True Heart. Peggy Nicholson

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      “I could, ’cause he would, and we had to have that money to keep going. And that—this—is why I didn’t tell you. You didn’t want to know.”

      “No, I didn’t. