“So you would’ve sat at home all by yourself today—as usual—Mr. Cool Lone Wolf,” Bailey said

Trent grunted. “So that’s what you think of me, huh?”

Bailey pursed her lips and nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Humph.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to deny it.”

“I don’t deny it, Bailey, and I don’t make excuses for it, either. It’s simply the way I like my life.”

“Really?” Irritation bubbled within her. “You’re going to stand there and tell me you prefer being alone and lonely to being here with me and these kids, having a good time?”

“That’s right,” he said stubbornly.

“You know what?” She glared at him. “You’re hopeless.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Probably.”

“I ought to stop wasting my time with you.”

“Maybe so.”

Then why didn’t she?

Dear Reader,

I first began writing romance in 1986. Fifteen years later, with more rejection slips than I can count, I finally got “The Call” from Paula Eykelhof, senior editor for Superromance. I’m sure you can imagine my excitement!

Sarah’s Legacy came straight from the heart. I was in the middle of writing this book when my seventeen-year-old nephew was killed in a snowmobile accident. It took months for me to be able to go back to the book, but when I did, the writing became a way to pour out the grief that threatened to drown me. There is nothing more devastating than the loss of a child. Trent Murdock must find a way to get past that pain. But I promise you, this book doesn’t need to come shrink-wrapped with a bottle of antidepressants! After all, the reason I write romance and love this genre so much is that the reader is always guaranteed a happy ending.

Just how does a city-woman-turned-country-girl manage to get a stubborn cowboy to love and laugh again, especially when she’s never had a family of her own? Come with me on Trent and Bailey’s journey and find out. I hope you enjoy their story, and that you never ever give up on your own goals and dreams. I’m living proof that if you keep at it, your dreams will happen.

I’d love to hear from you. My e-mail is BrendaMott@hotmail.com. Please reference the book on the subject line. Thank you and happy reading.

Sincerely,

Brenda Mott

Sarah’s Legacy
Brenda Mott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated with love to the memory

of my nephew, Steven Dale Springer,

who left this world much too soon—I miss you, bud

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

BAILEY CHANCELLOR slowed her Ford Mustang, looking out through the car’s open window. The little Christmas tree seemed so out of place fully decorated in the month of August, yet there it stood, its red and green ornaments and shiny tinsel reflecting the summer sun.

Curious, she forged ahead on the gravel road until she spotted the entrance to the Roth Hill Cemetery. Putting on her blinker, she turned into the driveway, parked and got out of the car.

The Christmas tree rested beside a marble headstone, the blue-green branches sweetly fragrant. Flipping her braid over one shoulder, Bailey crouched in front of the stone. Sarah Adelle Murdock. A cowboy hat and boots were etched into the marble above the name.

Bailey’s throat thickened, making it difficult for her to swallow, as she read the dates and the words below the name:

Daddy’s little cowgirl. Gone from this earth, but not from our hearts.

From the dates on the headstone, Sarah had been just seven years old when her life ended a year ago…on this very day. Knowing that today was the anniversary of the little girl’s death made Bailey all the more sad. That a child’s life should be cut short seemed so unfair. Whose little girl was she? How had she died?

Bailey’s eyes burned with unshed tears. How many times had she wished for a child of her own? With no family, she often felt lonely. She traced the engraving with her fingertips, and her gaze strayed once more to the little blue spruce.

A porcelain angel, cheeks rosy, hands folded in prayer, topped the tree. The satin bulbs hung in the company of plastic reindeer, elves and teddy bears in Santa hats. The wind that must have blown through the night had scattered tinsel all about. Slivers of gold lay caught in the neatly clipped grass, and two of the ornaments had fallen to the ground at the base of the tree. Bailey picked them up.

The satin felt smooth against her palm, the ornaments weighing almost nothing. Carefully, she lifted one by its metal hook and placed it on the tree. As she hung the second bulb, she sensed someone behind her. Even so, the gruff voice startled her.

“What are you doing?”

Stifling a gasp, Bailey swung around and rose to her feet. Gray eyes as cool as the marble stones in Roth Hill glared back at her. At five foot nine, she had never been accused of being short, yet the stranger before her made her feel small. He topped six feet by a good three inches and had the muscles of someone well acquainted with physical labor. A black T-shirt stretched across his chest and was tucked into faded jeans, and he wore scuffed cowboy boots.

Bailey felt like an intruder. “I’m sorry.” She studied him. His face wasn’t movie-star handsome, but it was a face that would make a woman look twice. His dark blond hair, just long enough to brush the neckline of his T-shirt, made him seem like the type of guy a mother would warn her daughter to steer clear of. He clutched a paper sack in one hand; the other he held fisted at his side, not threateningly, but defensively.

“I saw the tree from the road,” Bailey went on, “and I was curious about it, so I stopped. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

His expression remained sullen. “It’s not meant as a curiosity.”

Her face warmed beneath his accusing glare. “Of course not.” She felt the need to say something further, but what? “I really am sorry.” She gave him a look of sympathy, sure he would soften. His expression changed not one little bit.

“Excuse me.” Bailey walked away, still feeling his gaze on her. Human nature had compelled her to stop, and she shouldn’t feel awkward that she had. But she did.

Reaching her car, she opened the door and slid inside. The hot upholstery burned her skin through her T-shirt. She cranked the engine and flicked on the air-conditioning. As she pressed the button to roll up her window, she couldn’t resist another glance at the stranger. He knelt in front of the grave and withdrew something from the paper sack.

Bailey watched him take an ornament and hang it on the tree.

Her heart ached for him and for the little girl who’d died at the age of seven.

She slammed her car door shut and drove from the cemetery.

BAILEY FOLLOWED the curves in the road, doing her best to shake the memory of the cowboy from her mind. He must be Sarah’s father. The way he’d stared her down left no other explanation. He didn’t want a stranger at his little girl’s grave, and she didn’t blame him. She reminded herself that small-town life was different from life in the city. A curious passerby in a cemetery in Denver might get overlooked. One here in the Colorado mountain town of Ferguson obviously wouldn’t. But then, that was the sort of thing that had first attracted her to this town. Its old-fashioned charm and laid-back ways were exactly what she wanted.

The road twisted in an S-shape, and as she rounded the curve and headed out on the straightaway, her house came into view.

Her house.

Not an apartment she’d rented for an obscene amount of money, where pets weren’t allowed and children were frowned upon.

The white-frame, two-story farmhouse sat on eighty acres. A white picket fence surrounded the front yard, with massive cottonwood trees offering shade. The backyard stretched in an expanse of long thick grass, bordered by shrubs of lilac and honeysuckle. The clothesline—a wire strung between two poles—was a place to hang sheets so the sun and wind would dry them and leave behind a touch of the outdoors. A swing on the porch provided the perfect spot for a mother to sit and watch her children play on a Saturday morning, a dog curled at her feet and Randy Travis singing on the kitchen radio.

Her own little corner of paradise.

She couldn’t wait to move in. Her furniture would arrive tomorrow, and though she’d had fun staying at the little bed-and-breakfast in town for the past two weeks while she cleaned up the farmhouse, settling into her own home would be nice.

For the first time in her thirty-three years, she had a home where she could put down roots.

It was something she’d never let anyone take away from her again.

TRENT MURDOCK HOPPED UP on the bed of his truck and cut the bright orange twine around the bale of alfalfa with his pocketknife. The herd of Arabian mares quickly gathered around the truck, bickering to establish pecking order. The closest ones thrust their heads eagerly over the top of the truck bed and tried to snatch a bite of hay.

“Get back!” Trent waved his arms at them, and they scattered to a respectable distance for all of thirty seconds before returning. He threw hay to them as the pickup rolled slowly along, driverless and in neutral gear, on the downward incline of the pasture.

He would have to move the mares to the upper field soon, but enough grass remained to hold them for another two or three weeks, anyway. They really didn’t need the hay he now tossed to them—though one would think so from their greedy antics—but he liked to baby them. He threw the last of it, then swung down from the pickup bed and slipped into the driver’s seat. Pressing his foot on the clutch, he put the truck in gear once more and drove toward the gate.

His mind wandered to the anniversary of his daughter’s death. It had been tough, and he’d fought the urge to get drunk the way he had a year ago. Instead, he had gone to the cemetery.

Everyone in Ferguson knew about Sarah and her battle with cancer. They’d paid their respects at her funeral but now stayed away. They’d given him plenty of space to grieve in the last year, plenty of time to be left alone. Though some of the ladies from the Baptist church occasionally put flowers on Sarah’s grave, no one else ever went there. Only him.

So he’d been surprised to find the woman there, crouched beside the tree, holding one of Sarah’s ornaments. He’d seen tears in her eyes when she’d spun around to face him. For the past year, he’d closed his heart to all emotion save his grief for his daughter. Nothing had touched him; nothing had penetrated the emptiness inside him. He didn’t like the fact that the woman in the cemetery had stirred something deep within him. Why should her tears bother him? He didn’t even know her.

He’d gruffly dismissed her, not wanting to learn so much as her name, but now her face preyed on his mind. Who was she? He didn’t remember ever having seen her around town. Not that it mattered. He had no interest in anyone or anything outside Windsong Ranch. The ranch was all he had left. It was all he needed.

