Matt paused in front of her

“Are we going to talk about it? Or are you going to pretend it doesn’t exist?”

“Talk about what?” She tilted her head to make eye contact.

“This.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers, then pulled away—too soon.

Her heart stumbled, then regained its balance as she quickly scanned the area, fearing one of the locals had witnessed the kiss. Thank goodness they were alone in the parking lot.

“We’re attracted to each other,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Deny it all you want, Amy. But it’s there in your eyes.”

Lord help her, she was in deep.

Dear Reader,

This year Harlequin Books celebrates its 60th anniversary—congratulations Harlequin!

I came across my first Harlequin book while waiting in a dentist office over twenty years ago. I’ve been hooked ever since. What I love most about Harlequin romances is the guaranteed “Feel-Good Sigh” at the end of every book. I’m especially fond of the Harlequin American Romance line, where everyday people from all walks of life, small towns or big cities, find their very own Happy-Ever-Afters. The characters in these stories often experience the same day-today struggles many readers deal with—working, raising children and juggling finances. A Harlequin American Romance book reminds us of what’s really important in the grand scheme of life—family, friends and love. I consider it a privilege to write for Harlequin and hope A Cowboy’s Promise leaves you with a “Feel-Good Sigh.”

For more information on my books please visit www.marinthomas.com, or contact me at marin@marinthomas.com. For the most current news on Harlequin American Romance releases and their authors visit www.harauthors.blogspot.com.

Happy reading!

Marin Thomas

A Cowboy’s Promise
Marin Thomas

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Typical of small-town kids, all Marin Thomas, born in Janesville, Wisconsin, could think about was how to leave after she graduated from high school.

Her six-foot-one-inch height was her ticket out. She accepted a basketball scholarship at the University of Missouri in Columbia, where she studied journalism. After two years she transferred to University of Arizona at Tucson, where she played center for the Lady Wildcats. While at Arizona, she developed an interest in fiction writing and obtained a B.A. in radio-television. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments.

Her husband’s career in public relations has taken them to Arizona, California, New Jersey, Colorado, Texas and Illinois, where she currently calls Chicago her home. Marin can now boast that she’s seen what’s “out there.” Amazingly enough, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Her heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.

Each year since 2005 the U.S. Senate has passed a resolution designating the fourth Saturday of July

National Day of the American Cowboy.

“Pioneering men and women, recognized as cowboys, helped establish the American West…that cowboy spirit continues to infuse the nation with its solid character, sound family values and good common sense; the cowboy embodies honesty, integrity, courage, compassion, respect, a strong work ethic and patriotism.”

Whether he wears a military or blue-collar uniform or suit and tie to work, if you look closely there’s a little bit o’ cowboy in every American man.

Long Live the Cowboy!

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 One

“He’s still out there, Mama,” Amy Olson’s seven-year-old daughter, Rose, announced from her perch on the chair in front of the kitchen window.

Ten minutes earlier, a shiny black 4x4 extended-cab pickup towing a luxury horse trailer large enough to comfortably transport six animals pulled up the gravel drive. Amy hadn’t caught the license plate, but she doubted the driver was from Pebble Creek—no one in this area made enough money raising horses to purchase such a spiffy vehicle. But unlike her neighbors in the small eastern Idaho Valley, Amy was barely hanging on to her land much less making ends meet.

Positive she was viewing a mirage Amy tugged her blouse loose from the waistband of her jeans and rubbed the hem of the cotton material against the windowpane in front of her daughter’s nose. The shirt came away smudged with dust. When was the last time she’d cleaned, let alone washed windows? She glanced at the wall calendar and sighed. She’d tidied the house right before Christmas—five months ago.

The lone cowboy sat inside his truck, yakking on a cell phone. He looked toward the house once or twice, but mostly he stared out the windshield, grinning and gesturing with his arms. Then his head fell back and his shoulders shook. Whoever was on the other end of the call sure tickled his funny bone. Go figure. Amy didn’t find the cowboy or his fancy rig amusing.

As a matter of fact she’d lost her sense of humor—what there had been of it anyway—when the owner of her last boarded horse removed the animal from her farm a week earlier, drying up her sole source of income.

Who is he and what business does he have with the Broken Wheel?

“Is he lost, Mama?”

Lord, I hope so. She wasn’t in the mood for a visit from one of her husband’s creditors.

Since when do collection agencies send their henchmen out in diesel pickups towing horse trailers?

The truck door opened and Amy held her breath. A Stetson emerged. Then a pair of broad shoulders. She estimated his height to be around one or two inches over six feet. He moved around the hood and her first head-to-toe glance triggered a mini-heart attack.

Amy had a weakness for cowboys.

He paused midstride and her ticker resumed beating. His head turned toward the barn, revealing a strong jaw and a wide mouth, which wasn’t smiling now. After a moment, he swaggered—that’s how most cowboys, who believed they were God’s gift to women, walked—over to the house. He took the porch steps two at a time and instead of ringing the bell he pounded.

“Go upstairs and check on Lily,” she ordered her daughter. “But don’t wake her if she’s napping. And stay in your room until I call for you.”

Rose obeyed, grabbing the box of Cheerios off the kitchen table—her sister’s favorite food—before leaving the kitchen. Amy unconsciously brushed at her bangs. When she caught her reflection in the window, she grimaced. Do you really care what the man thinks of you?

No, she did not. She’d transferred handsome cowboys to her been-there-done-that list several years ago.

