nina. Was she a patient?

Making a quick assessment of her head injury, Jordan nodded. “This can wait a few moments if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Please—take care of that young man.” She gestured toward the curtained partition, looking pale again.

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can, Darci.” Her name rolled over his tongue like candy. She was suntanned and pretty—her petite figure all curves beneath the floral-print skirt and silky T-shirt she wore. How on earth had he missed her?

Whoa. What was wrong with him? He saw female patients every day, many of them as pretty or prettier than Darci Taylor.

But none with eyes that blue.

DARCI FELT LIKE A COMPLETE idiot. Her first day—Lord, her first few minutes—on the job, and she’d fainted like some Victorian lady. When she’d accepted the position at the hospital through the temp agency, she’d somehow never connected working at a reception desk with seeing blood. Duh. This was the emergency department, and she’d better get her act together in a happy hurry if she intended to keep the position. Her part-time job giving riding lessons on her aunt and uncle’s ranch wasn’t nearly enough to pay the bills.

Being a single mother wasn’t easy, and this last year had been hell, but she’d managed to get through it.

Darci shifted farther back on the exam table, waiting her turn. It was impossible not to eavesdrop on Dr. Jordan Drake in the adjoining area. His deep voice was calm and patient as he tended to the boy who’d been brought in with the head wound. And then he laughed at something Bruce Wilkins said, and tiny goose bumps danced along her arms and neck.

The man had seemed so serious—she wondered what it took to make Dr. Cowboy Boots laugh.

Now where had that thought come from? Through a slit in the adjoining curtain, she couldn’t help but steal a peek at the doctor. He didn’t look much older than her own thirty-four—and met the old cliché standard of tall, dark and handsome.

But what sort of doctor wore jeans and cowboy boots with his scrub top? He looked more like a veterinarian who specialized in large animals. Well…River’s End was a tiny ranching community. Maybe the guy treated both humans and livestock.

Darci’s head throbbed, the bump feeling more like a cantaloupe than a goose egg. But she couldn’t afford to take any time off work.

She’d combined two part-time jobs in Northglenn, outside of Denver, before moving here with Chris. Working for a temp service, and the twenty-plus hours a week she’d put in at a local stable afforded her the means to take care of her thirteen-year-old son and she hoped to do the same thing in River’s End.

She planned to work extra hard for Aunt Stella and Uncle Leon. They were the only people who hadn’t turned their backs on her and Chris when her son had committed a crime most people weren’t willing to look past.

Shaking off the black thoughts, Darci let her mind drift back to handsome Dr. Drake. She couldn’t resist sneaking another peek through the curtain at those Western boots and jeans he wore. Professional though he was, he still looked pretty hot in them. Definitely cowboy casual.

The only thing that ruined his cowboy image, was his smooth hands. It had felt so good when she’d shaken hands with him.

His hair, straight and thick and dark as his espresso eyes, was just long enough to brush the top of his collar. Her fingers itched to touch it.

What was wrong with her? Darci gave herself a mental kick, remembering that she had more serious things to take care of in her life right now. She didn’t have time for good-looking doctors.

Dr. Cowboy Boots? the imp in the back of her mind teased.

Not even him, Darci thought, wondering if the bump on her head had affected her thinking. Still, she tried to imagine what Jordan’s face had looked like just now when he laughed. But all she could picture were those dark eyes.

The curtain parted and Darci nearly yelped.

“So you’ve got quite the bump there,” Jordan said as he moved toward her, chart in hand.

His professional voice was gentle, caring, and yet oh, so sexy.

“I—I skipped breakfast and felt a little dizzy,” she said, unwilling to admit she’d flat-out fainted. She could have eaten the Grand Slam breakfast at the local Denny’s and she still would’ve passed out at the sight of Bruce Wilkins’s gaping head wound.

“Mmm-hmm.” Jordan laid down the clipboard, lathered his hands to the elbows at the nearby sink, then snapped on a fresh pair of gloves before stepping up beside her.

Was he going to touch her?

Of course he was. He was a doctor after all. He could hardly examine her head from across the room. But right now Darci could use a little distance between them. The antiseptic smell of the hospital was overpowered by Jordan’s own clean scent. Soap, pure male and…what else? Words like woodsy and musky came to mind, but that wasn’t right either. Jordan didn’t strike her as the musky type.

