A SMALL TOWN. A BIG SURPRISE.

Handsome, strange men are not on Violet Summer’s radar—especially ones sitting in her diner in too-new cowboy gear. She’ll eat an old boot if Sam Michaels is a real cowboy. Nope, there’s a reason Mr. Phony Cowboy and his teenage daughter are here in Rodeo, Montana...and she’ll find out the truth.

Sam just wants to get back to New York. He doesn’t need complications, like the gorgeous diner owner who irritates and intrigues him at the same time. Or a simmering attraction that results in one unforgettable night—and an unexpected bun in the oven! Now he’s torn between his big-city life...and becoming a real cowboy for good.

“Now, Miss Retro Diner Owner, are you going to laugh at my riding skills again?”

Vy stalked to the edge of the stream, hot and bothered and struggling to get herself under control.

She felt Sam’s heat behind her.

“Now that we’ve acknowledged our attraction to each other, do you want to tell me why you hate me so much?”

“You’re a phony,” she said. “You’re no more a cowboy than I am.”

“Considering how obvious it is that I can’t even fake it well, yes. I am a phony. I have my reasons.”

She rounded on him. Big mistake. His nearness, his height, his insightful gray eyes disconcerted her.

Damn. She wasn’t used to being out of control. She was the one people came to for her cool head under pressure.

What was this man doing to her?

Dear Reader,

I have so much fun writing about the cowboys and children in my stories, and in particular, about those in the small town of fictitious Rodeo, Montana.

As I moved along in this series, I wondered how the townspeople would react to a man who comes to town pretending to be a cowboy when it’s painfully obvious that he isn’t one!

How would a certain diner owner, who’s been hurt by a phony in her past, be affected?

Sam and Violet’s story blossomed out of that idea and raised so many questions. Why on earth would a normally intelligent city man decide it was a good idea to pretend to be a cowboy? How did he think he could possibly pull it off?

The answer to the second question is that he doesn’t. He is found out immediately.

The answer to the first question is the strongest motivator of all—love for a very dear grandfather. All of his ill-fated decisions were made to protect a man he adores.

Sam’s biggest mistake is in thinking that the six women, including Violet, who are reviving the local rodeo and amusement park to save their small town, could possibly be dishonest and cheating his grandfather. It’s a huge assumption that takes Sam most of the story to realize is all wrong, but along the way he falls for spirited, opinionated Violet.

I hope you enjoy their story.

Mary Sullivan

Rodeo Baby

Mary Sullivan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARY SULLIVAN has a fondness for cowboys and ranch settings, even though she grew up in the city. She found her mother’s stories about growing up in rural Canada fascinating. Her passions outside of writing include time spent with friends, great conversation, exploring her city, cooking, walking, traveling (including her latest trip to Paris!), reading, meeting readers and doing endless crossword puzzles.

She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at marysullivanbooks.com, or via her Facebook author page, Facebook.com/marysullivanauthor

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

The second Violet Summer laid eyes on the stranger, an unreasonable swell of sexual awareness bloomed.

The man wasn’t even her type, yet here she stood stunned, and bothered, with Lester Voile’s coffee and Mama’s Best Meat Loaf cooling in her hands.

Rats.

Rodeo, and the Summertime Diner, rarely saw anyone like the stranger sliding into the second booth from the front door—suave, urbane...and dressed like a cowboy?

If he’d ever ridden out on the range, Vy would eat an old boot.

He looked like a movie star acting the role of a cowboy but not playing him well.

She chronicled every detail, including the neatly ironed jeans. What cowboy worth his salt ironed his jeans? How many decades had it been since anyone ironed jeans?

Vy started toward his booth.

He set his cowboy hat, sweat-free and spotless, on the table in front of him. Sunlight streaming through the window shot rays through his golden hair. His strong, clean-shaven jaw sent shivers through her.

Even knowing he was too slick and polished to be a real cowboy, she found him attractive, deep in her gut where reaction came before thought.

No, he was not her type, but good grief, just what she needed—an instant attraction to an imitation cowboy. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about these days.

Irritated, she plunked Lester Voile’s meal on his table.

Ignoring Lester’s muttered thanks, she approached the stranger’s booth, self-protective instincts on high alert.

Why, Vy? He’s just a guy who’s dropped into your diner. A stranger. You know nothing about him. There’s nothing to protect yourself from.

Except her own unruly attraction.

She pulled out her notepad and waited, giving the stranger a minute to adjust to her presence. He knew she was there. As she’d approached, he’d checked out her legs from under his blond lashes.

He set aside the menu and looked up. With that blond hair, she’d expected blue eyes, not the deep, cool gray that studied her.

He smiled, his grin broad and confident. Good Lord, the man had dimples and used them to good effect.

Well, he could grin all day long. She was immune. Plus his smile didn’t reach his eyes, so it was just charm, not innate good humor or character, which she valued a heck of a lot more than personality.

Or, Vy, maybe he’s in a bad mood and trying to rise above it. Don’t make assumptions. People do have them, y’know. You’ve seen enough people come into the diner when their lives were low to not take it personally. Don’t do it now. Park your paranoia in your apron pocket and do your job.

She asked, “Can I take your order?”

“I’ll have the World’s Best Cheeseburger with everything but onions.” Why did he have to have a melodious, deep voice that spoke to Vy’s longings? She hardened her defenses.