When she opened the door, cool blue eyes pinned her. Mesmerized, she gaped, uncaring if the man considered her behavior rude. A split-second fantasy flashed through her mind—she and the cowboy lying in a field of clover beneath a cornflower-colored sky—which slowed her thundering pulse to a sluggish thump thumpity thump.

“Ma’am.”

The deep voice abruptly ended the dream. “May I help you?” she squeaked.

He removed his hat.

She wished he hadn’t.

Strands of dark hair, the color of the dirt after a hard rain, lay every which way across his brow and over the tips of his ears, lending him a shaggy beach-bum appeal. She easily pictured the cowboy in Hawaiian-flowered swim trunks surfing an ocean wave. Then he smiled.

Good Lord. He was a heartbreaker.

Soul-stopper.

Woman-dropper.

His gaze swept her from head to toe, its indifference almost insulting. Amy wasn’t a looker—at least for the past several months she hadn’t been one. Each morning the bathroom mirror reminded her that she had an inch of dark roots showing. But money was tight and she didn’t dare waste a penny on a cut and color. Besides, a trip to the hair salon wouldn’t erase the worry lines that had taken up residence across her forehead the past few months.

“Matt Cartwright.” He offered his hand.

His fingers were marked by thick calluses and a scar bisected his palm—a bad rope burn, she suspected. He shifted, the movement sending shards of afternoon sunlight ricocheting off the silver belt buckle at his waist. According to the inscription—Dodge National Circuit Finals Rodeo—the man was an authentic rodeo cowboy. Figures. Rodeo cowboys were useless. She ought to know—she’d married one.

Steeling herself, she clasped his hand, ignoring the jolt of awareness that spread through her. Holy smokes, her breasts were tingling. When was the last time that had happened?

“I’ve got business with Ben Olson.”

He hadn’t heard? Amy’s attention shifted to the horse trailer. “Ben’s not here.”

“Any idea when he’ll be back?”

“Not soon.” That was for sure.

Mr. Cartwright rubbed his chin, dragging his fingers across the emerging five o’clock shadow, the scratchy noise too intimate a sound between them for having just met. “I dialed his cell phone numerous times, but he never answered. Then a few weeks ago the number was no longer in use.”

That’s because Amy hadn’t been able to pay the wireless phone bill and the company had cancelled her service. “Maybe I can help,” she said.

Brow furrowed, he shifted his weight from one boot to the other. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Amy Olson. Ben’s wife.” His eyes rounded—evidently he hadn’t been aware that Ben had been married. “Would you like to leave a message for my husband?” she asked, hoping to buy a few weeks before he figured out the truth.

“Actually, I’d like to leave three of my mares with him.”

“Excuse me?”

Dark eyebrows curved inward over his nose—a nose that had been broken at least once according to the bump along its bridge. “Did your husband happen to mention a business agreement he made with me?”

Damn her pie-in-the-sky, dreaming, scheming husband. She pushed the words past her lips. “He did not.”

The cowboy rocked on his boot heels, clearly agitated by the lack of progress in their conversation. “Ben and I met in Pocatello this past December.”

Not surprising. Her husband had chased the rodeo dream since before they’d married. If Ben wasn’t competing, he was in the stands cheering. But he’d never been good enough to win a buckle like this cowboy. A sliver of dread crawled up Amy’s spine. She hoped to heaven that the deal her husband had struck with this man had nothing to do with the beast in the barn. “I’m listening.”

“On the eve of the National Finals Rodeo a group of cowboys organized a poker game and—”

“The short version. I have chores to do.” Not true. Few tasks remained on the farm since her horse-boarding business had gone belly-up. Regardless, she wanted this cowboy gone—yesterday.

“The short version, Mrs. Olson, is that your husband lost to me at poker and I’m here to collect on his debt.”

Blast it, Ben. Her husband had no business playing cards. He couldn’t keep a straight face if his life depended on it. As a matter of fact he couldn’t walk straight, sleep straight, sit straight or talk straight. He’d been the most wishy-washy man she’d ever met. “How much does Ben owe you?”

“Thirty-thousand.”

A high-pitched buzz whistled between her ears. She opened her mouth but only air rushed out.

“Since your husband wasn’t able to procure the funds we struck a bargain.”

“Bargain?” she wheezed.

“Free stud service in lieu of the money he owes me.”

That surely wasn’t going to happen. Besides…“Most serious horse breeders prefer artificial insemination.”

His devilishly wicked grin revealed a perfect set of pearly whites. “Call me old-fashioned, but I believe a lady who’s been properly courted behaves better in the bedroom, er…stall, I mean.”

If she squeezed the doorknob any tighter, she’d bust the hardware. “I’m sorry about the gambling debt, but you can’t leave your horses here.” She attempted to slam the door in his face, but a size-thirteen Roper blocked the way. He held out a piece of paper.

No mistaking Ben’s handwriting. She scanned the contents. The message said exactly what Mr. Cartwright claimed—free stud service for three mares valued at thirty thousand dollars—except her husband was to have delivered Son of Sunshine over a month ago to the Lazy River Ranch outside Tulsa, Oklahoma. “Like I said…can’t help you.” When he made no move to take the note, she stuffed it into his shirt pocket, ignoring the hard wall of flesh that her knuckles nudged.

“Mrs. Olson, I’m not leaving until I speak with Ben.”

The resentment and frustration that had been damned up all these months burst free, sending a flood of anger rushing through her. “I’m afraid you’ll have yourself quite a long wait.”

