The Rancher's Dream

Love takes time...

Grant Campbell’s survived some hard knocks to realize his dream of breeding horses on a Colorado ranch. But his simmering attraction to secretive Crimson Slayton isn’t good at all. And remaining just friends isn’t possible once tragedy leaves them in charge of a helpless baby.

Stuck in dangerously close proximity and playing family, Grant and Crimson can’t resist what feels right. But while he’s a man all about dreams, she has no faith in them. Together, can they get past her fears and find a reality that trumps even his wildest dreams?

Grant couldn’t tend a baby. Period.

His cell phone chose that moment to buzz at him. Clumsily, he dug around with his left hand, just managing to extricate the thing before it was too late.

He answered without looking at the caller ID, because he didn’t have time. Just his luck. It was Ginny.

He glanced at Crimson. Maybe something in his face alerted her to the problem. Or maybe she had just put two and two together from hearing his end of the conversation.

She raised her eyebrows and tapped her index finger against her collarbone. “Me,” she mouthed. She held her elbows out, cupped one hand behind the other and mimicked rocking a baby. “Me.”

He nodded. Yes. Oh, hell yes. He didn’t have to think twice.

“I’ve already got the help I need,” he said into the phone, though he kept his gaze on Crimson, who was smiling her approval. She was extraordinarily beautiful. Was that the painkillers talking?

Maybe it was just that, at the moment, she looked like his guardian angel.

Dear Reader,

I’m a talker. I don’t know if it’s my DNA or my upbringing, but I’ve always needed a special someone to confide in. When I’m upset or anxious, nothing calms me like a long heart-to-heart with a friend.

Sometimes exposing your honest, inner truths is frightening. Often, our first instinct is that the pain is too great, and no one can possibly help. But I’ve always felt there’s a high price to pay for locking your emotions inside.

Hundreds of years ago, a pretty smart guy agreed with me. In Macbeth, Shakespeare wrote a beautiful line in which a grieving man is told he should “give sorrow words,” because if he doesn’t, his heart may break.

In The Rancher’s Dream, both Grant and Crimson have broken hearts. It’s time for them to heal and move on, but they can’t. They’re too afraid to open up and be vulnerable again.

Love is said to heal all wounds...but what if you’re afraid of love itself? Though deep feelings are growing between them, caring has brought them so much pain already. Can they find the courage to take that risk again?

I hope you enjoy watching Grant and Crimson find the words to open their hearts. And may you always find an understanding ear when you are ready to open yours.

Warmly,

Kathleen O’Brien

PS—I love to hear from readers!

Please come see me at kathleenobrien.com, or stop by facebook.com/kathleenobrienauthor.

The Rancher’s Dream

Kathleen

O’Brien

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATHLEEN O’BRIEN was a feature writer and TV critic before marrying a fellow journalist. Motherhood, which followed soon after, was so marvelous she turned to writing novels, which meant she could work at home. Though she’s a lifelong city gal, she has a special place in her heart for tiny towns like Silverdell, where you may not enjoy a lot of privacy...but you never really face your troubles alone, either.

To Manning, Irene and Mike, who stand by me during my descents into the deadline pit and always keep a firm grip on the safety rope. You guys are, to put it mildly, the best.

And to Colorado, for its wildflower springs, its majestic winters and its endless inspiration as I wrote these six Bell River books.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

I’VE GOT TO get out of Silverdell.

The sentence kept running through Crimson Slayton’s head, clogging up her brain waves. She ought to be thinking of something clever to say to keep this foolish girl from getting an incredibly dumb tattoo.

But she couldn’t think of a thing. All she could think was...

I’ve got to get out of Silverdell...before I start to care about this kid, too.

She frowned, annoyed with herself, and repressed the urge to pick up one of her own homemade lavender Earl Grey tea cookies, which she kept on hand for her clients. The cookies were great for calming nerves.

Why should she need calming down? Why should she be in any danger of feeling emotional about this lovesick girl across the table from her in the tattoo parlor?