She had her hands full running the diner, not to mention pulling together all of the concession stands for the revived fair and rodeo at the end of August.

Handsome men were not on her agenda.

Slowly, the man pulled his eyes away from hers and said, “What do you want, honey?”

Huh? What did she want? And who was he calling honey—

A young voice to her right spoke. Vy glanced toward the other bench of the high-backed booth.

Oh. He wasn’t alone. How had she missed that?

A young girl glared at the man. She couldn’t be more than twelve, maybe thirteen, cloaked in not only enough black punk accessories to build body armor but also plenty of baby fat and attitude. Straight white teeth and a flawless complexion hinted at beauty in development. The kid would be a knockout someday, despite her current wardrobe.

Vy had learned early to be a quick judge of character. Unless she missed her guess, the kid belonged in a prep school somewhere, not in a diner in a small town pretending to be tough.

Vy knew a lost baby chick when she saw one.

She used to be one.

“Chelsea, I’ll ask only one more time,” the man said, voice thick with forced patience. “What will you have for lunch?”

When the girl crossed her arms with a mulish jut of her jaw and refused to respond, the man ordered for her. “My daughter will also have a cheeseburger, but top hers with plenty of onions.”

“Daaad.” Chelsea sat up straight. “You know I hate onions.”

He held up one finger. “Then the next time I ask you a question not once but twice, you’ll do me the courtesy of responding.”

Hmm... With many of the fathers she knew, local cowboys and ranchers, the conversation would have gone something like “When I ask a question, you answer. Got it?” Nothing as refined as “You’ll do me the courtesy of responding.”

Vy bit back a smile. This fake cowboy gave himself away at every turn.

To Vy, he said, “We’ll both have fries with the burgers. I’ll have a coffee and my daughter will have a glass of milk.”

“But I want a soda.” Again with the whiny voice.

“Goes back to what I said earlier. I ask and you respond.” His attention swinging back to Vy, he held on to his grin desperately, but cracks in the wall of his charm showed. “Bring her milk.”

“Got it.” She pointed to his cowboy hat. “No need to leave your hat on the table.”

She indicated the hooks that lined the walls on both sides of the front door.

“Wouldn’t want you to spill anything on your spotless, brand-spanking-new hat.”

Laughing, she returned to the kitchen, glad to leave the tension coiled at the table like a rattlesnake. She regretted that they’d wandered into her diner. She welcomed all business, but not the heartache on that poor girl’s face and the fissures in the careful facade of the father’s cultured shell.

The man looked like he belonged more in the Tradition Golf and Country Club way up the highway in Festival than he did in the Summertime Diner in Rodeo, but who they were and what they were doing here were none of her business or concern.

Ha. As if you could ever keep your nose out of other people’s business.

Vy grinned and turned her attention to picking up orders.

* * *

SAM CARMICHAEL, AKA Sam Michaels, watched the waitress walk away, the sway of her nicely rounded hips captivating.

Her nametag read “Violet,” a soft, old-fashioned name for a woman with intelligence and cheekiness snapping in her gaze.

Violet Summer.

One of the five.

No, at last count there were six of them, the people who were reviving his grandfather’s amusement park, the people he’d come here to investigate. Using Gramps’s fairgrounds, five local women planned to stage a fair and a rodeo at the end of the summer. Recently they’d added a newcomer, an accountant, to their team.

They had leased Gramps’s land for one dollar and a handshake.

No contract.

Sam was here to make sure Gramps wasn’t being taken for a ride.

The waitress—a damned good-looking woman with jet hair, clear skin and a retro fifties’ tight bodice and flared skirt—entered the kitchen, cutting off his view of her.

She had purple eyes. No, to be more accurate, he’d say violet, purple softened with a hint of gray. He’d never seen a color like them.

Or maybe he had. Elizabeth Taylor had purple eyes. As a boy, he used to enjoy watching old movies with his mother, but he’d never seen such an unusual color in the flesh before.

Were they real? Could they be contacts?

His fascination with the woman overcame his pique with his daughter’s incessant, grinding resistance.

Chelsea slumped low in the booth across from him.

Sure, divorce took its toll on kids, but it had been a full year since he and Tiffany had signed the papers, and more than a year and a half since Tiff had said, “I’ve met someone else. I want a divorce,” gutting Sam.

Standing, he sighed. Nineteen to twenty months wasn’t nearly long enough to process betrayal and greed. Tiffany’s, not his.

While his daily mantra ran through his head—success is the best revenge—he hung his hat where the waitress had indicated, then returned to his table, nodding to the old guy two booths away eating meat loaf and mashed potatoes.

The man, ancient and wrinkled, eyed him suspiciously.

This diner and the bar at the end of the street called Honey’s Place were the only eating establishments as far as he could tell.

Guess they were stuck with diner food with corny names. World’s Best Cheeseburger...

The diner could have been picked up and plunked down in any fifties’ town. He was surprised there weren’t Elvis and Chuck Berry songs blaring from jukeboxes.

Deep red leather banquettes framed gray Formica tables. Red-and-white-checked cotton place mats sat at the ready.

The paintings on the wall came as a surprise. He expected nostalgic black-and-white photos but instead saw rustic, wild landscapes. Were the artist and scenery local? He couldn’t deny they were good. He also couldn’t deny the scenery around this little town was spectacular.