His eyes narrowed, leaving only a slice of blue visible. “And why’s that?”

“Because Ben’s dead.”

The cowboy’s mouth dropped. “Dead…dead?”

Was there any other kind? “Dead as in buried over yonder.” She pointed to a grassy knoll a hundred yards beyond the barn—the family burial ground. Hard to miss her great-grandparents’ headstone standing ten feet high. She motioned to the horse trailer. “I apologize for any inconvenience Ben may have caused you. Good day, Mr. Cartwright.”

This time the door encountered no roadblock and closed with a bang!

DEAD?

Ben Olson couldn’t be dead. Matt had played cards with the bronc rider this past December at the Holt Arena on the campus of Idaho State University. Although they’d run into each other at rodeos through the years, Matt hadn’t known the man well, save for the fact that he had a reputation for gambling—and losing. The way Olson flirted with the rodeo groupies, Matt would never have believed the man had been married. And speaking of wives…

The widow sure hadn’t acted torn up over the loss of her husband. Unless…had he been duped by the couple?

He smashed his Stetson on his head and headed up the hill to the graveyard encased behind a three-foot wrought-iron fence, its rusted finials pointing heavenward. With long strides he covered the ground, spewing cuss words in sync with the gravel bits flying out from beneath his boot heels. He refused to entertain the possibility that his plan to retire from rodeo had encountered a roadblock he was unable to swerve around. He stopped outside the gate and scanned the handful of granite markers. Ben…Ben…Ben…

Oh, hell.

Benjamin Olson

Loving Husband and Father

Matt shifted his attention from the grave marker to the rolling green hills that butted up to the jagged peaks of the southern end of the Teton Mountain Range. His first thought—nice place to be buried. Second thought—now what? It had been evident by the daze on Amy Olson’s face that her husband had failed to mention he’d lost thirty thousand dollars in a poker game.

When Matt had discovered that Olson had recently purchased the famous American quarter horse Son of Sunshine, Matt had been consumed with the idea of breeding his mares with the stallion. At eight years of age the stud was regarded as one of the top-ten cutting horses in the country.

Blame it on karma, kismet or providence, but Matt believed running into Olson at the National Finals Rodeo had been a signal that the time was right for the career change Matt had contemplated for months—raising cutting horses. To begin his new venture with offspring sired by Son of Sunshine was an opportunity Matt hadn’t been able to pass up.

The cutting-horse operation was to be a turning point in Matt’s life, allowing him to retire from rodeo. He remained a contender—one of the top tie-down cowboys on the Prairie Circuit. But at the age of thirty-four he was tired of life on the road, sleeping in dingy motels and eating fast food day in and day out.

In truth, he’d been ready to walk away from the sport when he’d turned thirty. But back then he hadn’t known what he’d wanted to do with the rest of his life—except that he didn’t relish working for his father in the oil business. Matt preferred the smell of a rank barn to thick black crude.

His agreement with Olson had stated that the man was to deliver the stud to his father’s ranch in Oklahoma by the end of April. April had faded into May and no sign of the stud and no contact with Olson.

The clock had been ticking. The mares’ natural breeding season was May through September. When the first week of May had passed and Olson remained a no-show, Matt had taken matters into his own hands and hauled his horses to Idaho.

From his vantage point on the hill the old homestead left a lot to be desired. The shabby two-story white clapboard—most of the paint had peeled off over the years—listed to the left as if the steady Idaho winds were trying to shove it off its foundation. The shutters had faded from glossy black to dull charcoal, and one shutter was missing from a second-story window. Olson hadn’t put any money into upkeep. Not unusual. Most ranchers and horse breeders sunk their profits into their operations.

Next Matt eyed the horse barn—in slightly better condition than the house—and the empty paddocks. Dread settled like a hot road apple in the pit of his stomach. Had the widow sold off the prized stallion?

Guess he’d better find out. Matt returned to the house and stomped up the porch steps. The door opened unexpectedly and he had to yank his arm back to prevent his knuckles from rapping the widow’s forehead.

“Need more proof Ben’s dead, Mr. Cartwright?” Her nose wrinkled as if she’d caught a whiff of a foul odor—him.

Was her testy demeanor the result of her husband’s death or just her normal pleasing personality? First things first. He removed his hat. “My condolences on the loss of your husband.”

His apology sucked the hissy-fit out of her. Her brown eyes softened to the color of well-oiled saddle leather as she murmured, “Thank you.”

When they’d spoken earlier, he hadn’t paid attention to her face. She seemed too damned young to be a widow—clear skin, nondescriptive features and a cap of blondish bouncy curls that bobbed in every direction when she moved her head. She was average height—somewhere between five-five and five-six with curvy hips and plenty of eye-catching bosom. Not that he had any interest in her figure.

He shored up his defenses. He’d learned the hard way that the opposite sex usually possessed an agenda. He’d been burned once by a needy female and refused to walk that road again. And Amy Olson, her brown eyes brimming with bleakness, was the epitome of a woman in need.

“I’m hoping we can reach an agreement regarding your husband’s debt.”

“You must be joking.”

Molars clamped together he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. The oxygen shot straight to his brain, clearing his head. “The way I see it, you have two choices, ma’am.” He doubted she’d accept either one, but what the hell. “You pay me thirty thousand dollars or I leave my mares here and retrieve them at the end of the summer. Take your pick.”