It was ridiculous. Becky Hampton was nothing to Crimson. The two had met twenty minutes ago...and if Crimson did her job, she’d say goodbye to Becky in another twenty minutes, and that would be the end of that.

Stay out of it. When Crimson’s sister, Clover, died, and Crimson left her hometown of Omaha, Nebraska, those four words had been her new sworn life motto.

Stay out of everything. No ties. No roots. No attachments to things or people she could lose. She’d be a gypsy, a loner. Get in, get out and nobody gets hurt.

For the first few weeks after Clover’s funeral, she’d done just that. Three towns in three weeks.

But then she’d hit Silverdell, Colorado, and, though she told herself every month that she’d probably leave soon, somehow she never did.

She’d been here thirteen months, more or less.

Clearly that was much too long. Somewhere, over that time, she’d started to feel things. Instead of staying free, cordial but unattached, like a bird on a wire, she’d started getting involved. Making friends.

First Mitch and Belle, and all the Bell River family. And Marianne Donovan, who owned the café and shared Crimson’s love of cooking.

Those weren’t the most dangerous attachments, though. The real threat had snuck up on her. First she’d met Grant Campbell, a nice rancher who had helped her figure out how to mortar bricks when they were paired up to build a playground for the Silverdell Outreach charity she’d gotten involved with.

Then she’d met Grant’s friend and temporary roommate, Kevin Ellison.

And finally, the biggest danger of all, Kevin’s precious, motherless baby, Molly.

At the thought of the warm little bundle of sweetness, her heart squeezed.

Oh, yeah. I’ve got to get out of Silverdell.

But first she had to handle Becky. The pretty blonde had been leafing through Crimson’s sample book for nearly twenty minutes now, exclaiming like a little kid every time she passed a pretty flower or a colorful fairy.

“I just don’t know! They’re all so cute!”

Crimson managed not to groan. Think, think. The girl was obviously nervous, ripe for being talked out of this. She’d come in alone, hovering in the doorway without entering, grabbing the shoulder strap of her purse as if it was a lifeline, and twisting her legs so nervously it looked as if she badly needed to go to the bathroom.

When Crimson had approached her, she’d confessed shyly that she wanted to have her boyfriend’s name, Roderick, tattooed on her left buttock, along with “something pretty.” But she had to wait for Rory to come “give the okay” to the design.

Her body...but his decision? That had been Crimson’s first red flag. If Roderick was that bossy, he probably wouldn’t be Becky’s boyfriend for long.

Crimson collected Becky’s ID, always the first step.

Believe it or not, the girl—woman—was going on twenty-two. Amazing. Crimson was only twenty-six, but she would have guessed she was at least ten years older than Becky.

Still, you could count rotations of the earth around the sun, or you could count life experience. By the latter calculation, this poor kid didn’t seem old enough to drink root beer.

“If you call him Rory, how about getting that tattooed, instead of Roderick?” Crimson raised her brows. “It’s shorter. Cheaper. Less painful.”

And easier to remove or cover up when Becky and Rory split.

“No. He wants the tattoo to be his real name.” Frowning, Becky shifted her sandaled feet nervously on the scuffed black floor and nibbled on her index fingernail. “Why? Does it hurt a lot?”

“It’s uncomfortable,” Crimson said carefully.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Pete look up from his station, where he was inking a skull and crossbones on the one clear piece of real estate still left on the forearm of their favorite regular customer, Butchie the bronc rider.

Pete, a sixty-five-year-old former pro wrestler, owned the tattoo parlor, and he’d already warned Crimson he’d have to let her go if she didn’t stop talking customers out of getting work done.

“Some people say it’s very painful,” Crimson said. To heck with Pete’s glare. She’d signed on here as a tech and, at his urging, had learned to ink tattoos over the past few months. She’d become pretty good at it, if she did say so herself. She’d brought in a lot of work. She didn’t turn away the Butchies of the world, who genuinely wanted and loved their tats. Just the people who would end up regretting the decision within six weeks.

Sometimes six minutes.