“Why can’t we use our own names?” Chelsea picked at her peeling nail polish. He wished she’d quit with the unrelieved black. “Why do we have to pretend to be other people?”

“Shush.” Sam shot a glance around the diner. No one seemed to have heard Chelsea’s remark, thank goodness. “We have to be Sam and Chelsea Michaels so I can determine what’s going on about the rodeo.”

“Why don’t you just ask?”

She’s still so young, he reminded himself, and so naive.

“I don’t trust people to be honest.”

“Maybe you should. Maybe we aren’t all the creeps you think we are.”

He stilled. “You actually believe I think you’re a creep?” he whispered, unable to mask the hurt that coursed through him. Hadn’t he proved his love all of the times in her childhood he’d held her and told her how much he loved her?

She shrugged. Love her or not, he’d come to hate her shrugs as much as her eye rolls. Double for the word duh. And d’oh.

The waitress returned. Black eyeliner tilted up at the corners of her eyes and deep red lipstick emphasized lush lips. She fit right in with the decor. Did she have to dress in that fifties’s fashion?

The style suited her spectacular figure, emphasizing generous hips, a tiny waist and full breasts. The lush proportions worked, reminiscent again of Elizabeth Taylor.

Give your head a shake. For Gramps’s sake, it wasn’t wise to find her attractive. She was one of them. Once he determined how the women resurrecting the local fair were ripping off his grandfather, he would shut them down and move back east.

The sooner he could get back to New York to set up his next business venture, the better.

Careful, his rational, less emotional side cautioned. You need to first determine if they are indeed cheating him. But that one-dollar lease disturbed him.

The waitress put his plate in front of him and then Chelsea’s in front of her. He couldn’t smell onions on Chelsea’s burger, but that meant nothing. There were so many scents in the diner he wasn’t sure he would be able to.

Chelsea peeked under the top of the hamburger bun. A tiny, mean-spirited smile that usually meant trouble formed at one corner of her mouth.

Sam braced himself. Where had his sweet daughter gone and who was this stranger now in possession of her body? Apparently, once a girl turned thirteen, demons took over.

He glanced at the waitress. “You wouldn’t happen to know where the closest exorcist lives, would you?”

Violet smiled—even, white teeth framed by cherry red. “We’re plumb out. We burned the last one at the stake with all of our witches a hundred years back.”

Sam stared. She’d gotten his joke! His ex-wife’s reaction had always been a frown because she hadn’t understood his humor. Chelsea used to get his jokes but had become too cool to laugh or even smile. He’d grown used to their negativity. The waitress’s willingness to play along was pure pleasure. He perked up.

She jerked her chin toward his daughter. “It’s surprising what a good cheeseburger will do to expel demons.”

Chelsea took her time looking over the waitress insolently. Apparently, once she’d become a teenager, she’d lost all of the good manners that had been drummed into her throughout her short childhood.

“You dress funny,” she said with a snicker.

“Chelsea!”

Violet leaned one hand on the table and rested her other on her hip. “So do you.”

Chelsea scowled. “You’re only a waitress. You can’t talk to me like that.”

“When you are rude to me, I can respond in any way I please. If you don’t like it, you can leave. Are you going to eat your meal or should I take it away?”

“I’ll eat.” Sam detected grudging respect in Chelsea’s tone.

The waitress straightened away from the table. “Take the silver spoon out of your mouth first so you don’t choke.”

A grudging smile bloomed on Chelsea’s face.

How did the woman know they had money? To fit in, Sam had dressed down in denim and a plaid shirt, along with cowboy boots and hat.

Chelsea wore black punk. What about them said money? Nothing, as far as he could tell. He had to be more careful. The woman’s intuition disturbed him and he struck out at her.

“I asked you to load her burger with onions.” He hadn’t really wanted the waitress to, but Chelsea had many lessons to learn and Sam had no patience left for teaching them. Every stop on this ill-conceived trip, every mile of highway traveled across country and every single black inch of asphalt navigated had been littered with heartache for both of them. When all roads had steep uphill pitches, all you wanted was to roll backward and give up.

He wished he could turn back time and start over with his daughter.

Violet flipped her violet gaze on Sam. “Do you want her to eat or not?”

“At this point, I don’t much care,” he groused. Tired, hungry and out of patience, he wished he was back home in Manhattan where he belonged.

“Mom says I shouldn’t eat too much,” his child piped up. “She says I’m too fat.”

“You’re not fat!” Sam hadn’t meant to raise his voice, but Tiffany’s complaints about Chelsea had worn him thin. “You’re perfect, okay?”

“You should eat, kid.” The waitress smelled like fried food and roses.

Sam held his breath. Nobody called Chelsea a kid and got away with it. On her young, chubby face, thunder started to build.

Then Violet added, “It takes a lot of calories to feed that much ’tude.”

Chelsea burst out laughing, stunning Sam. His daughter, who hadn’t laughed in months, who hadn’t given him a genuine smile in twice that long, picked up her burger and happily bit into it.

Violet sauntered away while Sam envisioned himself getting down on his knees and kissing her feet...and every inch of her calves. She had great calves, strong but feminine.

She returned with their drinks.

“Has anyone ever mentioned that your name matches your eyes?” They were gorgeous.