Eyelashes fluttering like hummingbird wings, she protested. “I don’t have the means to care for your horses.”

“Fine. I’ll take a check.”

She swept her arm across her body. “Does it look like I have thirty grand lying around, Mr. Cartwright?”

Score one for the widow.

“Might I suggest you sell off a few assets to free up the money?”

Her fingers latched on to her throat and he wasn’t sure if she’d intended to halt the gasp that escaped her mouth or to choke herself to death. “I’ve got nothing left save the house and the land and that’s not for sale.”

Damn it all. Why didn’t Amy Olson just brand the words Help Me across her forehead?

“Mama?”

Matt peeked around the door and spotted a dark-haired child holding a toddler with a mop of tangled blond curls. The curly-headed kid grinned around the thumb in her mouth, and a gush of drool spilled down her chin.

“Rose, honey, go upstairs.”

The widow hadn’t taken her eyes off him. He guessed her wariness indicated no other men occupied the premises. Right then the baby whimpered, and held chubby arms out to her mother. Tending to a grumpy kid trumped dealing with him.

“I’m going to unload my horses and leave them in the corral. We’ll settle things in the morning.” He’d made it as far as the bottom porch step when her words lassoed him.

“Nothing left to settle, Mr. Cartwright. Might as well be on your way.”

“I’m not leaving the area until you pay off your husband’s debt or grant me stud service.” At her gasp, he clarified, “Stud service for my mares.”

His ears winced when the door slammed shut.

“HE’S STILL OUT THERE, MAMA,” Rose’s same words echoed two hours later as the little girl stood sentry again at the kitchen window while Amy fixed supper. Following a snack of Cheerios, Lily had succumbed to another nap in the playpen, allowing Amy a rare moment of peace and quiet.

The baby had caught a cold, and the little princess was fussier than usual. If Lily ended up with another ear infection, which she was prone to, Amy would have to take her daughter to the medical clinic in Rockton. She had no idea where she’d get the money to pay for the office visit. Ben’s death had been a nasty monetary wake-up call.

The first few weeks she’d been numb. Then she’d gone into survival mode with one objective—keep the farm afloat. Now even that goal was slipping away. Reality had set in and Amy had to find a job to support her and the girls. Boarding horses was no longer an option—at least not until she decided what to do with that nasty stud in the barn.

“He sure does got pretty horses.”

“Have, Rose. Not got,” Amy corrected.

“Butch says got all the time and his mama don’t, I mean, doesn’t yell at him.”

“I’m not yelling.” Amy rolled her eyes. “And Butch knows better.” The boy was their nearest neighbor’s son. He and Rose shared the same first-grade teacher.

Rose puffed against the pane until it fogged over, then drew B+R with a heart around the letters. Her daughter was in the throes of her first crush.

“Quit messing up the window and set the table, please.” Amy slathered butter on stale bread slices, then glanced over her shoulder and noticed too many dishes on the table. “Only three plates, Rose.”

Ben’s hazel eyes gazed at Amy from her daughter’s face. “What about Daddy’s friend?”

Daddy’s friend had been how she’d explained Matt Cartwright’s unexpected visit. “As soon as his horses rest up, he’ll leave.” She slapped cheese slices on the bread, set the sandwiches in the hot skillet, then wandered over to the window.

Her daughter was right. The mares were beautiful—American quarter horses. Two were buckskins, their yellowish-gold coats popping against glossy black manes, tails and lower legs. The other mare was chestnut with a burnished hide and a brownish-red mane and tail. Forcing her eyes away from the animals she studied the cowboy.

Matt.

Ben.

What was it about men with one-syllable names? Matt was easy on the eyes like Ben had been. And where had lusting after Ben gotten her? Screwed—literally. She’d best keep her eyeballs in her head and figure out a way to run Matt Cartwright off.

Damn you, Ben. Thirty thousand dollars? Her husband had insisted he’d gotten a handle on his gambling addiction. Or maybe she’d just yearned to believe him. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

While she flipped the sandwiches, she mentally calculated the bills piling up. Her May mortgage payment was overdue, which ignited her fanny on fire. The land had belonged to her mother’s side of the family for four generations. Her parents had managed to pay off the farm before they’d drowned in a boating accident a few years ago. Because Ben had accumulated a substantial amount of gambling debt, she’d consented to taking out a second mortgage on the property to pay off his losses—under the condition he attend Gamblers Anonymous. He’d agreed.

Instead of repaying off the huge cash advances he’d taken out against several credit cards, her husband had purchased Son of Sunshine and had gambled away the rest. When he’d shown up at the farm with the stallion he’d lied and claimed he’d fallen off the wagon and had used his poker winnings to buy the stud.

If that wasn’t insult enough, Ben had had the nerve to up and die, leaving her with credit card debts, a sixteen-hundred-dollar-a-month mortgage and a stud whose unpredictable behavior had caused her horse-boarding clients to flee, leaving her with no source of income.

She’d sold off her great-great-grandmother’s rare 1860’s Patent Williams & Orvis Treadle Sewing Machine for $2,495.00 to clear one of the credit cards, but that hadn’t made a dent in the thousands of dollars of debt remaining. If she had the opportunity to sell the stud she would. But who in their right mind would shell out big bucks for a dangerous horse?

“He’s hungry,” Rose said.

Amy lowered the flame under the burner, then peeked over her daughter’s shoulder. The cowboy unloaded a hay bale from the pickup bed and spread it around the corral. Then he wandered over to the stock tank, peered inside and shook his head. No sense keeping fresh water in the reservoir after her boarding business had dried up. He turned on the spigot and filled the trough. “How can you tell he’s hungry?” Amy asked.

“’Cause he’s a good worker.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if all life’s questions came with such simple answers? Sandwiches done, she sliced an apple, delivered the meal to the table and poured Rose a glass of milk. “Wash your hands. I’ll be right back.”

Amy left the house and crossed the drive to where the cowboy stood with one boot propped on the lower rung of the corral, arms folded across the top, watching the mares race about, kicking up dust. “Your horses are spectacular.”

He turned his head and his eyes sucked her into a vortex of swirling blue. How easy it would be to fall under this man’s spell. “I’m truly sorry about your husband’s death,” he said.

Even though the words were sincere, she’d had enough of pitying looks and mumbled sympathies. It wasn’t easy being reminded how gullible she’d been. Besides, I’m sorry wouldn’t pay the mortgage or breathe life into her dead husband. “We’re having grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. You’re welcome to join us.”

His lips curled at the corners. “Thanks all the same, but I’ll grab a bite to eat in town.”

Rude man. She hugged herself, because the wind had picked up, not because the cowboy had declined her meal invitation. “You’re not going to make this easy on me and disappear, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“If you don’t mind me saying—” she gestured to his horse trailer “—you appear to have the financial means to absorb a thirty-thousand-dollar loss.”

“That’s beside the point. A deal is a deal. I intend to breed my mares to Son of Sunshine.”

Enough said. There would be no changing the wrangler’s mind—not today. She spun, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. “How did Ben die?”

She supposed he had a right to know. “He was attacked by a horse.”

The wind died suddenly, as if heaven held its breath. “What horse?” he asked.

“Son of Sunshine.”

If she hadn’t been watching his mouth she would never have heard his faintly uttered cuss word.

Shit.

Chapter Two

A smart man would understand when to stop pursuing a lost cause.

A smart man would know when to pull up stakes and hit the road.

At the moment Matt Cartwright didn’t give a crap about how smart he was or wasn’t.

As he drove away from the Broken Wheel late Saturday afternoon, he glanced in the rearview mirror. After issuing a supper invitation both Amy Olson and Matt knew he’d refuse, the widow stood in the gravel drive, shielding her eyes against the sun’s glare, watching the truck’s taillights fade into the distance.

When he reached the county road he pulled onto the shoulder and cut the engine. The anger he’d experienced at having his plans to breed his mares suspended was nothing compared to the shame consuming him.

It might not make sense, but Matt wasn’t able to shake the feeling that one stupid poker game—instigated by him—had set in motion a series of events that had culminated with Ben’s death. What if the card game had never taken place—would the future have played out differently? Would Ben be alive today?

Matt wanted to believe that if he’d been aware Olson had had a wife he’d never have suckered the compulsive gambler into playing poker.

Don’t kid yourself. You would have done anything to gain access to Son of Sunshine.

He tilted the rearview mirror and stared himself in the eye. Had Kayla’s betrayal left him with more than a broken heart and his pride in shreds? Had he channeled his hurt into a ruthless determination that ignored everyone and anything, including his own moral code?

Leave it alone, man. What’s done is done. Matt would have to deal with the wreckage left behind from his own selfish interests—a widow, two fatherless girls and a prizewinning stud whose behavior had become unpredictable and erratic.

What the hell was he going to do now? His father disapproved of Matt’s plans to enter into the horse-breeding business, and Matt didn’t relish the idea of returning to Oklahoma with his tail tucked between his legs.

You’re an ass—wallowing in self-pity while Amy Olson struggles to pick up the pieces after her husband’s death.

What was it about the young widow that got to Matt—not her looks, that’s for sure. Amy Olson didn’t come close to the sexy groupies that pestered him on the road. She was a living, breathing, walking advertisement for home and hearth—kids included. A world of hurt and stubborn pride shone in her brown eyes, yet she carried herself—shoulders stiff, chin high—as if ready to face her next test, which happened to be him.

Fingers drumming the steering wheel, he considered his options. His stomach gurgled with hunger, so he started the truck and merged onto the highway, heading north into town. Five minutes later he slowed to a stop at the sole intersection in Pebble Creek.

The quaint map dot consisted of one city block of 1920’s brick-front businesses. Fake, old-fashioned hitching posts lined the sidewalk. A livestock tank overflowing with red and purple flowers sat by the door of a beauty shop called Snappy Scissors Hair Salon. Mendel’s Drug emporium offered a park bench for customers outside its store. Smith Tax Consultants was sandwiched between the beauty shop and drugstore. Farther down Wineball Realty had been painted in white lettering across a black awning. And at the end of the block sat United Savings and Loan.

Situated across the street was a turn-of-the-century Victorian home that had been converted into a tavern. Joe’s was scrawled in red paint across the front window and a Michelob sign hung from the flagpole bracket mounted on the overhang of the porch. A pot of faded plastic daisies decorated the bottom porch step and two battered aluminum chairs graced either side of the front door. An orange tabby rested in a windowsill on the second floor.

Roxie’s Rustic Treasures occupied the abandoned gas station on the corner. The treasures: iron headboards, broken furniture and an assortment of tools and dishes were scattered about the parking lot. Next to Roxie’s, a life-size horse statue pawed the air in front of Pebble Creek Feed & Tack.

A sidewalk sign outside Pearl’s advertised, Parking in Rear, so Matt drove around the corner and swung into the lot behind the block of businesses. He left his hat on the front seat and entered through the back door of the diner, deciding he’d order a thick juicy burger.

“We’re out of burger meat. Delivery truck jackknifed near Pocatello. Won’t get here till morning,” the waitress groused when she arrived to take his order at the lunch counter. The middle-aged woman with dyed blond hair scrutinized him through her mango-colored bifocals. “You’re not from around these parts, are you?”

Matt read her name tag. “I’m from Oklahoma, Pearl.”

“I met an Okie years ago. Didn’t impress me none.” She batted a set of false eyelashes.

“Maybe I’ll change your mind.” Matt’s grin teased a twitch from the corner of the woman’s mouth. “What do you recommend for a hungry cowboy?” He read the offerings scratched in white chalk on the blackboard mounted to the wall behind the counter.

“If you’ve a mind for home cooking try the meat loaf. Otherwise the Reuben ain’t bad.”

Pearl’s World-Famous Meat Loaf…Matt shook his head. Every diner in America boasted a world-famous something. “Meat loaf it is and a cup of decaf.”

“Sure thing.”

After Pearl delivered his coffee, Matt forced his current dilemma to the far reaches of his mind and soaked up the atmosphere. Over the years he’d broken bread in plenty of small-town diners while traveling the circuit. After a while the mom-and-pop eateries blurred together. Pearl’s business possessed candy-apple-red tabletops. Worn seats made from cheap leather that sported their share of cracks and splits, allowing the yellowed foam cushion inside to poke through.

Cigarette burns scarred the Formica lunch counter, which was the same red color as the booth tables. The wall facing the street displayed a collection of license plates from all corners of the United States—even Hawaii. Framed photographs hung near the door—famous people like the 1978 4-H Fair Queen and the 2007 school district spelling-bee champion. Instead of the custom jukebox in the corner wailing Gatlin Brothers’ songs, the local farm bureau report droned from a radio at the end of the counter.

Snatches of conversation filtered into Matt’s ear. A group of elderly women gossiped about the local pastor and traded apple pie recipes. A couple of hippies in their fifties, wearing tie-dyed T-shirts and torn jeans, shared an animated conversation—probably reminiscing over a recent biker rally. A middle-aged couple in a corner booth sat stone-faced over cups of coffee. And a trio of anglers nearby complained about the new state-wide limit on chinook salmon.

“Passin’ through to the next go-round?” The question came from two stools away. Friendly gray eyes smiled out of a chiseled face covered in white whiskers. “Noticed the buckle.” The geezer’s arthritic pointer finger crooked at an odd angle.

“Here on business.” Matt swiveled his stool and shook hands. “Matt Cartwright by way of Tulsa.”

“Jake Taylor. Foreman out at the Gateway Ranch.”

“Horses?” Matt guessed.

“Yes, sir. This here part of Idaho is horse country. What brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“I’ve got business with the Broken Wheel.”

“How much you givin’ Amy for the place?”

Hadn’t Amy claimed her house and land weren’t for sale? Matt didn’t want to hear that Ben Olson’s death was forcing his wife to sell out. “I’m not interested in her farm.”

“Hope your business ain’t with that stallion in the barn.”

“It’s true then? The horse attacked Olson?”

“Hard to say. Amy found Ben on the ground inside the stall with his chest caved in. Could be the stud went loco or could be it was a freak accident.”

Matt winced as the scene played out in his mind. Most folks would refuse to take a chance on a stallion with volatile behavior, no matter how famous the stud. “I’m surprised she hasn’t put the horse down.”

“I reckon she’s hopin’ to sell the animal so she can hang on to the place.” The old man slurped his coffee. “Amy ran a horse-boardin’ business, but her customers up and left. Can’t say I blame ’em. Wouldn’t want my animal in the same barn as SOS—Ben’s nickname for the stud.”

“That’s too bad.” Matt had a weakness for underdogs, and the temptation to rescue the widow nagged him, but he doubted she’d appreciate his interference.

“She’s a fighter, I’ll give her that,” Taylor continued. “But ain’t no way she’s gonna hang on to the farm without an income.”

“Meat loaf should be up in a minute, cowboy,” Pearl informed Matt as she topped off the men’s mugs.

Jake nodded his thanks, then said, “A damned shame Payton Scott over at the bank’s puttin’ the squeeze on Amy.”

Matt hated to hear that the local banker had ganged up on the widow. Whatever happened to small-town folk caring for their own?

“Heard tell,” Pearl whispered, inviting herself into the conversation, “that Payton offered Amy a teller position, but she snubbed her nose at the position.”

Why would the widow refuse the job? Don’t ask. Matt remained silent, content to count the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the shelf behind the lunch counter.

“The farm’s been in her mama’s family for generations,” Taylor grumbled.

After Pearl walked away, Matt felt compelled to keep the conversation going. “I met Ben in Pocatello at the NFR this past December.”

“Ben had no business bustin’ broncs. Amy swore he didn’t stick to nothin’, includin’ a saddle. When he wasn’t off chasin’ rodeo dreams he mostly sat on his one-spot. Never did figure out why Amy’s mama allowed her to hitch up with the lazy bum.”

“Dig in.” Pearl set the world-famous meat loaf in front of Matt, and a Rueben sandwich next to Taylor before heading to the cash register to ring up the hippies.

Matt studied the charred meat.