No. His scent was more like fresh squeezed limes and—

Tequila, the imp prompted, inspiring images of body shots and salt and…good grief, she’d hit her head all right! And lost her mind in the process.

Jordan frowned in concentration and gently touched the lump on her forehead.

“Tender?” he asked.

Darci winced. “Very.”

She felt raw and vulnerable sitting there with his wonderful, strong and capable hands on her…and aching for more.

It had been way too long since she’d enjoyed a man’s touch, or even a simple date for that matter. The threats Christopher had made at his former school in Northglenn had taken over their lives, consumed Darci day and night for the past several months.

“Looks like you could use a couple of stitches,” Jordan said, jarring her from her thoughts. “Or maybe we can put some butterfly clamps on the laceration. Less scarring that way.”

“Sounds good,” Darci said. She tried not to flinch as he tended to her wound.

“There, that should do it. Don’t get it wet for a few days, and let me know if you notice any heat or further swelling. If the pain gets bad, take some Tylenol.”

“What—not two aspirin and call you in the morning?” Darci blamed her head injury on the lame quip. Just because he’d eyeballed her a little when she’d first come in…or had he? Maybe she’d imagined it. But it didn’t matter anyway. Just didn’t mean a thing. For all she knew there was a Mrs. Cowboy Boots in the picture.

So why couldn’t she quiet that damned imp in her head?

Jordan studied her as he peeled off his gloves, then reached for a pen and notepad. He scribbled something, and Darci spoke quickly. “I don’t need a prescription. It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

He handed over the scrap of paper and Darci looked at it and nearly choked. He’d jotted down a pair of phone numbers in a neat, looping scrawl unlike the stereotypical hard-to-read doctor’s handwriting.

“Call me if you have any complications—excessive headache, vomiting, that sort of thing,” he said. “Either Dr. Samuels or I will be on call.”

“Thanks.” Darci folded the slip of paper and put it in her purse.

She could’ve looked up the hospital number in the phone book. Had he given her his home number?

Don’t be silly.

Maybe she could ask him to write out a prescription for her after all. One for a woman who’d been too long without a date. An anti-man drug. Maybe an antihistamine. Inwardly she snickered at her own lame humor.

Lord, she’d had no idea a head injury could turn her into a ditz.

CALL ME?

Jordan put his key in the front-door lock and opened the dead bolt. What had he been thinking? There was no reason to have given Darci Taylor his home phone number in addition to the one at the hospital. At least it wasn’t his cell. He didn’t need to be bothered day and night with minor medical emergencies.

But then, she probably wasn’t the type to do that anyway. Darci seemed like a strong, confident woman who took matters into her own hands.

You want her to call.

The voice inside his head taunted him as he deactivated the alarm and called out to Michaela that he was home.

Darci had looked vulnerable as she sat in the exam room with a head injury, though. She obviously wasn’t cut out to work in the E.R. admittance. Maybe she’d get a job elsewhere and then he could stop thinking about her.

Besides—he hadn’t been interested in a woman since Sandra had died. No point in starting now.

“Mac!” he called again, using the nickname his daughter preferred.

“In the kitchen, Dad.”

She was at the table, eating a frozen yogurt and working on her laptop. The way her head was tilted, with her long, light brown hair caught up in a ponytail, she looked so much like her mother.

Jordan’s chest tightened.

“Is that homework?” She was allowed online, but with limited access.

He had to protect his daughter.

Michaela nodded. “I’m writing a report on the opening chapter of a book we’re reading.” She rolled her eyes. “Why do teachers always make us read boring things instead of something we’d actually like?”

“Good question.” He bent and kissed the top of her head. “One that kids asked even in my generation.”

“They had books back then?”

“Very funny. What’s this?” He picked up a piece of paper from the countertop. A flyer about parent-teacher meetings and an open house being held at the school a week from Tuesday.

“It’s a welcome-to-the-school-year thing,” Michaela said. “Sorta lame, but I guess we’re supposed to go.”

“They’re serving refreshments,” he said. “At least we can score some cookies.”

Michaela returned his grin. “You’ll like my homeroom teacher. She’s cool.”

“Awesome. Can’t wait. How about we go out on the boat this weekend?”

“Cool! Can Jenny come? We want to check out some new horse magazines.”

The cabin cruiser slept four, and Michaela’s best friend often came along on overnight excursions as well as day trips.

“We’ll see. Right now, why don’t you just worry about what you want on your pizza.”

“We’re going to Trail Inn?”

Restaurants in River’s End were a scarce commodity, but Trail Inn was the best pizza joint within fifty miles, and his daughter’s favorite. “You’d better know it,” Jordan said. “As soon as I change out of my scrubs.”

“And after I check on Chewy again.” The stray dog Mac had begged him to take in that summer had come with a surprise—puppies, born a week ago.

The medium-sized, red-and-white dog had turned out to be a blessing. Caring for Chewy and her puppies had been the best form of therapy for Michaela—something that made his little girl smile more than she had since her mother’s death. And Chewy was a good watchdog—something he’d wanted to get Mac, though he’d been a little leery of the more aggressive breeds.

Chewy had quickly become a spoiled family member, temporarily distracting Mac from her obsession with horses. She’d been trying to talk Jordan into buying her a horse like her friend Jenny’s, which Michaela wanted to ride. Her hip injury would likely never get much better, and Jordan was worried that a fall from a horse might make it worse.

“I’ll run next door and say thanks to Louise.” The neighbor kept an eye out for Michaela, even kept his daughter at her house at times, when Jordan wasn’t home. “Then we’re off. We can swing by and rent a couple of DVDs—heck, it’s Friday night. I’ll even watch The Sisterhood of the Traveling Trousers again.”

Friday nights had always been pizza and movie night for Mac and Sandra.

“Da-ad.” His daughter snickered. “It’s Traveling Pants, and there’s a part two, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Hey—even better. We can watch both of them.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said, quirking her mouth into a crooked little pucker—a Sandra habit. “And I love you for it, Dad. Thanks.” But her eyes held sadness.

“I love you, too, snicker-doodle.”

AS SOON AS JORDAN DRAKE had finished tending to her injury, Darci had insisted on going right back to work, but Shirley demanded she take it easy. “You just watch me work, and you’ll get the hang of things,” the older woman said. “We’ll worry about the details when you’re feeling better.”

Things had been fairly slow for the rest of the morning, though they picked up in the afternoon. By the time four-thirty rolled around, Darci was ready to go home. She was tired, her head was throbbing, and she was worried about Christopher. She’d asked Stella to keep an eye on him at the ranch after school until she could make other arrangements, and Chris had been furious.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” he’d said. “I’m old enough to stay home alone for a couple of hours.”

“Yes, you are,” Darci had told him. “But age and privilege are two different things, and you’re going to have to earn my trust before I leave you by yourself.”

“Whatever. Just do me a favor, and don’t ask old lady Bataway to watch me.”

Their neighbor, Eileen Hathaway, was a busybody and overprotective of her enormous dog, a Newfoundland.

“Disrespect isn’t going to help you any. And I’m sure there’s not enough money in the bank to get Mrs. Hathaway to babysit you anyway.”

Now as she drove toward the Shadow S Ranch in a wind-blown sprinkling of rain, she hoped Christopher hadn’t given Aunt Stella a hard time. Of course, if he had, Stella would likely put a boot to his butt. Maybe that was what he needed. Maybe she’d been so busy worrying over everything that had happened in Northglenn that she hadn’t been hard enough on him.

Lord knows she’d experienced her share of anger and frustration. Yet she’d made a huge effort to tamp her feelings down and cave in to Christopher’s wants and needs. No more, though. She was through being Mommy Doormat.

Maybe Nina Drake could give her some helpful guidance when she saw Christopher on Thursday. Darci had requested a few minutes of the appointment time for her and Dr. Drake to talk.

At the ranch house, Darci rapped on the front door, then pushed it open, glad to get out of the wet weather. Immediately she was treated to the smell of home cooking. Stella and Leon’s dog—a big cream-colored mutt of undetermined heritage—greeted her with wagging tail. “Hey, Jake.” She scratched the dog behind his ears. In the kitchen, she found Stella at the stove, Chris and Leon nowhere in sight.

“Hi, Aunt Stella. Where’s Chris?”