“Nope. Not once. That’s a new one.” She slapped cream and sugar onto the table in front of him.

His jaw hardened. She had no right to treat him badly. It was just mild harmless flirtation. “You’ve got a lot of attitude.” He didn’t like sarcasm. Didn’t like people treating him badly. Back home—

Well, he wasn’t back home, was he?

“Let me speak to the manager,” he ordered.

“That would be me.”

“Okay, then. Is the owner in?”

She tapped one red-tipped fingernail against her chin. “Let me think. Yes. That would also be me.”

Chelsea giggled.

Good Lord. Two against one. “You don’t know much about business and good customer service, do you?”

He’d meant to put her in her place, but she turned to the customers in the large room and called out, “Does anyone have trouble with how I run my business?”

One and all shook their heads no.

Damn. He hadn’t meant to draw attention.

“Do I give good customer service or not?”

“Good service, Vy,” the old guy two tables down yelled. “Love the mashed potatoes. What did you say you put in them?”

“Garlic, Lester. That’s why they’re called garlic mashed potatoes.”

“Makes sense.” Lester nodded. “Like ’em. Refill my coffee when you get a minute?”

“Sure thing. I’ll get right on it as soon as I can get away from this table.”

Heat in Sam’s cheeks burned. His daughter watched him with a mocking smile. The townspeople watched him curiously. Great. He’d wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself, but here he was center stage because of this bad-tempered woman.

She presented her back to him and walked away.

“All I did was be nice to her,” he mumbled while he doctored his coffee.

“You gave her your fake, cheesy grin, Dad. You were flirting with her badly.”

He pinned his daughter with a hard glare. “What do you know about flirting?”

She rolled her eyes. Sick of the action, he pulled out of his pocket a small change purse he’d picked up at a souvenir shop on the way. “You rolled your eyes. Pay up.”

“Daaad.”

“Pay up.” He held out the purse. “Now.”

She took a quarter out of her pink knapsack and dropped it into the change purse.

“It’s getting heavy,” he remarked.

“You’re mean to take money away from your daughter. I’m only thirteen years old!”

“Thirteen going on twenty. Your mother gave you all kinds of money before we left. I give you a good allowance. You ain’t starving, kid.”

“Aren’t. It’s aren’t starving. Just because we’re in this tiny town doesn’t mean you have to speak like the locals.”

Sam grinned, but didn’t apologize. “What was wrong with my flirting with the waitress?”

“Owner.”

“Owner,” he conceded.

“You’re coming on way too strong. It makes you sound corny. Maybe you forget how to do it right because you’re getting old.”

He bristled. “Since when is thirty-nine old?”

She shrugged.

A minute later, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with flirting. It’s what men and women do when they’re attracted to each other.”

“I know, but don’t be so artificial about it.” She mimicked him with a false voice, “‘Your violet eyes match your name,’” and, worse, with a fake smile. She looked like a politician.

“Her eyes do match her name.” Defensiveness made him petulant.

“Yeah, and that’s so obvious. Everybody must say that to her. You have to notice different things and say more original stuff.”

“Like what?”

“She’s funny. She makes me laugh.”

“At my expense. I’m not about to compliment her on her sense of humor when I’m the butt of her jokes.” He liked her legs, especially her calves.

“So should I have said, ‘Great calves, lady’? Yeah, that would have gone over real well.”

Chelsea peered around the edge of the booth to look at Violet’s legs as she stood chatting with customers at another table. The girl turned back to him with wide eyes. “Her calves are kind of big. You think they’re great?”

“Sure. They’re shapely.”

The thoughtful frown on Chelsea’s forehead intrigued him.

“There’s nothing wrong with a woman being shapely.”

She nodded, still thoughtful.

“I wasn’t kidding, Chelsea. You are perfect the way you are. Your mom stressed too much about being thin.”

“So, like, didn’t you like her that thin?”

“I wouldn’t have minded if she worried about it less. It was always on her mind. She ate like a bird.”

“Not really, Dad. Lots of birds eat half their body weight every day.”

He smiled slowly because Chelsea was smiling, too. When she was small, they seemed to have this ability to read each other’s minds and get each other’s jokes before they’d even been delivered. “Can you imagine your mom eating half her body weight?”

She laughed then sobered. “She used to binge and purge.”

Sam’s lips thinned. “Purge. You mean...”

Chelsea sighed. “Yeah. Didn’t you know? Mom used to get rid of her food after dinner all the time.”

He’d known, of course—she was painfully thin—but had hoped Chelsea had remained ignorant. It seemed she’d been aware all along.

Kids always did seem to know everything you tried to hide from them.

He wanted his daughter to have healthy behavior.

“Chelsea, promise me something?”

She made a noncommittal sound, which he took as permission to continue. “Never do that. Okay? Never. Enjoy your food and your life. Nothing is worth that kind of behavior. It didn’t buy your mother more love or more respect. Okay?”

“Yeah.” She stared at the fry in her hand. “Okay.”

“Eat up.” He picked up his burger.

On her way along to another customer, Violet slapped a bowl of ketchup onto their table.

What was her problem?

He was a paying customer like everyone else in the diner and deserved as much respect, but she’d taken an instant dislike to him.

Or maybe it was you trying to get her into trouble with her manager, Sam, who just happened to be her.