“Pearl’s meat loaf tastes like rawhide.” Taylor bit into the sandwich. “Try the Reuben next time.”

Blah. Matt’s displeasure must have shown on his face because the geezer chuckled and slid the ketchup bottle over.

For a few minutes the men gave talking a rest. Matt’s thoughts drifted to the argument he’d had with his father before he’d loaded up his mares and left Oklahoma. His sister, Sam, had accidentally blurted out Matt’s plan to take a sabbatical from rodeoing at the supper table one evening and Matt had been forced to reveal his intent to breed his mares with SOS.

The old man had acted as if Matt had betrayed him and the discussion had escalated into a shouting match followed by his father’s pledge to withhold Matt’s trust fund until he joined Cartwright Oil and forgot his dream of raising cutting horses. Matt had thumbed his nose at his father’s threat. After purchasing the three mares, he was slowly building his savings account up thanks to his winning streak on the rodeo circuit this past winter.

Damn it all to hell. He hated to return to Oklahoma and face an I-told-you-so from the old man. “Anybody ever get close to SOS after he attacked Ben?” Matt asked.

“Nope. Ain’t nobody crazy enough to try.”

Maybe he was nuts for believing he might be able to work with the stallion. There were a million and one reasons horses snapped. Had Ben mistreated Son of Sunshine? Matt didn’t believe so. Ben had behaved with respect around rodeo stock the times Matt had observed him.

“Gotta run.” Taylor retrieved his hat from the stool next to him and dropped it on his head. “Hope your business with the Broken Wheel gets resolved to your satisfaction.” He shook hands with Matt, then left a dollar tip by his plate and shuffled out the door.

What to do now—load up his mares and head home? Or convince the widow Olson to allow him to judge for himself if SOS was dangerous or not?

“Dessert, cowboy?” Pearl frowned at the half-eaten food on Matt’s plate.

Afraid he’d offended the café owner, he assured, “It was great, Pearl. Guess I wasn’t hungry.” She rolled her eyes and slapped his meal ticket on the counter. “How’s that Sleep-Ezee Motel out by the highway?” He added a five-dollar tip to his tab.

Pearl’s mood brightened. “Arlene keeps the sheets clean.”

“Any critters on the loose in the rooms?”

“Not that I ever heard of. Have a good one, cowboy,” she said.

Now all Matt needed was a decent night’s rest and a few more minutes with Amy to salvage this road trip and hopefully ease his conscience at the same time.

AMY STOOD ON THE PORCH Sunday morning watching the sunrise. Today she prayed the warm rays would lend her courage to face the handsome cowboy barreling up the drive.

She had to give him credit—unlike her husband Matt Cartwright was an early riser. Amy suspected beneath his cowboy-calendar good looks, the man was hardworking and determined. She both admired and resented those qualities.

Her single experience with rodeo cowboys had been her husband. Ben hadn’t liked to toil too hard at anything. He preferred to spend his time searching for a pot of gold at the end of someone else’s rainbow.

The rig stopped next to the horse trailer and the cowboy marched her way. Today he wore work jeans—stonewashed and no discernable iron crease along the thigh like yesterday’s pair. His western shirt was a tad faded and wrinkled. When he reached the porch steps, he paused. No smile, but he did tap his fingertips against the brim of his hat.

“Mornin’.” The husky greeting poured over her like warm, sticky honey.

“Coffee?” Might as well be neighborly before she sent him and his mares packing.

“Appreciate that.”

“Comin’ right up.” She set her mug on the rail and disappeared inside. No sense cozying up at the kitchen table. Matt Cartwright possessed the kind of presence that wouldn’t fade after his body left the premises. The last thing she wanted in her home were reminders of the rodeo cowboy. She filled an extra-large mug with leaded brew and returned outside.

“Thanks.” When he accepted the cup, his fingers nudged hers, setting off a series of explosive prickles along her nerve endings.

She collapsed on the top step—he remained at the bottom. Eye-to-eye. And boy, was he an eyeful of wrangler perfection.

Swaying sideways, he leaned against the handrail, then squinted into the steam rising from his mug. How often had she done that—stare into the brown liquid hoping the answers to life’s questions would float to the top?

“I heard you board horses,” he said.

“Not anymore. Thanks to that stud in the barn, folks are afraid to leave their animals on the property.”

Matt focused on the mares in the corral and Amy took advantage of his preoccupation to study him. She began at his boots and worked her way north, making it as far as the faded-to-white patch of denim at his crotch when he asked, “Is it just you and the girls now that your husband’s gone?”

She peeled her eyes from his jeans. This was her property—she had a right to peek at a man’s you-know-what if she wanted. “My folks are gone now. Ben’s mother lives in Kansas, but we never kept in touch with her.” Amy had called Wynona to inform her of Ben’s death, but all the old woman had to say was, “Don’t surprise me none.”

“It’s not my place to pry—”

“Then don’t.”

He ignored her warning. “But it’s apparent you’ve had a run of bad luck.”

Seven years to be exact. Her bad luck had begun the day she’d married Ben. “My problems are none of your concern, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Matt. Call me Matt, Amy.”

The intimate sound of her name rolling off his tongue twisted her stomach into a knot.

“I’d like to strike a deal with you.” He cleared his throat. “Give me one week to work with Son of Sunshine and if—”

“No.” Stupid man. “I buried one cowboy because of that horse. Don’t intend to bury another one.”