The way Crimson saw it, she was saving Pete a load of bad publicity from unhappy customers. If he couldn’t see that...

“Tell you the truth, Becky,” she added firmly, “I’ve seen grown men cry.” When Pete growled, she just gave him a bright smile. It was true, so live with it.

Biting her lower lip, Becky flipped a few more pages, though her fingers had become clumsy. They were both silent a few minutes. Crimson considered offering Becky one of the cookies, but decided against it. She didn’t want her to calm down. She wanted her to leave. Without a tattoo.

But when the girl encountered another rainbow-colored fairy, her mouth relaxed, and her blue eyes lit up.

“Oh, that’s adorable!”

Crimson sighed.

Becky held up the plastic-covered picture. “Do you think that would look good above the name Roderick?”

“No.” Crimson stared at the foolish fairy blandly. “Not really. It’s too girly. You wouldn’t want to threaten Roderick’s virility.”

Becky nodded, the sarcasm clearly lost on her. Crimson’s throat tightened as she looked at the sweet, trusting face. Darn it. The poor thing was in love. Capital L, Love. And with an insensitive guy who kept his sheltered girlfriend waiting in a tattoo parlor, getting more scared by the minute. A control freak who wanted his name on her rear end like a brand. His full name.

So maybe a sadist, too. Roderick was twice as long as Rory...

Impulsively, Crimson reached out her hand and caught the slim fingers. “Becky, look, maybe you ought to consider this a little longer.”

She thought fast. What was the secret tunnel into Becky’s psyche? Everyone had one. Even Crimson’s twin sister, Clover, had had one.

Unfortunately for Clover, Crimson had known exactly what it was and how to exploit it. If she hadn’t, Clover might be alive today.

But she wouldn’t let herself think about that right now. Back to Becky.

What was Becky’s secret tunnel? She’d just demonstrated she wouldn’t flinch from the prospect of pain. Crimson tapped her fingers on the table, eyeing the girl thoughtfully. Vanity, maybe?

Might work. The girl’s skin was almost flawless, and her one scar, a small, starry patch of white in the center of her forehead, was mostly buried under several layers of thick foundation. She obviously hated that scar.

“You look like someone who takes good care of your body.” Crimson smiled. “You eat healthy. Work out, right?”

Becky nodded. “Oh, yeah.”

“So...think how hard you work to keep your skin so pretty. You don’t let it burn in the sun, and you don’t let it break out or get dry or freckle. You don’t want scars or cellulite...”

Becky was frowning again. The thoughtful furrow on her brow creased around the tiny white scar, giving Crimson hope.

“So are you sure you want to mark it up with permanent ink?” Crimson turned to the back of the portfolio, where she kept her secret pictures, the ones designed to scare the bejeezus out of innocents like Becky. “See this? This is what’s left when you have the tattoo removed. I mean, it’s not awful, but it’s certainly not as pristine as your skin is now.”

She let that sink in a minute before lowering her voice. “I always feel terrible when women come in to get their tattoos removed because they’ve finally found the right guy, the guy they want to marry and spend the rest of their lives with, and they don’t want the constant reminder about Rory...” She waved her hand to make the statement more vague. “Or whoever.”

She was taking a chance here. She was banking on having read this Rory character correctly—and she was counting on Becky being smart. Her instincts told her Becky knew, if only subconsciously, that she’d never walk down the aisle with Rory, and didn’t really want to, anyhow.

For a minute, as Becky remained poker-faced, Crimson thought she’d miscalculated. But then Becky closed the portfolio slowly.

“Yeah, maybe I’d better think about it some more.” She scraped back her chair and stood. “I’m sorry. I feel bad I took so much time, and then didn’t even—”

“Don’t feel bad.” Crimson stood, too. “I think you’re making the right decision.” Impulsively, driven by some unnamed instinct, she grabbed one of her business cards and held it out. “And listen, if you ever...if you ever need anything...”

The girl looked confused. Well, of course she was confused. Crimson wasn’t sure why she had said that, either. Except...her gut told her Rory was not a good guy.