Trent drove from the pasture, stopped and climbed out of the truck, then walked over to shut the gate. He dusted the chaff from his jeans, then climbed back into the pickup. He had errands to run, and no time to waste entertaining thoughts of a woman he didn’t even want to know.

The bank was the first stop on his list. A check for the sale of a yearling filly he’d shipped to Dallas was in his wallet and had been for a week now. Money meant little to him, just so long as he had enough to take care of the horses. Still, he should deposit the check in his account.

He saw her the minute he stepped through the doors of Colorado Western National Bank. He would scarcely have recognized her, if not for her eyes. Long-lashed, violet blue, they were the eyes behind the tears that haunted his memory. But the rest of her looked far different from what he recalled. Gone were her faded jeans and pink T-shirt, and her golden-brown hair was no longer confined to a braid. Instead, it fell in silky waves well past her shoulders. She wore a skirt and suit jacket, and sensible low-heeled pumps.

His gaze strayed down the length of her legs, long legs that went on forever, and back up to her face. She’d barely missed a beat in talking to the man who stood in the middle of the lobby with her, dressed in jeans, a tool belt slung low on his hips. Still, Trent knew he’d caught her attention. She glanced his way, then continued her conversation with the man, whose shirtsleeves were rolled up over tanned biceps and who kept flashing a toothpaste-commercial smile at her.

Trent couldn’t help wondering if the guy was business or pleasure. The woman’s persona hardly fit with Mr. Tool Belt’s, but then the image of her in the cemetery returned, and he realized there just might be two sides to her. It piqued his curiosity all the more.

Irritated that he was even taking time to think about her, or to care one way or the other whom she did or didn’t talk to, Trent strode past the two of them.

“Excuse me. Mr. Murdock?” Her voice curled around him like warm whiskey, and he tensed.

He wanted to ignore her. But he had a feeling she wouldn’t disappear that easily. Sighing, he faced her. She tucked the clipboard she held underneath one elbow and offered her hand. Reluctantly, he took it.

“I’m Bailey Chancellor.”

“It’s Trent, and I’m pleased to meet you.” His words were a formality only. He didn’t want to make small talk; he wanted to finish his business and leave. That she knew his name made him wonder if she’d asked someone. Or had she simply assumed he was Sarah’s father, having seen the last name on the headstone?

Her touch, her perfume, stirred something in him that he didn’t care to deal with. He released her hand and let his arm drop back to his side.

Bailey cleared her throat. “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday.” She hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “I want you to know I really mean that.”

He held her gaze, unable to turn away, and shrugged dismissively. “I guess I was a little uptight yesterday. It wasn’t a good day.” This was as close as he could bring himself to apologizing. She really hadn’t done anything, and he shouldn’t have snapped at her. But Sarah’s Christmas tree was a private thing.

Bailey lowered her voice. “We got off on the wrong foot. Neighbors in a small town shouldn’t do that.”

As her words sank in, he put the obvious together. His former neighbors, the ones who’d owned the eighty acres behind Windsong, had sold their place to the new president of Colorado Western National Bank, but he hadn’t realized that anyone was living there yet. So she was the woman who’d been the center of Ferguson gossip the past few weeks. Terrific.

“I suppose not,” he said grudgingly in response to her comment.

“Good. I’m glad you feel that way.” She smiled again. “Maybe you wouldn’t mind showing me your horses sometime. My secretary, Jenny, told me you own Windsong.”

Trent bristled. The last thing he needed was Bailey Chancellor coming to his ranch. He had no inclination to entertain a city woman with big ideas. Especially one who had his libido awakening for the first time in over a year. “I’m sorry.” He took a step backward. “I really can’t entertain visitors right now. I’m too busy preparing this year’s crop of weanlings for sale.”

She pursed her lips in apparent amusement and once more tucked the clipboard under her elbow. “I see. You don’t think a woman like me might actually want to buy a horse.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you?” His face warmed at the look she gave him.

“You figured I wanted to come pet them, is that it?” Her eyes sparked with something between amusement and irritation.

Trent cleared his throat. “Something like that.” He folded his arms in front of his chest. “If you’re serious about buying, then I’d be more than happy to show you what I have for sale.”

“Wonderful. When’s a good time?”

Never. The uncharitable thought startled him, yet he couldn’t help it. Something about Bailey Chancellor set his nerves on edge. Not in a bad way, but in a way he certainly didn’t like. The prospect of her coming to his ranch displeased him, but he could hardly tell her no. His horses were for sale to anyone who would provide them with a good home and proper care. As long as Bailey qualified, there was no reason to turn her down. “This weekend would be fine, if that suits your schedule.”

“Perfect. Tomorrow, two o’clock?”

He nodded.

“Great.” She gave a little wave. “See you then.” She walked away, her hips swaying just the slightest as she headed back to resume her conversation with Mr. Tool Belt.

Just the slightest was enough to rouse more than his mind.

“Mr. Murdock?” The voice calling him didn’t register at first.

He blinked at the teller on the other side of the counter. “Hmm?”

“May I help you?” She stared politely at him.

Where was his mind?

Forcing a smile, he stepped up to the window and handed the teller the check and deposit slip. He half listened as she counted bills into his hand for the return cash he’d requested, along with a receipt that read: Colorado Western National. Your Hometown Friendly Bank.

His gaze had strayed to the woman with the golden-brown hair, long curvy legs and a name that rolled off his tongue like cream over strawberries. Bailey Chancellor.

She caught him staring and flashed him a smile. He swallowed hard and turned away.

Your hometown friendly bank.

The only one he had any thoughts about getting hometown friendly with was Bailey.

A woman with violet eyes.

A woman who scared the hell out of him.

“DO YOU HAVE a headache, Bailey? Can I get you some aspirin?”

Bailey looked up into the concerned face of her young secretary. Quickly, she unfolded her hands and lowered them from her forehead. “No, Jenny, thanks. I was just thinking.”

“All right.” Jenny started to leave.

“Uh, Jenny?”

“Yes?”

“I was wondering something. You mentioned my neighbor this morning, Trent Murdock?”

Jenny nodded.

In the two weeks since she’d hired her, Bailey had quickly discovered that her secretary was a font of information. Jenny had lived in Ferguson all her twenty-five years, and knew everything about everybody. She loved to talk, and when Bailey had said this morning that she was in search of a good horse, Jenny had told her about Windsong. Jenny had bought a horse from Windsong two years ago, and gave the ranch and its owner, Trent Murdock, a good recommendation.

As soon as Jenny had called Trent by name, Bailey realized he was probably the man she’d seen at the cemetery, since Murdock was the name on the little girl’s headstone. Normally she wasn’t the nosy type, but she couldn’t seem to get Trent Murdock off her mind, especially since he’d walked into the bank an hour ago.

“What happened to Trent’s little girl?” Bailey asked.

Jenny’s pretty face clouded over, and she stepped closer to Bailey’s desk, her long blond ponytail swishing. “She had stomach cancer. It was so sad. And that Christmas tree on her grave…have you seen it? God, it just tears your heart out. No one knows why Trent put it there, but he did it the day after she was buried, and he hangs a new ornament on it every now and then.”

She shuddered and leaned on the desk. “I can hardly bear to talk about it. No one does. Trent’s wife left him after little Sarah died. She just couldn’t take it, I guess. It was really awful, though—him grieving and then Amy leaving him that way. A lot of ladies around here tried to comfort him, if you know what I mean, but he wasn’t having any part of it. Guess he just wants to be left alone in his grief.

“Those horses are his whole life, and the only time a person can get him to open up is when he’s discussing them. You really ought to go see them. I’m sure you’ll find one you like. But don’t mention Sarah. Her death’s just too much for him to cope with. Like I said, no one talks about it.”

Jenny paused for air and Bailey blinked. For a subject that was allegedly taboo, her secretary certainly hadn’t held back much. But then, that was Jenny, and Bailey was quickly learning that in a small town gossiping was highly rated.

“Thank you, Jenny. I’ll keep that in mind.”

BAILEY WORKED through her lunch hour and left the bank at two o’clock. Her furniture and other belongings were due to arrive at her house at two-thirty. She drove to the bed-and-breakfast where she’d been staying, changed into jeans and a T-shirt then headed for the farm. As she passed the cemetery, she glanced over at Sarah’s tree.

Why had Trent put a Christmas tree on his little girl’s grave in the middle of August? And why did he continue to keep it decorated? She couldn’t shake the picture of him kneeling beside the grave yesterday, hanging a new ornament. Maybe he’d done it because yesterday had been the one-year anniversary of Sarah’s death. Jenny had said he hung a new one from time to time. It tugged at Bailey’s heart to ponder what occasions made him do so. The remembrance of a special day once shared with Sarah? Her birthday? The day she took her first step? God, how it must hurt to lose a child.

She couldn’t begin to imagine the pain Trent suffered. She wished she could have somehow comforted him. Until yesterday morning when Camille Kendall, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast, had told her about the shortcut road that ran past Roth Hill Cemetery, she’d taken the long way around to get to her farm. That was why she hadn’t seen the cemetery and the tree sooner. Odd that she’d happened by on the day Trent visited Sarah’s grave—a day that surely caused him great sorrow.

Maybe fate had thrown him in her path.

Bailey shook off the thought. It was ridiculous. When she got involved with a man, it wouldn’t be Trent Murdock. Clearly, he carried a lot of baggage. She didn’t need that, no matter how much she sympathized with his loss. And he most certainly didn’t need her to comfort him. He obviously was a loner, just the type of man she’d vowed to avoid. She’d seen enough of men focused on their careers, men who didn’t want children. From what Jenny had said, the loss of his daughter had made Trent into just that kind of man.

No, Bailey couldn’t let her feelings override good sense. The only thing Trent had to offer her was a horse, and she’d do well to remember that.

She pulled onto County Road 311 and minutes later turned into her driveway. The farmhouse had been remodeled in years past and was in good shape for the most part, but it still needed a few little repairs here and there, some paint, a loving touch. She had nearly finished painting the inside. The repair work would come as she made time for it.

The moving van arrived punctually, and Bailey spent the remainder of the afternoon directing the movers where to put the heaviest pieces of furniture. By six o’clock, she was hot, dusty and tired. But she was happy. She wandered from room to room, through rows of boxes, loving the way her furniture looked in the place. The big house seemed to swallow her possessions. She would have to accumulate things to fill it. The four bedrooms, living room, family room, dining room and spacious kitchen were a far cry from the two-bedroom apartment she’d rented in Denver.

One day, Bailey promised herself, all the rooms would be filled, not just with furniture but with her family. She planned to have it all. The house with the white picket fence, a dog, a cat, a horse…and kids. Lots of kids. Whether she could find the right man to share her dream had yet to be seen. That was where her version of the all-American family often fell apart. She’d witnessed so many empty marriages, met so many shallow men, that she’d begun to wonder if real love and romance existed. The businesswoman in her said no. But that didn’t stop her from wanting children.

Growing up, she’d lived in enough foster homes to know that thousands of kids out there needed parents and didn’t have them. She’d been one, and she longed to give a child what she’d never had, to complete the circle she’d traveled and close the empty space that had claimed a part of her life for so long. If she never found the right guy to marry, she would simply adopt children and raise them on her own. Her kids would never lack for love or for a true parent. They would have roots, and this wonderful farmhouse to call home.

Bailey’s stomach growled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch. She ambled to the kitchen, where she grabbed a sandwich, then headed for the porch swing.

The sound of hoofbeats reached her ears as she pushed open the screen door. Her mouth dropped at the sight of half a dozen horses galloping across her pasture. Heads held high, necks arched, they raced in a semicircle. Hot on their heels was the stray dog she’d been feeding for the past two weeks, and right behind the dog ran a figure in a ball cap and faded jeans.

Quickly, Bailey set her sandwich plate on the porch railing and rushed down the steps. A jumble of thoughts filled her mind as she pushed through the pasture gate. From their dished faces, fine-boned heads and flowing tails lifted high in the air, she could tell the horses were Arabians, which could mean only one thing. The man in the ball cap, who continued to let out a steady stream of curses at the blue heeler-mix, could be none other than Trent Murdock.

Her experience with horses went no further than the research she’d done in preparing to buy one. Still, it seemed to her that the most sensible thing to do to get the Arabians calmed down and under control was to first contain the dog.

Considering that the animal was leery of humans and had yet to let her close enough to touch him, the task might be easier said than done. How could she get a dog that had obviously been abused, and therefore trusted no one, to come to her? Especially when he didn’t even have a name. Rolling her eyes, Bailey headed toward the barn. The bag of dog food she’d stored in the feed room stood against one wall. She scooped some into a stainless-steel dish and hurried outside.

Putting her fingers to her lips, she let out a shrill whistle that immediately snagged the attention of both man and dog. Bailey ignored Trent and focused on the dog. “Here, boy!” She rattled the food inside the dish. “Come and get it.” The dog had slowed his step and now glanced from the horses, which still raced in circles, to her, then back to the horses. He gave chase once more, and Bailey moved toward him, willing herself to walk. She didn’t want to scare him, yet the angry posture of Trent’s shoulders warned her she’d better reach the dog before he did.

She called to the animal again. This time he looked warily over his shoulder at Trent and immediately made a beeline for her. “That’s it! Come on.” She rattled the food, and the dog slowed to a trot and halted several feet away, tongue lolling over black lips. He pinned his upright ears, the black-and-white speckled tip of his tail drooping behind him, his stance indicating that he was ready to bolt at the first sign of a suspicious move on her part. She crooned reassuringly to him, and he flicked his ears forward and cocked his head.

Bailey bent over at the waist, trying to make herself appear smaller and less threatening. “Here, boy. I’ve got some dinner for you.” The dog took a hesitant step forward. “That’s right. Come on.” Walking half backward, she began a slow retreat toward the barn, holding the dish out before her. “It’s okay.”

The dog shot Trent another glance and seemed to decide his best option was the safety of Bailey’s company. He loped after her, and she walked a little faster. Reaching the open doorway of the barn, she set the food dish down in the aisle. The dog stopped and stared at her. His ribs showed through his black coat, and her heart went out to him. She couldn’t stand to see an animal hungry. “Go on, boy. Dinner’s waiting.”

He edged toward the doorway, nose quivering as he sniffed the air. Scenting the food, he darted inside and thrust his muzzle into the dish. Bailey crept forward, whispering an apology to the animal. She’d planned to tame him gradually, and had tried not to do anything to scare him or betray his trust. But shutting him in the barn seemed to be in his best interest at the moment. After sliding the heavy door closed on its track, she slipped the latch into place, heaved a sigh of relief and turned around.

Trent Murdock stood behind her, so close she could make out every murderous frown line that creased his forehead.

“Lady,” he snapped, “if that’s your dog, you’re in more trouble than you ever bargained for.”

Bailey set her jaw.

She didn’t doubt it for a minute.

But if Trent wanted to fight, she was game.

CHAPTER TWO

TRENT FOUGHT the urge to throttle both the dog and the woman. He pushed his cap back on his head, crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Bailey Chancellor.

“He’s not my dog,” she said. “Well—not exactly. But anyway, he didn’t hurt anything.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at him.

Trent stared back, unable to believe his ears. “He ran my horses through the fence!”

The expression in Bailey’s violet eyes flickered, and Trent’s heart gave the smallest jump—just enough to make him wary. He was furious with her. He refused to feel anything else.

“They didn’t get cut, did they?” Bailey asked uncertainly. “They seem all right—the way they’re running around.” She looked at the horses, and Trent did, too. They’d calmed down some, now that the dog was out of sight, and moved in slower circles around the pasture.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to catch them and see.”

“All right, then.” Bailey unfolded her arms and walked away, looking at him over her shoulder. “Coming?”

Surely she didn’t mean to help him. But that was exactly her intention. “I don’t have a halter yet,” she said. “We’ll have to get a couple from your place.” She paused long enough to grace him with a firm stare. “Well, don’t just stand there with your mouth open. We’ve got horses to catch.”

Trent shook his head, not sure what to make of Bailey Chancellor. Maybe he’d misjudged her. She hadn’t struck him as the type to know a damn thing about horses. President of the bank, here from Denver, she’d caused a stir of gossip in town not matched since Jed Sanders had shot his brother in the leg for sleeping with Jed’s girlfriend. Rumor had it she planned to create a day care right at Colorado Western National for the children of the bank’s employees. Rumor also had it that the tough-as-nails woman just about everyone in town resented was behind the bank’s new policy that had led to the rejection of more than one farmer’s loan.

But Trent had seen a different Bailey Chancellor. The woman in a pink T-shirt and faded jeans, with tears in her eyes.

Shaking off the memory of Bailey in the cemetery, he followed her. She strode across the pasture, speaking soothingly to the horses, and headed for the downed fence. There she stopped, hands on hips, to survey the damage. “I’m glad to see it’s barbless wire,” she said. “Otherwise your horses could’ve been cut to ribbons.”

Temper bubbled anew within Trent as he halted beside her. Resting one hand on his hip, he gave her a humorless smile. “Really? Why, thanks for sharing that information with me, Ms. Chancellor. I’m much obliged.”

She frowned at him. “Don’t be sarcastic. I’m trying to help.”

“By telling me how to fence in my horses as though I don’t have a clue?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I was merely making an observation.” Coolly, she brushed his attitude aside. “So, where are the halters?”

“In the tack room.” He enunciated each word, stating the obvious. “I’ll get them. Think you can make sure those mares don’t run back through the downed wire?”

Bailey’s slight hesitation made Trent wonder if his original instincts were right. She appeared confident, yet something about her demeanor left him thinking she was a little wary of the horses.

“Fine,” Bailey said, turning to watch the mares. They now trotted around the pasture, ears alert, nostrils flared as they snorted loudly.

“You sure?” Trent asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Trent decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Okay, then. Be right back.” From the tack room in his barn, he took two halters and lead ropes, then returned to where Bailey waited.

He handed her a purple halter and rope, and for some stupid reason noted that it was damn near the same color as her eyes. Maybe his cap was on too tight. Bailey held the halter a bit awkwardly and fumbled with the buckle.

Amused, Trent watched. “You’ve got it backward,” he said, not sure what to make of the entire situation. Did she or did she not know how to handle a horse?

Bailey flushed and promptly turned the halter around, this time opening the buckle and holding it in the proper position. “I see that now,” she said. “Which horse do you want me to catch?”

“Dokina and Shafana are both alpha mares,” he said. “If we get them, the others should follow.” He produced a pair of wire cutters from his back pocket and snipped the downed strands of wire from the wooden post they’d been stapled to. Removing the wire was the only way to bring the horses safely back through the fence, since there was no gate in this section.

With Bailey’s help, Trent set aside the wire, disgusted that he’d have to restring it, thanks to the dog.

As though reading his mind, Bailey spoke. “I’ll help you put the fence back up later.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is. My dog caused this.” With a sweep of her hand, she indicated the downed wire and the loose horses.

“I thought you said he wasn’t your dog.”

“He’s not exactly, but I hope he will be sooner or later. He’s a stray,” she clarified when he looked at her, curious. “I’ve been feeding him.”

“No wonder he seems familiar,” Trent said. “I’ve seen him around here before, several weeks ago, as a matter of fact, though he’s never chased my horses until now. I’m pretty sure he was dumped.”

“I can relate,” Bailey mumbled.

“How’s that?”

“Nothing. Which one is Dokina?” She walked toward the horses.

He followed. “The chestnut with the blaze and no stockings.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here. You’ll need these.”

Bailey faced him, and he placed four horse cookies in her hand, trying not to notice how soft her skin was as his fingers brushed her palm. Come to think of it, she smelled good, too. She’d caught her hair up in a ponytail, and golden-brown wisps strayed around her face as the hint of a breeze stirred the air. Today, she wore a yellow T-shirt with her jeans, and the same sneakers she’d had on yesterday. She reminded him of sunshine and a fresh breath of air.

He didn’t want to notice that about her, didn’t want to experience the desire to touch her. Amy had left him, Sarah was gone, and he didn’t plan on feeling anything for anyone ever again.

“They’re cookies,” Trent said as Bailey stared down at the flat, rectangular alfalfa pellets.

“Not chocolate chip, I’d wager,” Bailey quipped.

He fought a smile. “Some people call them cake. Take your pick, but you’ll need them to get close enough to catch any of the horses.”

Bailey crooked her mouth and arched one eyebrow. “Spoiled, huh?” Her words should have sounded accusatory, but somehow they didn’t. Her whiskey voice seemed to carry indulgence.

“No,” Trent said defensively. Then he lost his battle with the smile that kept tugging at his mouth. “Well, maybe just a little.”

Bailey drew back and gazed solidly at him. Then her own lips curved. “You should do that more often. Smile, I mean. Looks better on you than that scowl you usually wear.”

Trent grunted and let the smile disappear. “I thought we were catching horses.”

“Okay, okay.” Bailey shook her head and gave her attention to Dokina once more. Trent watched as she crooned to the little mare and held out a cookie. Dokina perked her ears and stretched out her neck to investigate, taking a tentative step in Bailey’s direction. Two other mares came forward in response to the proffered treat. Immediately, Dokina pinned her ears and drove them away, teeth bared. The mares parted company with a volley of squeals and a show of back hooves, and all the while, Bailey stood her ground.

Trent shook his head and haltered Shafana, his favorite gray. He would have expected Bailey to run at the possibility of being smack-dab in the middle of a horse fight. But she only took a cautious step out of the way, then held the horse cookie out to Dokina once more. Though she fumbled with the halter a bit, she managed to slip it over the mare’s head and get it buckled into place.

Bailey looked at him, a triumphant grin spreading across her pretty face, and Trent’s heart did more than give a little jump. It was the first time he’d seen her smile with anything other than polite reserve, the first time he’d seen such an expression of pure, childlike joy on her face. He liked it, and that bothered him.

“Nothing to it,” Bailey said, walking toward him, leading Dokina.

Trent fell into step beside her with Shafana. The other mares followed, as he’d known they would. Some had marks from the wire on their legs and chests, but fortunately none was hurt beyond those few minor scrapes, which hadn’t done more than skin off small spots of hair and hide. A little nitrofurazone ointment would have them good as new.

Bailey’s eyes sparkled. “They’re beautiful.” She nodded toward a golden-red chestnut with flaxen mane and tail. “I love that one. What’s her name?”

“Bint Sihanna Bronnz.”

“Quite a mouthful,” Bailey said. “Is she for sale?”

He shook his head. “No. These are some of my broodmares. I raise and sell foals. I also travel around the show circuit, pick up horses here and there, then resell them.”

“I see. Well, I hadn’t planned on looking at your horses this way, but since I’m already here…”

He was quiet for a moment. And he hadn’t planned on being with her this way. Hell, he hadn’t really wanted to hang around her at all. Business was business and he’d agreed to show her what he had for sale, but he’d had every intention of doing so on his own terms, in his own time. Now, with Bailey walking toward the barn, leading Dokina and chatting with him as though she belonged right here, he felt confused and off balance. He’d tried hard to keep everything in his life orderly and mapped out since Amy had left him—since he’d lost Sarah. It was the only way he could deal with his emotions, the only way he seemed able to get through each day.

Bailey and her damn stray dog had upset all that.

“I’ve got time to show them to you now if you want,” he heard himself saying.

She turned that blasted heart-stopping smile on him once more. “That would be wonderful. Where would you like Dokina?”

AFTER HELPING TRENT put ointment on the mares that had gotten scraped, Bailey assisted him in turning them out in a paddock behind the barn and tried to pretend he had no effect on her whatsoever. It had to be the horses that had her stomach in knots…that was it. She hadn’t been around them much, and finding herself right in the middle of the group of mares was a little more than she’d bargained for, especially when they started to squabble over the horse cookies.

She hoped Trent hadn’t noticed the momentary scare Dokina gave her when the mare pinned her ears, bared her teeth and charged. But then Bailey realized the horse wasn’t after her at all—she was simply defending what she felt belonged to her. That Bailey could also relate to, and she’d immediately felt calm.

Now her heart was doing a little skip-hop. Damn it, why did Trent have to look so much better in blue jeans than any man she’d seen lately?

“So, are you ready for the grand tour?” Trent asked, pulling her from her musings.

“Sure.” She handed him the purple halter and lead rope, and he hung it on the fence and shouldered the one he’d removed from the gray mare.

“The saddle horses I have for sale are in the upper pasture,” he said.

“You’ve got a beautiful place here.” Bailey’s gaze swept Windsong Ranch. An adobe-style house, looking like something from a western movie, sprawled not far from the barn, beneath the shade of massive cottonwoods that circled the well-kept lawn. The pasture, fenced in either wire or white rail, stretched as far as the eye could see. The scent of horses, hay and wildflowers caught on the breeze and surrounded her, leaving Bailey with the impression that everything was neat, clean and in its proper place.

She wondered if that was the way Trent laid out his life day by day—nothing out of place, most especially his emotions. Telling herself she had no business analyzing the man, she turned her thoughts back to the ranch. “How many acres do you have here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

“Wow. And I thought eighty was a lot.” She smiled. “It’s nice the way you put your house at the very back. Gives you some privacy.”

Trent didn’t smile. He shot her a funny look, then clamped his mouth shut as though he’d been going to say something but had decided not to at the last minute.

What was his problem?

He closed up more and more as they walked along, restricting his comments to information about the horses he had for sale. Bailey felt that he’d suddenly thrown a wall up between them, and she wondered why. Sure, he’d been angry at what the dog had done, and she’d acted a little defensive in return. But he’d seemed to warm to her while they worked to bring the horses in.

It was just as well that she keep her distance from him, Bailey decided as she followed Trent into the pasture, where a dozen-odd horses grazed.

“How experienced a rider are you?” Trent asked.

“Not very,” Bailey admitted. “I’ve taken some riding lessons, and I’ve been reading up on owning a horse.”

He grunted. “So that explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Why you seem to know something about horses, yet don’t appear totally comfortable around them.”

She bristled. “I’ve learned a lot over the past few months, Mr. Murdock. I can assure you I plan to continue that route.”

“No need to get your back up,” he said. “I was just making an observation. And like I said at the bank, it’s Trent. Mr. Murdock is my father.”

“Only if you call me Bailey,” she said. Just because they kept their distance didn’t mean they had to be formal. After all, they were neighbors.

“Okay, Bailey. Let me tell you a little more about these horses.”

She walked beside him, listening as he went into detail about the good points—and bad—of each horse. His knowledge impressed her and his honesty took her by surprise. “I thought people who sold horses were only supposed to mention their good qualities and hide their bad,” she said. She’d recently read an article in Western Horseman entitled “Buyer Beware.”

“There are a lot of disreputable people in the horse business,” Trent agreed, “just as there are in any business. But I don’t work that way, Bailey. I want my customers to be satisfied and my horses to have a good home. They can’t have that unless I’m up-front in the first place.”

“Good point.”

“Not to say any of these horses are bad animals,” he went on. “I wouldn’t have them for sale if that was the case. But no horse is perfect.”

In her experience, animals were usually far more perfect than people, but she didn’t argue. “So, the little gray mare is hard to catch,” Bailey said. “But she’s a good solid riding mount.”

“The best,” Trent said. “She’s bombproof.”

“What does that mean?”

“She doesn’t spook at anything. And she can cover ground all day long and be ready for more.” He ran his hand over the shoulder of a dark bay gelding. “This is Mirage, a son of my stallion Alysana. He’s one of the few foals I kept because he has such a great personality, but when he was a two-year-old he had an accident. Fell off a cliff and got pretty banged up. His foreleg took the worst of it.” Trent indicated a scar on the gelding’s right foreleg that ran the length of the cannon bone. “He’s sound, but only for light trail riding. You couldn’t work him hard or use him for endurance riding or anything like that. Still, he’s got a willing heart and he’s real easy to catch.”

Unlike his owner.

Bailey chuckled. “I can see that,” she said as the horse nudged Trent’s shoulder affectionately, looking for a treat. Trent pulled a horse cookie from his pocket and the gelding took it with a soft smack of his lips. He chewed with eyes half-closed, as though savoring the alfalfa cube. Several other horses made their way over to see what was going on.

Trent offered each of them cookies, then held up his empty palms. “I’m all out,” he said, rubbing the forehead of a black mare. “That’s it.”

Bailey smiled to herself. A man who talked to horses couldn’t be all bad. “They’re nice horses,” she said. “It’s going to be hard to choose one.”

“They’re a pretty good bunch,” Trent said, patting the black mare’s shoulder.

“What about that one?” Bailey pointed to a gray whose coat was flecked with red markings. The horse kept to the rear of the group. As the animal turned his head, she noted his left eye appeared cloudy, and the skin around it was heavily scarred. “Oh! What happened to his eye?”

“He had it all but poked out by a tree branch when a pack of dogs ran him into the woods three years ago.” Trent frowned pointedly at her and Bailey cringed inwardly.

No wonder he’d been so upset when her stray dog had chased his horses. “Can he see out of it?” she asked, ignoring Trent’s underlying reprimand.

“No. I don’t even know why I keep him in here with the others that are for sale. If he were a mare, I’d just put her with the other broodmares, but what am I going to do with a gelding? Most people turn away from him the minute they see his eye.”

“Why? Just because he isn’t perfect doesn’t mean he isn’t a good horse, does it?” Bailey moved toward the gelding. “Hey, there, pretty baby,” she crooned. The gelding stretched his neck inquisitively and gently lipped Bailey’s hand as she drew close to him. Bailey smiled, warming immediately to the horse that no one wanted. “I’m sorry. I’m all out of cookies.” She stroked the gray’s muzzle. “What’s his name?”

“Star.”

“Star?” Bailey gave him an amused smile. “No fancy Arab name?”

Trent shrugged. “He has some fancy stuff tacked onto it.”

Bailey rubbed the gelding’s forehead. “It fits him. I like it, and I love his coloring. It looks like he has freckles.”

“He’s a flea-bitten gray.”

She glared at him. “How can you insult such a pretty horse?”

He laughed. “It’s not an insult. That freckled pattern is called flea-bitten gray.”

Bailey flushed. “Oh. Guess I need to read up on my colors a little more.” She continued to stroke the horse, and Star responded by closing his eyes and nudging her with his head. “I think he likes me, too. So, is he for sale?”

Trent looked at her with surprise. “He’s blind in one eye. You wouldn’t really want him, would you?”

“Why not?” Bailey challenged. “Is he ridable?”

“Yes. He’s a little shy on his near side, but as long as he trusts his rider, there’s nothing he won’t do for you. I guess that’s why I’ve kept him. He’s a good horse.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to try him out later.” She gave the gelding one last pat, then walked back to stand beside Trent. “But for now we’ve got a fence to fix.”

“I told you, I can take care of it.”

“I wouldn’t feel right not helping,” Bailey said firmly.

“All right, if that’s what you want,” he said. “But it’s too late to get started now. Come back in the morning. Then, if you like, you can ride any of the horses you’re interested in.”

For a minute, she wondered if he was simply putting her off, not wanting her help, but the look in his eyes seemed genuine. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow. And thanks for showing your horses to me.”

“No problem.”

Bailey walked across the pasture toward the downed wire that separated her ranch from his, furious with herself at the disappointment that welled inside her. Surely she hadn’t been enjoying Trent’s company that much. Yet the prospect of going back to her empty house didn’t hold quite the appeal now as it had when she’d driven home from work a short while ago.

Bailey gave herself a mental shake. What was wrong with her?

She reached her front porch just in time to see a huge gray cat leap onto the railing, snatch her forgotten sandwich from the plate where she’d left it and sprint across the lawn into the bushes bordering the yard. At the same time, a mournful howl from the barn split the air. Bailey sighed and placed her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes heavenward.

Why was it she always seemed to attract—and be attracted to—strays and misfits?

She knew the answer. She just wasn’t sure she liked it. Years spent convincing herself she’d left her past behind hadn’t really changed anything. Her whole life she’d felt unwanted, unloved; a misfit that people simply passed off whenever they could.

It didn’t matter. She had a chance for a brand-new start here in Ferguson. She just had to remember that taking in strays and misfits was okay…as long as she drew the line where it needed to be drawn. She couldn’t let Trent Murdock step across that line, nor could she let herself. Keeping her distance shouldn’t be a problem. It was obvious from the time she’d just spent with him that Trent didn’t want pity. He was far too strong for that.

Yet when she’d looked deep into his eyes, she’d seen a haunting pain that she could relate to.

Relate to or not, he doesn’t want you getting close. Bailey’s inner voice spoke sensibly. He wasn’t one of her misfits to be taken in and watched over.

Which was a good thing, since she had no intention of doing so anyway.

Stray dogs were one thing.

Cowboys with haunting eyes were quite another.

CHAPTER THREE

TRENT COULD NOT SLEEP. What was it about a woman who took in stray dogs and stood up for the rights of a blind horse that had him tossing and turning all night? He neither needed nor wanted a woman in his life, much less Bailey Chancellor, yet he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. She fascinated him.

She’d tried to seem nonchalant, but she was obviously drawn to the animals she perceived as needy. She’d taken a harder look at Star than any of the other horses he’d shown her; and most people would’ve called animal control and let them deal with a dog like the blue heeler-mix rather than feed it and lock it in the barn to save its sorry hide.

Trent shook his head. As much as he loved dogs, he’d come close to phoning animal control himself when he’d first noticed the heeler, for the dog’s sake if nothing else. A stray could get into all kinds of trouble, not to mention that the animal had no way to fend for itself. He’d never understood why people thought they could simply turn an animal loose in the country and it would be okay.

He might have left food out for the dog if it hadn’t looked so much like Jax. He’d brought Jax home to Sarah just before they found out she had cancer. The blue heeler–border collie cross had become her constant companion. Amy had taken the dog with her when she left, and Trent hadn’t bothered to get another one.

But somehow Bailey had managed to distract him from all that with her unplanned visit to Windsong. Hell, he’d talked more to her than he had to anyone in a long while, other than the buyers who came to see his Arabians. He’d tried to tell himself that Bailey, too, was simply a potential buyer. But he knew better. Deep down, he had to admit he’d enjoyed her company far more than he wanted to. Why, he wasn’t sure, and that disturbed him more than anything.

Trent got out of bed at six, ready for his morning routine: feed and water the horses, check the foals, have some coffee, then head back outside to work on halter-training the colts and fillies, which varied in age and in stages of learning. He didn’t know what time Bailey planned to come over, but he was fairly certain it wouldn’t be any time too soon. City people generally started their days when business hours began. They had no concept of rising with the chickens, so to speak.

As he went outside, a sharp ringing, like something striking the ground repeatedly, came from Bailey’s place, the sound carrying easily on the clear mountain air. Curious, Trent walked to a high point of ground where he was able to look down on the small valley in which Bailey’s ranch nestled. He could just make out the woman who’d kept him awake much of the night. She was in the backyard, and from the looks of it, she was wielding a posthole digger. Surely not. What on earth was she doing?

There was only one way to find out.

Rationalizing that he was being neighborly not nosy, he headed across the pasture, through the gap in the fence, onto Bailey’s property. As he drew near, he saw the blue heeler-mix tethered to a rope tied to a tree not far from where Bailey was digging. The dog acted like someone had just kicked the daylights out of him. A mournful expression on his face, he crouched on his belly, ears flat, tail tucked, the rope pulled as taut as it could possibly get without choking him. Trent doubted Bailey had done anything to him. He was probably just afraid of the rope.

Trent turned his attention to Bailey. She was indeed digging a hole, a pair of gardening gloves protecting her hands, her hair in a French braid. She wore cutoff jeans, and a white tank top that showed off a tan he wondered how she’d had time to acquire, given that her job kept her indoors all day. Probably a tanning salon. But as Bailey glanced over her shoulder and smiled at him, she somehow seemed at home gripping the posthole digger, more than a city woman should have. More like a woman who’d come by her tan honestly.