Eyes flashing, he argued, “I’ve been around horses all my life—good ones and rotten-to-the-core ones. I’ll know after a few days if SOS is loco or not.”

“The proof’s buried up the hill.” She nodded toward the cemetery.

“Did anyone witness the horse attack your husband?”

Amy shook her head. She had no idea how long Ben had lain dying or dead. When he hadn’t answered her calls for supper, she’d walked out to the barn and that’s when she’d found him.

“There’s a chance it might have been an accident.”

“His chest was caved in, Mr. Cartwright. Whether it was an accident or not, the horse can’t be trusted.”

“My sister suffered a horse kick to the head when she was sixteen because the animal spooked while she was hosing it down. Something might have set SOS off and caught Ben unawares.”

“Did your sister survive?”

“She did.”

Matt didn’t elaborate and Amy was afraid to ask if the woman suffered any lingering effects.

“One week,” he pressed. “If the stud remains untouchable, I’ll load up my mares and retreat to Oklahoma.” He made it sound as if he was declaring war against the stallion.

She was tempted to give in because she hated the idea of euthanizing any animal unless it had been injured beyond help. But if anything happened to the cowboy, his death would be on her conscience. “No.”

“SOS can save your farm.”

The Pebble Creek gossipmongers were at it again. “Who says my farm needs saving?”

“Jake Taylor mentioned you were in danger of losing the place.”

Jake Taylor meant well, but he talked too much.

“If I can prove that SOS didn’t attack Ben, then you’d be able to sell the stud.” He motioned to the house and the barn. “The money you’d make on the sale would go a long way in sprucing up the place.”

He expected her to use the extra cash to beautify her home? Yeah, right. She’d pay off the rest of Ben’s debts first and any money left over would be socked away for emergencies. “And if no one wants the horse after you’ve worked with him, what then?”

“Then I’ll pay you what I can and take the stud off your hands.”

Now she knew Matt Cartwright was crazy. His sober eyes studied her. Sweat tickled her scalp. And a red haze formed in her peripheral vision.

Pity. The damned cowboy felt sorry for her.

How dare he. How dare he act all chivalrous and cocky. She hadn’t asked for his sympathy and darned if she’d allow him to play the white knight and rescue her.

But what if he can prove Ben’s death was an accident? Dare she walk away from an opportunity to get out of debt sooner rather than ten years from now? “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” His mouth flattened and his eyes flicked toward the burial plot. “Sorry. I meant no disrespect.”

“What happens if I waltz into the barn one morning and discover you’ve suffered the same fate as my husband?” The doctors had explained that the horse’s kick had crushed Ben’s ribcage and a splinter of rib bone had pierced his heart.

“Send my body back to Oklahoma and you can keep my mares, truck and rig for your trouble.” He grinned.

Ha. Ha.

“I’m a tie-down roper. I’ve worked with horses all my life. I know the difference between an animal who’s snapped and one who’s been spooked or mis-handled.” When Amy remained silent, he added, “SOS is too valuable a horse not to be given a second chance before he’s put down.”

Oh, shoot. She’d believed all that compassion had been for show, but obviously the man intended to do the right thing for the stud. She wondered if he was also concerned with doing the right thing for her and the girls. “I can’t afford feed and upkeep for the horses.”

“I’ll cover the costs for the animals and myself in exchange for hot showers and place to rest my head at night.”

Was it her imagination or had his eyes strayed to her breasts when he’d mentioned resting his head somewhere? “I’m a woman alone with two children, Mr. Cartwright.”

“I’ll give you a list of references.” He snapped his fingers. “As a matter of fact, call Jake Taylor over at the—”

“Gateway Ranch,” she finished for him.

“Taylor and I ate supper at Pearl’s last night.”

Amy trusted the ranch foreman. Jake Taylor had been a close friend of her grandfather. If Jake had any doubts about Cartwright’s character he’d tell her. “Excuse me a minute.” She headed inside. A sheet of paper with Jake’s cell number along with a dozen other neighbors’ numbers was taped to the wall by the kitchen phone. Jake answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Jake, it’s Amy.”

“Hello, Amy. Everythin’ okay out your way?”

“We’re all fine. Listen, I’m calling about Matt Cartwright.”

“The rodeo cowboy?”

“Yes. He said you two met at Pearl’s yesterday. He’s asking for a chance to work with Son of Sunshine.” She left out the part about Matt wanting to stash his bedroll in her house. “Can I trust him?”

“I’d bet my best pair of ridin’ gloves that he’s a man of his word. Ain’t nobody else willin’ to get near that horse.”

“I’m leaning toward giving him a shot,” she admitted.

“Tell ya what, missy. I’ll drop by soon and check on him.”

Reassured, Amy said, “Thanks, Jake.” After a brief goodbye she hung up.

An I-told-you-so grin greeted her when she stepped onto the porch. “Did I pass muster?”

“You passed.” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She wished she possessed half the cowboy’s self-assuredness.

“Where should I stow my stuff?”

“The barn.”

His face paled.

“You want to work with Son of Sunshine you might as well bunk with him, too.” Amy swallowed a chuckle at his worried frown. “I’ll loan you a pillow and a blanket for the cot in the tack room.” She heard noises coming from the kitchen—the girls were up for the day. Halfway to the door, she stopped and issued a warning. “I wouldn’t bother unpacking, Mr.—”

“Matt.”

“I have a hunch you’ll be calling it quits before day’s end.”

“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Amy.”

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