Starving, he bit into his burger and instantly sat up straight.

“This is good.” He wiped juice from his chin. “Excellent.”

“Yeah. It’s the best burger I’ve had since we left home.”

“No fooling.” It was the best he’d had in years.

“The fries are good, too,” Chelsea said.

He bit into one, twice fried so they were crispy. Vinegar and pepper sharpened the side dish of coleslaw.

Maybe eating here wouldn’t be so bad, after all, if the rest of the meals lived up to their corny names.

For the first time since leaving home, he felt in harmony with his daughter. He’d missed that amazing feeling.

A craving arose in him to relax with her and have fun like he used to do, to tease her and hug her and call her goofy pet names.

He didn’t want to be this uptight guy he’d become since Tiffany’s betrayal.

On impulse, he blurted, “Let’s share dessert?”

She brightened a little. “Okay.”

They argued for a good five minutes about what they would share.

“I’m too full to eat a whole dessert,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“So we have to come to an agreement. We do that by negotiation.”

“Dad, I hate when you teach me. Why can’t we just talk?”

“I thought we were just talking.”

“No, you’re lecturing and I’m—”

They were interrupted by Violet plopping a plate in the middle of the table with small portions of four desserts and two forks.

“Knock yourselves out,” she said. She slapped their bill onto the table and walked away. He checked the total. Too reasonable. She needed to raise the price points on her meals.

“She heard us arguing.” Chelsea stared at the plate before picking up a fork and tasting the cherry cheesecake. “Oh, that’s sooo good. She’s smart. She has good solutions to problems.”

“She does.” Sam had to agree. Why hadn’t he just asked her if she could sell them portions? So would she have a solution to his biggest problem?

He motioned her over.

She watched him with what could only be described as neutrality. Apparently, it was too much to expect friendliness.

“We’re going to be in the area for a while. Can you recommend a place to stay?”

“Hotel? Bed-and-breakfast? A rental room for a longer stay?”

“Dad needs a job.”

Sam choked on a bite of cheesecake and coughed. After a gulp of coffee, he glared at his daughter. No, no, no. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He’d planned to glide in under the radar, to get the lay of the land and to see if he could get answers before having to commit to the last, desperate level of subterfuge.

But now it was out in the open. Damn.

“Not really. I—”

“A job? As a ranch hand? Sure,” the owner responded almost gleefully. “That can be arranged. There’s always room for a hardworking cowboy on any ranch in the county. Especially for an experienced one, which you must be at your age.”

Your age? Why was everyone fixated on his age?

Chelsea laughed, enjoying this too much.

“You have your daughter with you,” Violet said, “so that will limit the living arrangements. You can’t stay in a bunkhouse. Let me see what I can do. I’ll make a few calls.”

“But—” She left before he could stop her.

“Thanks a lot.” He muttered, directing his displeasure toward Chelsea. “Now I can’t renege without looking foolish. You shouldn’t have mentioned I needed a job. That was supposed to be a last-ditch scenario. I mean really last-ditch. I’m not a cowboy.”

Chelsea sat back and crossed her arms. He hated her scowl. She used to be sunny and carefree. God, what had he and Tiffany done?

“You shouldn’t be dishonest, Dad. You shouldn’t be pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“Sure you do. Don’t you remember what you always used to tell me?”

He blinked. “I’ve told you a lot of things.”

“‘Your choices define who you are.’” She mimicked him perfectly at his pedantic worst.

He asked quietly, “Do you really dislike me so much?”

She didn’t meet his eyes. Folding and unfolding a corner of her place mat, she mumbled, “No. I don’t dislike you.”

He believed her. On the other hand, she made sense about the choices he was making here in this town. They weren’t his best. But what else could he do? Gramps needed help. The second Gramps had called last week with concerns about the fair, Sam had packed and left. His gramps meant more to him than...than air. More than his father did.

Violet Summer had better be on her game.

A voluptuous figure, violet eyes and thick midnight hair meant nothing. As much as he found the diner owner attractive, he would not be kind to his enemy. Guilty until proved innocent.

Gramps, the greatest guy in Sam’s life, deserved to be protected from a bunch of deceitful women.

Chapter Two

“He’s conniving and dishonest, Rachel. I’m sure of it,” Vy said into the phone in her office. “He’s the phoniest cowboy I’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, come on, Vy,” her friend responded, “You can’t possibly know he’s not a real cowboy.”

“His boots and hat are spotless. There isn’t a speck of dirt or dust on them,” Vy said. When that didn’t get a response, she added the kicker, “He irons his jeans.”

“Oh,” Rachel breathed into the phone. “I see what you mean.” After a pause, she asked, “What do you want from me?”

“You know how you’ve been complaining about how expensive it’s been for Travis to start up his herd?”

Travis Read had moved into town five months ago and had fallen like a ton of bricks for Vy’s best friend, Rachel McGuire.

“Setting up the ranch has been a financial challenge,” Rachel said. “Especially with his sister no longer moving in and contributing to the mortgage.”

Newcomer Sammy Read had found a good match in local rancher Michael Moreno. Her kids needed a father and his children needed a mother. Win-win. Plus, they were super hot for each other.

“No doubt there’ll be a wedding soon?”

Rachel laughed. “Like yesterday, if they had their way. As soon as they can organize it.” Rachel paused, then said, “Travis has been great with money over the years, but...”

“Getting the ranch going is putting pressure on you?”

“Yeah,” Rachel admitted. “But it’s the right thing to do. I don’t want Travis to have to work for other ranchers for the rest of his life. He wants to be his own boss.”

Vy knew how good that felt.

“Plus, his land is beautiful. It would make an excellent ranch. Wouldn’t it be amazing for him to have a legacy to leave to both Tori and Beth and any children we might have together?”

“Yeah, it sure would.”

Was she doing the right thing in recommending that Travis take on this stranger? She thought so. She’d met evil in her past. She’d known bad men. Her intuition told her this guy wasn’t one of them. Besides, she liked his prickly porcupine of a daughter a lot. The girl reminded Vy of herself. On the other hand, there did seem to be something fishy going on with him. What? If it affected her town, Vy needed to know.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

Travis and Rachel were smart people. They could keep an eye on this man.

“Sooo, you and Travis can make extra money by renting the fake cowboy and his daughter the rooms that Sammy and her two boys would have used. What do you think?” When Rachel hesitated, she rushed on, “And Travis would have a ranch hand.”

“Not much of one if he’s not a real cowboy.”

Vy wanted to see the ersatz cowboy brought down.

Unreasonable, Vy. What’s your problem? He’s done nothing to you, so why the big push to destroy a man you don’t even know?

Bits and pieces of memories, of another time and place threatened to intrude, and she turned them aside with a firm resolve.

Nope. She wouldn’t be going down that road.

Suffice it to say, she disliked liars.

“Do you think we can trust him in our home?” Rachel asked. A reasonable question.

“Yes. I’m certain he isn’t dangerous or I wouldn’t have called. Besides, he has his daughter with him. She’s either a teenager already or a tween and has some attitude, but don’t we all?”

“You do,” Rachel retorted and Vy laughed.

“True.”

“Why are you so upset about this man?” Rachel asked.

Vy didn’t want to look too closely at that. She brazened it out. “Anger is my natural response to any kind of charade or dishonesty. I dislike fraud with a passion.”

“I know,” Rachel said quietly, “but you’ve never shared why.”

Vy sidestepped the deeper issue. “I just don’t trust any man who comes to my town with an agenda. If this guy doesn’t have a scheme up his sleeve, I’ll eat every one of the six coconut-cream pies I made first thing this morning.”

She wanted to see him brought down. No! Not true. She wanted to bring him down personally.

Too strong a response, Vy. Cool it.

“Tell you what, Vy.” Rachel interrupted her thoughts. “We’ll give the guy a trial run, but only if you bring out one of those pies this afternoon.”

“Deal.”

* * *

SAM SAVORED THE last bite of an exquisite pineapple upside-down cake.

“This is incredible,” he said, sighing.

“I know, right?”

“I could eat here every day.” He put down his fork and rubbed his stomach. “Take that last bite of chocolate layer cake.”

“Are you sure, Dad?”

He smiled. “Honey, don’t you know I’d give you my last dollar if it would make you happy?”

For a change, a genuine smile lit Chelsea’s face and, while it might be tiny, it reminded him of her smiles of old. And, God, he loved it.

He smiled in return and watched her enjoy the cake.

“Everything’s taken care of.”

Sam started. The waitress-cum-manager-cum-owner had appeared beside the table without making a sound. He didn’t like surprises.

“What do you mean?” he asked, but he knew, and all the good feelings at the table evaporated.

“I called a friend. Her husband’s ranch is brand-new. He hasn’t hired any hands yet and they could sure use some rent on a couple of spare rooms in the house.”

She slapped a paper with directions on it onto the table and picked up the cash he’d left for their meal.

Sam was trapped.

He’d left New York too quickly and without enough preparation. He hated this feeling.

But how could he leave without solving Gramps’s dilemma first?

He needed to blend in. He’d done research online. Successful no matter what he took on, he could do this.

But damn, he didn’t know a thing about working on a ranch. He’d be as naive as Chelsea if he thought he could be any good as a cowboy after one night of research. This had been a crazy idea from the start.

Sam opened his mouth to object, to halt this mad process before it went too far, but Violet raised her hand.

“No need to thank me. It’s what people around here do. Help each other out.” An odd smile hovered at the edges of her full red lips, as though she were having a laugh at his expense, reminding him of his daughter’s smiles these days. “Travis is a newcomer himself, so he’ll make you feel welcome. His wife, Rachel, will take good care of Chelsea while you’re working. Or will she be enrolling in the local school?”

“Not yet,” Sam replied, not expanding on the subject. No need to air dirty laundry here.

Sam wondered why Chelsea didn’t object to having a babysitter, this woman Rachel, before realizing his child enjoyed his discomfort. She knew he was trapped.

Gramps. Think of Gramps. This is all for him.

“Sure,” he said weakly. “Sounds good.”

“By the way, in case you didn’t realize, I’m Violet Summer.”

He figured as much, and Rachel’s last name must be McGuire, one of the women Gramps had told him about. Before his time in this town ended, he’d meet all six of the women resurrecting the fair and possibly ripping off his grandfather.

“I’m Sam—” He’d almost said Carmichael. He’d been christened Carson Samuel Carmichael like his father and grandfather, but his mother had always called him Sam to distinguish him from his father. That part was easy, but changing Carmichael to Michaels had nearly caught him up. “I’m Sam Michaels. This is my daughter, Chelsea.”

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around town.”

He had to start thinking of himself as Sam Michaels or he’d never pull this off.

Chelsea shot him a look of censure at his name change but he ignored her.

Sam picked up his hat on the way out of the diner, stepping onto Rodeo’s Main Street and standing a minute to look around town. Might as well know what he was getting into.

So this was his father’s hometown, the one Dad had left at nineteen when he’d headed east to attend college. He’d made, and married into, a lot of money in New York City. Carson II had never returned to Rodeo, which meant that Sam himself had never been here, either.

Sam craned his neck to take it all in, curious about his dad’s town. Dad had never talked much about Rodeo, but Gramps sure had.

Rodeo, Montana. Gramps’s favorite spot on earth.

He’d described everything to the avid little listener Sam had been as a boy. Two stoplights on Main Street and one small shop after another with names like Jorgenson’s Hardware and Hiram’s Pharmacy and Nelly’s Dos ’n’ Don’ts.

Angled parking ran all along a wide street filled with plenty of pickup trucks heavy with rust, dust and dirt.

He drank in every detail, his avidity surprising him with its intensity. He hadn’t realized until arriving how much he’d wanted to see Gramps’s town.

Why hadn’t Dad ever talked about Rodeo? It didn’t look so bad. Just the opposite in fact, charming but real, unpretentious and normal compared to Manhattan, where people seemed compelled to jump on every trend.

In this town, every man, woman and child wore well-used denim. Sam detected not a single pair of designer jeans.

Thank God the jeans he’d bought before they left home were plain and would fit in. He’d gone to a work-wear clothing store to find denim without embroidered pockets or slashed knees or distress wash thighs or fake-faded creases or any of the other fads going around.

Certain he fit in, he adjusted his cowboy hat. Here, almost everyone wore a cowboy hat.

Sam soaked it all up like the proverbial sponge. Gramps hadn’t lied about his good-looking, if rustic, town.

And Sam was immediately smitten.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Savoring the heritage I’ve never checked out until now.”

“Why didn’t you ever check it out?”

“School and then work and then getting married and then having you. You know...” He shrugged. “Life.”

“Let’s go to the car,” Chelsea demanded. Back to doom, gloom and ’tude, as Violet had called it, all traces of the friendly girl who’d laughed with the waitress dissipated on the cool air.

Sam grimaced. When he’d married Tiffany, he’d believed in “for better or for worse.” Apparently, she hadn’t.

He’d loved her. Not so much since her betrayal, though.

He felt the same way about children. You loved them. You did not give up on them. Purely and simply, they deserved to be loved through thick and thin, without question. He just wished right now that it were easier, especially when he had so much on his mind.

“Let’s go visit Gramps,” he said.

Chelsea ran to their vehicle. “Come on, Dad. Don’t be so slow.”

Ah, enthusiasm. She did love her grandfather. Until recently, he’d come to Manhattan for Christmas every year, but now lived in a retirement home.

“We should have come here sooner to visit Gramps.”

Yep. Love for her grandfather for sure.

Correction, his grandfather, but they’d dispensed with the great part of great-grandfather when Chelsea was little and it had proved too much of a mouthful for her. To Chelsea, he was just Gramps, exactly as he was for Sam.

An old cowboy nodded to him and Sam smiled and nodded back. Friendly people.

They drove toward the next small town, where a seniors’ residence that served the entire county housed Sam’s nearest and dearest. They passed spectacular scenery on the way.

Chelsea shouted, “Dad, look!”

Sam glanced to his right. In the field a pair of young lambs ran up one side of a small hillock and down the other, kicking up their heels at the top.

“Frisky,” he commented.

“So cute.” In her voice, he heard longing and wonder, refreshing to hear after her recent negativity. His daughter loved animals.

“Remember when you saw all of those baby lambs at that petting zoo and we couldn’t drag you away for an hour? You were only six years old and fascinated.”

Good memories.

She smiled. “That was awesome. You convinced them to let me sit on some hay and hold one for, like, an hour.”

Sam squeezed her hand. “It was only fifteen minutes, but you were small and that was a long time for you. I think I took twenty photographs. You were so cute.”

“It was the best, but it’s even better to see them out frolicking in their natural habitat, isn’t it?”

“It sure is.” He slowed down. “Do you want to watch for a while?”

“Can we?” She sounded so hopeful he couldn’t disappoint her.

He sat on the shoulder for fifteen minutes listening to Chelsea laugh, the sound a sweet balm for his ravaged psyche. For the past year and a half, he’d missed his ex-wife’s presence in his life, but even more, he’d missed his daughter’s laughter. He wanted to make her happy again.

“I guess we should go,” he said reluctantly.

Sounding contented, she said, “Yeah. I want to see Gramps.”

A couple of miles later, Sam pulled onto the shoulder of the small highway with a squeal of brakes and spraying gravel.

“Dad, what are you doing?”

“Look.”

He pointed across the road.

“What’s that?” Chelsea asked.

“That, my dear child, is your heritage.”

“That’s Gramps’s amusement park?”

He heard the doubt in her voice. It echoed in his chest.

Gramps might have raved about his fairgrounds during his visits, but it looked bad. Most of the rides were rusty. A few were in the process of being updated and fixed. One was being dismantled by a couple of old men with a pair of tractors.

Far off to the right and back from the road a fair distance was Gramps’s house but Gramps was no longer there.

Sam had never seen the house but he recognized it from his grandfather’s descriptions and old photographs. Some of those had been black-and-white, shot in the days when the fairgrounds were brand-new more than a century ago, and built by Gramps’s father.

A tidal wave of emotion swept through him, longing, need and anger culminating in one word: mine.

He owned a beautiful apartment in the city overlooking Central Park and a huge home in upstate New York. So why should a plain two-story brick home with tilting front steps affect him so? With its modest proportions, two windows on the first floor and three above, the ordinary house didn’t compare well to the showstopper he owned with ten spacious bedrooms. This one had, what? Three? Four, maybe?

Yet he wanted it.

That house, these fairgrounds, leased now to a bunch of locals intent on making a profit from his grandfather’s belongings, were out of Sam’s reach.

An old saying or song lyric, Sam couldn’t remember which, thrummed through him. You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Wasn’t that the truth?

Throughout the busy years, thoughts of Rodeo had been stored in a far corner of his mind, taken out only at Christmas when Gramps came to visit. In all of those years, he had thought the town, and the fairgrounds, would be here waiting for him.

Then his life had changed. Drastically.

Last year, it had taken a crazy turn. Now he was about to start a new business in New York.

Success is the best revenge.

The idea consumed him. Even so, a part of him yearned for the house, toward knowing and understanding his rural heritage.

But, for the short time he would be here, he wouldn’t be able to get to know it.

At least for the next year, those women had control of Sam’s heritage. Worse, Gramps couldn’t remember how long he’d agreed to make the lease. What if it was two, three, five years before Sam got it back?

“Dad, isn’t it beautiful?” Chelsea’s voice whispered out on a breathy sigh. “It’s awesome.”

The fairgrounds? Maybe after a massive amount of work. But now? Awesome? No.

She pointed to something and his eyes adjusted focus from the distant house to the foreground, to a ride right in front of him—a carousel that had been rejuvenated with colorful paint.

Chelsea was right. Awesome was a good word for it, all fresh and spit shined. Did the machine work? Were the women planning to give rides on it?

If so, it looked like Chelsea might be first in line.

Hope and potential all rolled into one, it stood in the weak March sunlight proudly declaring “If I can be saved, so can the rest of this old place.”

A powerful sentiment.

“It’s got really weird animals,” Chelsea said, but he detected no disdain.

“You’re right. Is that a bull?”

“Yeah, and a couple of sheep.”

“Bighorn sheep, I’m pretty sure.”

“There’s a bison! And a cow.” She giggled, the sound sweet on the cool breeze. “What are those?”

“An elk and two white-tailed deer.”

“Their saddles are so beautiful. So ornate. I want to ride all of them.” She peered up at him. “Will we still be here when the fair is on?”

Apparently, they planned to launch in August and it was only March. Sam’s next business venture started in one month. He had only thirty days to get this problem sorted out so he could hightail it home.

No way was he losing out on the opportunity to make serious money with his new investment firm, Carmichael, Jones and Raven. Between the three partners, their experience totaled fifty years. Sam planned to take the industry by storm.

If, along the way, he showed up his ex-wife and father-in-law and the company they’d wrestled away from him during the divorce, all the better. Answering Chelsea’s question about attending the fair, he said, “It isn’t likely, possum.”

His nickname for his daughter slipped out before thought or caution. For some reason, as a little girl, Chelsea had taken a liking to Dame Edna and had giggled every time possum was used as an endearment.

Sam had called her possum once and she’d rolled on the floor laughing. The name had stuck.

Sometimes at night, he could hear her accessing YouTube on her laptop and watching old shows she must know by heart.

Entranced by the carousel, she didn’t call him to task for the nickname she, these days, called stupid.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen here.”

“If you have your way, there won’t even be a fair.” How could one young girl hold so much bitterness? Had the divorce harmed her beyond repair?

He hoped not, with a fierceness that shocked him.

“You know what? This place looks bad now, but I can see the potential. I can see what Gramps and his father built.”

Chelsea nodded. “Yeah, it must have been really cool years ago.”

“I agree.” Dad must have spent a fair bit of time every summer working here. Then he’d walked away from it all and never looked back.

Sam couldn’t get enough of the place. He could stand here for hours checking it out. Even better, he’d like to walk the land. It might be derelict now, but it must have been magical in its day.

“I should ask Gramps if I can get in to look around.”

“Can I come, too?”

“Of course.”

Sighing, he straightened away from the fence.

“Let’s go visit Gramps and then find this ranch I’m supposed to be working on.”

Chelsea snorted. He ignored it. It had been a long trip. He’d had plenty of practice ignoring her.

On second thought...

He pulled out the change purse, opened it and held it out to her. “Snorting.”

“It’s not really snorting, Dad,” she said in her best disdainful teenage voice. “Nobody really snorts.”

Sam imitated a pig by letting out a huge snort. Chelsea tried not to giggle.

“I don’t walk around sounding like a pig. It’s more like humphing.”

“I know, but it has the same effect. Lack of respect. Pay up.”

She snorted again, rummaged in her pocket and came up with a quarter.

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