“Good morning,” she said, blowing out a puff of air and sweeping her damp bangs out of her eyes with the back of one hand. She leaned against the posthole digger, and the morning sun silhouetted her every curve.

Trent sucked in his breath. “’Morning,” he said gruffly. “You’re up awfully early.”

“I had to be,” Bailey said. “I’m building a fence. For him.” She nodded toward the dog. “The one around the front yard won’t hold him. He jumps it.”

“I see.” Trent fought a smile. “Do you have any idea how much work that entails?”

Bailey quirked one corner of her mouth. “I’m beginning to see,” she admitted. She scowled at the posthole digger. “The man who sold this to me didn’t mention that it’s harder to use than it looks. But I’ll get it. Just might take me a while.”

To say the least. Trent eyed the hole Bailey had dug. It was no more than four inches deep. At this rate, the dog would die of old age before Bailey could fence in the yard.

“Why don’t you hire someone to do the job for you?”

“Oh, no.” She waved the thought aside. “I can do it.”

Why don’t you offer to do it for her? The inner voice that prodded him was perfectly logical, he told himself. After all, the woman was obviously too stubborn to hire someone, though he had to admire her determination. And what could it hurt to be nice? Besides, he didn’t need the dog running his horses through the fence again.

“I can’t take a chance on him chasing your horses,” Bailey said as though reading his mind. “And you can see he’s terrified of that rope. Poor thing. I’m sure someone has beaten him.”

“More than likely,” Trent agreed. “I’ll tell you what. Since you’re going to help me restring my fence, why don’t you let me return the favor and help you dig the holes for yours.” He knew she’d be too proud to accept his help if it sounded like charity.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” he interrupted. “Like you said, you can’t leave him on the rope, and I sure don’t want him going after my horses. The sooner the holes are dug, the sooner you can put the fence up and turn him out in the yard. It would be in his best interest.”

“Well, I suppose you’ve got a point there.” She shrugged. “All right. I’ll dig one hole—you dig the next.”

He had his doubts she could finish the one she’d started. “Okay.” Enjoying himself, Trent leaned against the tree the dog was tied to and watched. Bailey gave it a hell of a shot, he’d grant her that. But the ground was hard, and operating a posthole digger took a lot of muscle—more muscle than Bailey had, though there was nothing wrong with the shape she was in. Nothing wrong at all.

He couldn’t help but let his gaze travel her curves as she worked. Her breasts jiggled beneath the sports bra she wore under her tank top, and he felt the blood stir in his veins—and someplace else. Swallowing, Trent shifted his gaze elsewhere.

Bailey’s arms were firm, her long legs trim beneath her cutoffs.

This wasn’t getting him anywhere.

“Let me see that thing.” He pushed away from the porch and reached for the posthole digger.

“But I’m not finished,” Bailey protested as he pulled it out of her hands.

“At the rate you’re going, it’ll be dark out before you get so much as one hole dug.” He realized he sounded rude, but he didn’t care. Irritation filled him: he knew he was attracted to Bailey. He’d help her dig her blessed holes, but that was all.

“I didn’t ask for your help,” she reminded him.

He glanced up long enough to wish he hadn’t. Anger rode high on her cheekbones in a soft blush that did everything to complement her complexion and nothing to help his frame of mind. On top of that, the flash of fire he saw in those violet eyes began to give him a picture of the formidable figure she must make at the bank; a glimpse of the woman who turned down farmers’ loans and wreaked havoc on small-town tradition with her big-city ideas. Bailey obviously wasn’t a woman to tangle with.

The challenge drew him like a bug to a zapper.

“And I never asked for yours, either, but didn’t you say that’s what neighbors do? Help one another?” He returned his attention to digging but stole a glance at Bailey from the corner of his eye.

She bristled anew at his words, and he nearly smiled as he scored himself one point.

“I suppose I did.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But that doesn’t mean you need to dig all the holes for me.”

Pausing, Trent leaned on the posthole digger. “Do you have any idea how many holes you’ll need to fence in a yard this size?” He gestured at the huge backyard.

Bailey chewed her bottom lip. “Quite a few.”

“Exactly. What type of fence are you planning to put up?”

“Chain-link.”

“You’ll have to set the posts in cement if you want to make it sturdy.”

“I realize that,” Bailey said. “I just thought I might as well get the holes dug first.” She let her breath out on a sigh. “Fine. Dig them all, then, but if you’re going to go to so much trouble, I insist on paying you for your time.”

“Tell you what,” Trent said. “If you want to pay me, do it by fixing me some breakfast. I’ll have to have some fuel to run on if I plan to be out here building fence all morning.”

Bailey eyed him as though he’d just suggested she put on a hula skirt and dance for him. “Breakfast? You want me to cook for you?”

“Yeah. You do know how, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” The spark was back in her eyes.

“Good.” He jabbed the posthole digger into the ground and left it there. “I’ll go feed my animals and get my gloves, then be right back.” He turned away, hiding a smile.

“I have to run to the store first,” Bailey called after him. “To buy a few things.”

“Fine. See you in a bit.” Without looking back, he waved over his shoulder, then chuckled.

Bailey Chancellor was obviously a smart woman and a real go-getter, but she was a terrible liar.

From the look on her face, he’d safely bet his best horse she couldn’t boil water.

BAILEY DROVE to town mumbling curses all the way. How had she managed to get herself into this? She couldn’t cook. She didn’t have time to bother with it, and the fact that she lived alone made learning seem like a waste of time. Frozen dinners and takeout were her staples, as were cereal, fruit and yogurt. Why she hadn’t just admitted that to Trent, she had no idea, but for some stupid reason she couldn’t bring herself to.

Not that there was anything wrong with being overly domestic. She had a desire for home and hearth, but she’d centered most of her life on her career. It wasn’t a crime. Men did it all the time. She wondered if Trent could cook a decent meal. Probably not. It was likely the reason he’d turned down money in lieu of food. She’d bet he hadn’t eaten a decent bite of home cooking since his wife left him, and Jenny had said he kept to himself, didn’t date, didn’t seem to care about anything except his horses. Odd that he was suddenly spending time with her.

Of course, the way things had happened, it wasn’t as if he’d planned it. His being at her house wasn’t anything personal. He was helping with the fence just as he’d said—to be neighborly and to keep the dog in and the horses safe.

Ignoring the voice that told her he could just as easily have left her to deal with her own problems, Bailey focused on her dilemma. What the hell could she cook that she wouldn’t ruin? She could simply purchase a variety of fruits and arrange them attractively on a platter, but she doubted Trent was the sort of man who’d call that breakfast. He seemed more like a bacon, eggs and hash browns type of guy. Visions of scorched scrambled eggs and bacon blackened beyond crisp tormented her.

She needed help. If anyone could rescue her from the corner she’d painted herself into, Camille could.

When she’d first arrived in Ferguson and spotted Bea’s Bed-and-Breakfast, the name had automatically brought to mind a picture of Aunt Bee from The Andy Griffith Show. So she’d half expected a plump, grandmotherly woman to answer her knock at the door. She had been more than a little surprised when a young African-American woman greeted her with a welcoming smile.

Bailey hit it off with Camille right away. With her almond-colored, almond-shaped eyes, tiny waist and hair that flowed in soft waves past the belt loops of her Levi’s, Camille was like a porcelain doll. Yet she was anything but fragile. She’d lost her husband, who’d been a bullfighting clown, to a rodeo accident two years ago. They’d been newlyweds. A lot of women would have curled in around themselves and let grief consume them, but not Camille. She’d worked two jobs until she’d saved enough money to buy the bed-and-breakfast, determined to get on with her life, unwilling to let her sorrow interfere with her dreams. She’d named the place Bea’s in honor of her grandmother, the strong-willed woman who had raised her.

Bailey strode up the walkway to the back door of the B&B. A group of cats had gathered on the back stoop, some sitting, some sprawled contentedly. A yellow one got up, greeted her with a meow and laced itself around her ankles. Like Bailey, Camille had a soft spot for animals, cats in particular. Every stray in the neighborhood seemed to find its way to Camille’s back door. She fed them, loved them and spent her money to get them neutered. Many got homes; the rest just stayed at Camille’s.

Bailey paused to give the cats a little attention, then went inside. Camille was in the kitchen.

“Hey, stranger.” A smile lit her face. “How goes the move?”

“Not bad, but I’m in a jam.”

“Already?” Camille shot a faux glance at her watch. “And here I’d allowed you at least a few more hours before you got yourself into trouble. Whose loan did you turn down this time?”

Bailey laughed. “No one’s. I need some cooking tips.”

Camille stared at her as though she’d just announced she’d like to run naked across the town square. “What—did the grocery store run out of frozen dinners?”

Bailey explained her dilemma. “I should’ve just admitted I can’t cook, but damn it, Trent was looking at me so smugly. There’s got to be something I can make that’s not too difficult.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Camille nodded. “Something like cold cereal.”

“Cute.” Bailey graced her with a mock scowl. “Come on, Camille, I’m desperate.”

“In that case, you’re in luck.” Camille pointed one perfectly shaped nail at her. “But this is going to cost you. I may want to refinance my loan sometime.”

“No problem,” Bailey said.

“Trent Murdock, huh?” She pursed her lips and made an appreciative noise as she moved toward the kitchen counter. “He’s a tasty dish himself. Did you say you were having him for breakfast, or over for breakfast?”

“Camille!”

“Just asking.” She held up one hand in a gesture of peace and with the other flipped a dish towel away from a huge cutting board to reveal what was underneath. Two dozen, made-from-scratch, perfectly formed, raw-dough cinnamon rolls lay curled there. “Will these work? Trent doesn’t have to know you didn’t make them.”

Bailey groaned. “You know I love your cinnamon rolls. But I’m not so sure I’d feel right telling him I baked them myself.”

Camille shrugged. “You will be baking them yourself. Don’t lie. Just don’t tell him I made the dough.”

Bailey quirked her mouth. “That’s treading the line of truth a little on the thin side.”

“Suit yourself. You can always fry him a couple of eggs.”

She rolled her eyes. “What if I burn the rolls?”

“You won’t. All you have to do is set the oven temperature and keep an eye on them. Nothing to it.”

“That’s easy for you to say.”

BAILEY DROVE to the grocery store while Camille prepared her homemade rolls for travel. She couldn’t very well claim to have bought groceries if she didn’t have any bags to carry in from the car. She purchased orange and grape juice, milk and instant coffee, not sure what Trent liked to drink with his breakfast. She also bought a few other items, including more sandwich fixings in case he decided to stay for lunch. The way he’d talked, building a fence could take a while.

The thought of spending the day with Trent gave her shivers. He was far too appealing. It would be easy to get herself into trouble with a man like that, but as long as she was aware of the potential for disaster, surely she could avoid it. She wanted no part of any man who preferred being a loner. The man she hoped to find would have to be outgoing, with a strong desire for a family. A lone wolf like Trent Murdock hardly fit that bill.

After thanking Camille profusely for the cinnamon rolls and placing them carefully inside a paper grocery sack, Bailey headed home. Trent did little more than glance up and wave as she pulled into the driveway and made her way into the house. He looked hot—in more ways than one. He’d taken off his shirt, and his muscles bulged as he worked the posthole digger. Bailey tore her eyes from him and told herself the roiling in her stomach came from having had only a cup of yogurt before working on the fence this morning.

In the kitchen, she placed the half-dozen cinnamon rolls on a baking sheet Camille had loaned her and slid them into the oven. Now, if she could only manage not to burn them. She put away her meager groceries while the rolls baked, and to her delight, they had turned a perfect golden brown by the time she pulled them from the oven. So what was that smell?

Frowning, Bailey gripped the tray with one oven-mitted hand and slid a spatula under one of the rolls. Terrific. In spite of the top looking fine, the bottom was scorched and appeared decidedly crispy. She’d watched Camille bake everything from rolls to pie to homemade bread, and she always made it seem so easy. What on earth had gone wrong?

Bailey flicked on the ventilation fan over the stove and slid the rolls onto a platter. Okay, so she wasn’t Martha Stewart. She’d just have to slice the bottoms off and call it good. Maybe Trent wouldn’t notice.

A short while later, the rolls were slightly cooled, frosted with the glaze Camille had put in a plastic container. Standing back, Bailey admired her handiwork. They looked pretty good, and the fan over the stove had done its job. The aroma of cinnamon prevailed over the odor of burned dough. She should be able to pass off the rolls just fine.

Bailey nearly jumped at the rap on the door. Trent opened the screen and poked his head in. “What does a guy have to do to get a glass of water around here?” he asked. Then he inhaled deeply. “Mmm, something smells good.”

“I’m sorry. Come in.” Bailey moved toward the refrigerator. “I meant to bring you a glass of water. You looked really hot when I drove up. I mean…”

He cast her an amused glance as he pulled off his gloves and tucked them in his back pocket. “I know what you mean.”

Bailey poured cold water from a pitcher over a tall glass of ice cubes. Trent raised the glass to his mouth. She watched his throat move as he swallowed, her gaze drifting over his tanned skin, slick with perspiration, across his broad smooth chest…and lower. A single drop of moisture slid down his washboard stomach and disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.

She licked her lips just as Trent lowered the glass and met her eyes. He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and gave her a look that said she was busted. Starting guiltily, Bailey moved toward the kitchen counter. “I hope you like cinnamon rolls,” she said, pulling two plates from the cupboard.

“Sounds good,” he said, setting his empty glass in the sink. He helped himself to the bottle of dish soap on the counter and washed his hands. They were strong hands, with long fingers and wide palms. And she’d bet Trent knew just the right way to run them over a woman’s body.

Bailey jerked her gaze away. “Would you like milk, juice or coffee? I don’t drink coffee, but I’ve got instant if that will do.”

“Milk will be fine, thanks.” Seemingly unaware that she’d been staring at him like some sex-starved maniac, Trent turned his back on her and dried his hands on a paper towel. She held her breath when he tossed it in the trash can, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blackened bottoms of the cinnamon rolls she’d thrown away. He didn’t, and mentally Bailey heaved a sigh of relief as she set the platter of rolls in the middle of the table.

“Be right back.” Trent went outside and returned wearing his shirt once more. Though she appreciated his good manners, she couldn’t help but feel a tug of disappointment that he hadn’t come to her table bare-chested. Trent might be all wrong for her, but she’d still enjoyed the view.

He sat down across from her and slid a cinnamon roll from the plate. “I love homemade rolls,” he said, looking at her.

She looked right back and smiled. “I do, too, though I usually try to stick with something healthier.”

“A little indulgence now and then never hurt anyone,” he said.

She wasn’t so sure about that.

Bailey reminded herself that fantasizing about Trent Murdock was not in her best interest. But her mind kept wandering back to Trent—shirtless. Come to think of it, there was absolutely nothing wrong with how he looked in his shirt, either. The faded denim fit snugly across his biceps, and the partially rolled sleeves revealed his tanned forearms.

Bailey focused her attention on her cinnamon roll.

Trent’s moan a second later had her toes curling. She jerked her focus back to him. He’d closed his eyes, savoring Camille’s homemade roll with obvious pleasure.

“Man, this is great.” He opened his eyes, and she could’ve sworn she saw a twinkle in them. He tilted the cinnamon roll slightly to glance at the bottom but made no comment about her having cut anything away. “Do you bake very often?”

“No, actually, I don’t.” Bailey felt her face warm. “I really don’t have much time for things like that.”

Trent grunted. “Too busy making sure farmers’ loans get turned down, or are you just all tied up thinking of new ways to make the folks in town crazy?”

Though Trent’s tone was teasing, the words stung. Bailey set her cinnamon roll on her plate. “Is that really the way everyone sees me—as the mean old banker? Is that what you think of me?” If so, why had he even bothered to be nice?

Trent surprised her by reaching across the table to enfold her hand in his. “Hey, I was just razzing you.”

A shiver started at the base of her spine and crept up to her neck. His touch was gentle and reassuring. It felt far too good. Far better than her fantasies. As though thinking the same thing, Trent glanced down at their hands, then quickly removed his.

Bailey cleared her throat. “Hey, it’s no big deal. There are aspects to my job that aren’t always pleasant.” She picked up her roll once more. “For the record, I don’t enjoy seeing anyone turned down for a loan.”

“Like I said, I was just razzing you.” Trent took a swallow of milk, leaving behind a trace of mustache that made her recall a recent commercial that sometimes featured sexy men.

Got milk indeed.

Mmm-mmm.

Bailey pictured him shirtless again and mentally kicked herself.

“But people in town do talk about me,” she said, her words more statement than question.

“Sure they do,” he admitted without hesitation. “You’ve created quite a stir, coming in here with ways of doing things that aren’t typically small-town. That day care, for instance. And you’re holding a job position that traditionally has been male since Ferguson opened its very first bank. The old-timers, who’ve done the same things the same way their entire lives, are shook up.”

Bailey picked up her glass of milk. “I can assure you that accepting the position of bank president at Colorado Western National had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to create a stir in this town. If something happens to the economy, given the crises the majority of family-owned and-operated farms and ranches face these days, then the bank could go under and take the town with it. I’m trying to help by making money available to new businesses. This will benefit the town by keeping more young people here, rather than forcing them to find work elsewhere. That’s why I was brought to Ferguson.”

Trent lifted a shoulder. “I suppose. Folks just need a while to get used to it, to realize that things change.”

He grew silent, and Bailey wondered if he was thinking about the changes that had occurred in his life the past year. She wanted to offer him a shoulder to lean on. But Jenny had said he didn’t like to talk about his daughter’s death, and Bailey had her own reservations in this regard.

Trent saved her from her troubled thoughts with a crooked grin. “Hey, I wouldn’t let it bother me if I were you. Besides, a woman who bakes homemade cinnamon rolls can’t be all bad, even if she does own a rogue dog.”

“He’s not a rogue,” Bailey said. “He just needs a little love, that’s all.” She finished the last bite of her roll. “What kind of dog do you figure he is?”

A shadow passed over Trent’s features and was gone so quickly Bailey wondered if she’d imagined it. “I’d say he’s a blue heeler-mix,” he said. “Maybe part Border collie. They’re both herding breeds, which would explain why he chased my horses.”