Becky took the card, glanced down at the odd name, Crimson Slash—the name Crimson had adopted when she took the Needles ’N Pins job. Crimson’s cell number was on it, too. This was the card she gave only to her regular, trusted clients.

Becky didn’t react, simply shoving it into her jeans pocket. She cast a doubtful glance toward the door, as if she were afraid her boyfriend might saunter in now and force her to get the tattoo after all. “If Rory comes...”

Crimson smiled. “If Rory comes, I’ll explain you got called away.”

“Yeah.” Becky nodded. “Yeah, that’s good.” She started to offer to shake hands, but clearly decided that didn’t make sense and settled for a wave and a smile as she hurried out the door.

Relieved, Crimson sank back onto her chair.

“Not so fast, Doctor Freud.”

She looked up. It was Pete, all six foot four inches of him, standing in the spot where Becky had just been. His gloved hands were fisted on his hips, which accentuated the fact that he’d rushed over in the middle of Butchie’s tattoo.

“Pete, please don’t give me a hard time about this.”

She wasn’t in the mood. She’d have quit this job ten times during the past few weeks if she could just decide where to go next. If she could just get up the courage to leave Silverdell. “She would have regretted it before she got home, and then there would have been hell to pay.”

“Hell I can handle. But employees who chase off the customers...that I can’t afford.” To her surprise, Pete’s brown eyes seemed to hold an undercurrent of sadness. “Clear out your locker, Red. You’re fired.”

* * *

ACTUALLY, IT WAS perfect timing. She’d been planning to meet Grant Campbell for lunch at Donovan’s Dream, at noon, anyhow. Grant had given Kevin a lift into town for a meeting, which meant he’d probably be bringing Molly, Kevin’s baby.That was all the consolation Crimson could ask for. At six months, Molly was a dream, warm and loving and absolutely adorable.

And if Crimson was leaving Silverdell soon, she was glad of every minute she could get with the baby.

It didn’t take her long to pack up.

She always traveled light and didn’t have much to clear out. The plate of cookies, her tea mug, her purse and a couple of spare black T-shirts she kept in case she spilled something...that’s all she’d ever moved into the shop, even after a year.

She dumped her portfolio in Pete’s trash can, where it hit bottom with a thud. A swoosh of relief moved through her as she realized she wouldn’t ever need it again. However much she loved Pete, she wasn’t a tattoo artist. This job had only been an attempt to leave behind the old Crimson, the “real” Crimson, who would have been happier in a restaurant or a kitchen, or waiting tables, or anything that involved food.

At the last minute, Pete came out to the car and hugged her awkwardly. His droopy brown eyes made him look like a basset hound with indigestion, and she patted his shoulder as if he were the one who’d been fired, not her.

“Damn it, Red,” he said thickly, “if you’d just behave yourself—”

“But I won’t. You know that.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Glancing at the sky, which was as lumpy and gray as a pad of old steel wool, he sighed. “Look, it’s going to rain. Why don’t you come on back inside? We can talk it over.”

She shook her head, smiling. He was so softhearted, poor guy, and he’d been good to give her a job sterilizing his equipment when she didn’t have a single reference, or a single day’s experience. She didn’t want him to agonize over this.

“It’s okay, Pete,” she said. “It’s time. Past time. I needed a nudge.”

He squinted as a few fat drops of rain splatted against his cheeks. “Maybe. Hell, at least don’t be a stranger. Come see me sometime. If you ever decide to get that tattoo we’ve been talking about, it’s on the house.”

The tattoo had been a running gag. She was the only person who had ever worked for him who didn’t have a single spot of ink on her skin. Probably that should have tipped him off that her heart wasn’t in it.

She laughed, and he hugged her again, clearly relieved there would be no hard feelings. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to let go. The rain fell harder, but she didn’t mind. Her hair was in that awkward, growing-out phase, anyhow, and never looked exactly great.

“Hey, what are you doing, hugging my girl on the public streets?”

Crimson and Pete broke apart at the sound of the deep, male voice. Grant Campbell stood there, with little Molly in his arms, the baby carrier and diaper bag dangling from the crook of his elbow.

He looked as gorgeous as ever—maybe more so, because, wow, there really was something about a man holding a baby...

He winked at Crimson, the thick black fringe of lashes dropping briefly over the gold-flecked brown eyes. His lopsided smile gave her a rush of warmth, as if he’d leaned over and kissed her...though naturally he hadn’t.

He was just kidding about the girlfriend thing. For a brief second, Crimson wondered why. Why hadn’t she ever let herself fall for this amazing specimen of male magnificence? Why was she dating his single-dad friend Kevin instead?

But then she remembered. First of all, Grant was a very satisfactory friend, and it was much easier to find dates than friends. Secondly, it was almost impossible to catch Grant between girlfriends, anyhow. He was like a thousand-dollar bill...if any woman was dumb enough to let him slip through her fingers, he wouldn’t hit the ground before another woman grabbed him up.

“Red’s not your girl, Campbell.” Pete sounded cranky. “And she’s not mine anymore, either. She just got fired, so you better be buying lunch, big shot.”

Grant glanced at Crimson, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, he’s serious,” she said. “I’m unemployed. But don’t worry. I’m buying lunch. I feel like celebrating.”

With a final, teasing smile at Pete, she took custody of the diaper bag and nudged Grant into motion. They needed to hustle before they got drenched.

Marianne’s restaurant, Donovan’s Dream, was a couple of blocks down, on the chichi end of Elk Avenue, the main downtown street of Silverdell. As the rain intensified, they started to run. By the time they ducked into the café, sweeping in on the familiar notes of “Danny Boy,” which played whenever the door opened or shut, Molly was red-faced and crying.

Immediately Grant handed her to Crimson. Crimson took over without complaint—this pattern had been established a couple of months ago, when Kevin and Molly had first come to stay with him. Grant was fine with Molly most of the time. He changed diapers like a champ, and he could play peekaboo for hours. He was even unfazed by spit-up milk and slobber.

But if Molly started to cry...that was different.

Then he just withdrew, somehow. Emotionally, a door slammed shut, and he was no comfort at all to the poor little thing.

“Red! Thank goodness you’re here!” Marianne Donovan came rushing to their table, her hair stuck to her damp forehead and a spatula in her hand. “Come quick. The meringue is weeping. It’s a mess.”

It wasn’t unusual for Marianne to consult with Crimson about her menu. At a potluck dinner a few months ago, a small get-together hosted by the Silverdell Outreach group, Marianne had discovered that Crimson wasn’t your average store-bought cookies kind of gal.

Crimson never advertised her history with cooking—and she certainly never mentioned she’d been to cooking school, or that she’d been this close to opening her own restaurant when her world fell apart. But it was hard to completely squelch your most primal interests, and gradually the two women had bonded over their mutual love of herbs and spices, pots and pans.

So. She considered the problem. Weeping meringue.

She ought to take a look. But...

Crimson glanced at Grant, who was already studying the menu. She jiggled Molly a few times, making soft noises and wiping the chilly raindrops from the baby’s fine hair. Molly seemed to be settling down, but she wasn’t calm enough yet to leave her with Grant.

“It’s probably just the humidity,” Crimson assured Marianne. She wouldn’t even have attempted meringue with such a bad storm coming, especially in an older building that wasn’t exactly airtight. Donovan’s Dream had been renovated enough to look delightful, but not enough to eliminate all the old windows and doors, which always let the outside in. Marianne had explained that she’d left those features partly to maintain the original feel—and partly to keep from going broke.

“Can you just lower the oven and cook a little longer? Or you could start over and add a little cornstarch.”

“Okay. I’ll try starting over, unless you’d like to...”

Crimson shook her head, looking down at the baby.

Marianne sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not a dessert chef. I make a fabulous Irish stew, but...” She held out her hand, spatula and all. “Quit that other job, darn it, and come work for me. Please. I clearly need you more than Pete does.”

Grant glanced up from the menu, his half smile back in place. “Funny you should mention that—” he began.