“You said you first saw him some time ago,” Bailey remarked. “Do you suppose he ran away from somebody during the Fourth of July weekend? I’ve heard that a lot of dogs get scared of the fireworks and take off.”

“I guess he could’ve, but I don’t recognize him as belonging to anyone around here.”

“Do they have a fireworks display in Ferguson?” Bailey asked. “He might have gotten away from someone who was just passing through and stopped to see the show.”

Trent finished his milk and set down the glass. “I didn’t pay any attention, Bailey. I’m not much on holidays.”

“Boy, I am. I go all out for every one of them, especially Christmas.”

Trent’s expression went completely dark, then his face paled beneath his tan. Bailey could have kicked herself.

Christmas. Trees. Duh.

But before she could say a word, he pushed away from the table and put his dishes in the sink—a little too hard. “I’d best get back to work.” He strode from the kitchen and left her sitting there, feeling like a complete idiot.

CHAPTER FOUR

TRENT DROVE the posthole digger into the ground, furious with himself for letting his emotions show. Bailey’s comment had been totally innocent. She couldn’t have known. Still, the words burned inside him.

He hadn’t celebrated a single holiday since Sarah died. Unless one counted his hanging an ornament on her grave on Christmas, as he had on her birthday and other special occasions…as he’d done the other day on the anniversary of her death.

He gripped the double handles of the tool and let the blades bite furiously into the earth, venting his pain. A part of him wanted to block the memory of his daughter’s voice from his mind, and another part wanted never to forget it.

I wish every day could be Christmas, Daddy….

The back of his throat swelled, and he swallowed hard and blinked. He hadn’t ever viewed a Christmas tree—or a holiday—in the same way after planting the blue spruce on Sarah’s grave. He’d decorated it by himself. Amy hadn’t wanted any part of that.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to dig. He had all but two of the holes finished by the time the screen door creaked open a couple of hours later. Though he knew Bailey had come outside, he ignored her. He heard her footsteps on the porch, then in the grass as she walked up behind him.

“I thought you might like some iced tea.”

Damn it. He shoved the posthole digger into the ground and faced her, then wished he hadn’t.

Bailey looked good standing there in her tank top and cutoffs, holding a glass out to him. Her well-manicured fingernails, painted with clear polish, weren’t overly long. She had pretty hands and a great smile, and he was sorry to see he’d made that smile vanish.

He accepted the tea and gritted his teeth when his fingers brushed hers. “Thanks.” He took a drink. The tea had lemon, no sugar, just the way he liked it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t keep sugar in the house,” Bailey said. “I seldom use it.”

His gaze boomeranged to her once more as he wondered if she realized her slipup. She looked back at him, unaware. It was enough to break his black mood.

“Except when you bake, I guess. Did you use it all up when you made the cinnamon rolls?”

Bailey’s face turned three shades of crimson, and warmth snaked through him. Belatedly, he realized just how much he’d enjoyed teasing her, watching her squirm. He’d been alone for a long time. His self-imposed banishment from social scenes, no relationships with women, had been bearable up to this point. It was a way of punishing himself, although for what he couldn’t quite decide. Because he couldn’t save Sarah? Because he hadn’t been strong enough to take care of her and still manage to hold his marriage together?

Whatever the reasons, he hadn’t dwelled on them. All he knew was he wanted to be alone, and he’d been fine doing that, until Bailey came along. He wasn’t sure what it was about her that brought out this side of him, one that had lain buried for so long. Guilt threatened to take hold of him. He didn’t deserve to be happy or have fun. Sarah was gone. What right did that leave him to go on living, loving and laughing? None, as far as he could see. But something about Bailey swayed his reservations and demanded he let loose and enjoy a little friendly bantering with her.

Maybe he’d give in. Just this once.

He knew damn well she hadn’t made those cinnamon rolls. She might have heated them in the oven, but he’d recognize Camille Kendall’s recipe anywhere. Nobody baked like Camille. The town’s café owner constantly asked her to supply him with baked goods.

Besides, Trent had seen the burned bottoms of the cinnamon rolls in Bailey’s trash can and the bread knife in the sink, which she must have used to cut them. He’d gotten a kick out of the lengths she’d gone to to keep him from knowing she couldn’t cook.

“They take quite a bit of sugar,” Bailey said, lifting her arms in a casual gesture. “I hope the tea is all right with just lemon.”

“It’s fine,” he said, letting her off the hook. She was damn good at sidestepping the truth without telling an out-and-out lie.

“I’m going to the feed store to pick up the chain link,” Bailey said. “Would you like a sandwich before I go?”

Trent shook his head. “Maybe later, thanks.” He wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his forearm and looked up at the sun. It must be about noon. The time had slipped away from him while he worked, as it always did, one hour fading into the next, one day into another.

He focused on the here and now. “How do you plan to haul the wire?” He glanced pointedly at her Mustang convertible parked in the driveway.

“I have a pickup truck,” Bailey said. “If you change your mind about the sandwich, help yourself.” She started to leave.

“Bailey, wait.” The words were out before he could stop them, though he knew he should leave well enough alone. It was best to keep his distance from her. He’d made a choice to spend the rest of his life alone, and he aimed to stick with it.

Bailey paused, and Trent ran his hand through his hair, unable to leave things the way they were between them. No matter what his innermost feelings were. “Look, I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said.”

“Forget it.” She smiled softly. “I’d better go before the feed store closes. Apparently, they roll up the sidewalks shortly after lunch on Saturdays here in Mayberry.” She headed for the garage.

Trent leaned on the posthole digger and watched her walk away, still liking what he saw far too much. A moment later a familiar pickup truck shot away from the building, with Bailey behind the wheel.

“I’ll be damned.” Trent shook his head and chuckled dryly. The ’53 Chevy Bailey drove was one he’d often seen parked outside the Texaco station where local mechanic Lester Godfrey worked. Coated with primer-gray paint, the truck bore the loving touch of countless hours of work getting body and engine back to near-new condition. The tires probably hadn’t seen fifty miles, and the 389 Pontiac V–8 engine, with three 2-barrel carburetors, purred like a cream-fed cat. That truck was one of the few things Lester gave a damn about, outside of his kids and his fondness for Budweiser.

How the hell had Bailey gotten possession of Lester’s pride and joy?

Trent wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

By the time Bailey returned from the feed store, he had the holes dug and had stopped to take a break. He sat under the shade tree and tried to coax the dog to come to him. As the morning had worn on, he’d noticed the heeler-mix had relaxed somewhat, at least to the point where he was no longer choking himself. But now, as Trent held out his hand and spoke, the dog tensed once more and retreated.

“I hope I’ll be able to win his trust sooner or later,” Bailey said, coming up behind Trent.

He rose to his feet, causing the heeler to move away as far as the rope would allow. “Good luck. Do you want to back your truck over here so I can unload the posts and wire?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Bailey said. “You’ve already done enough.”

“I might as well set the posts for you,” he said. “That way the cement will have a chance to harden and you can finish the rest tomorrow.”

“We’ll do it together, then,” Bailey said.

The simple meaning of the word sent a shiver creeping up his back. Together. It was something he really couldn’t relate to anymore. But he had to admit, working with Bailey turned out not to be such a bad way to spend the afternoon. She helped him mix the cement and they did half the job, stopped to eat a sandwich, then finished the rest. By late afternoon, the steel posts jutted from the ground around the entire perimeter of the yard like so many elongated teeth.

Bailey stood back to admire their handiwork. A satisfied smile curved her lips. “Looking good.”

Trent thought the same thing, though it wasn’t the fence he admired. Bailey’s long legs had grown all the more brown from being in the sun all afternoon, and moisture flecked the cleavage between her breasts. Swallowing, Trent put his shirt back on. “We might as well call it a day. You want to go see the horses? Ride a couple of them?”

He told himself he’d extended the invitation because he wanted to get it over with. He’d string the wire on his fence that evening by himself and be done with it. Done with the day’s work and with Bailey. There was no point in drawing things out. The sooner he showed her the horses, the sooner she could choose one and the quicker he could get her out of his hair. Fun was fun, but he had to come back to reality. After today, he’d be wise to remember Bailey Chancellor was off-limits.

“I’d love to.” Bailey nodded toward the dog. “Let me feed him and change my clothes first.”

A short while later she stood dressed in Levi’s, a sleeveless blouse and, to Trent’s surprise, cowboy boots. He raised his eyebrows. “You actually own a pair of boots?” Somehow, he’d expected her to ride in tennis shoes, which was dangerous and exactly the type of fool thing he’d thought a woman like her would do.

Bailey eyed the toes of her black boots. “Sure I do. I told you I’ve been taking riding lessons.”

Trent grunted and led the way across her pasture, toward the gap in the fence. The route was quickly becoming familiar and comfortable. It was a good thing the fence would be back up soon, putting an end to that.

In the barn, Trent gathered the tack and grooming tools they would need, then set them outside near the hitching post. Halters in hand, he and Bailey headed for the pasture. They brought back the horses she was interested in and worked them in the arena. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when, after riding all of them, Bailey chose Star.

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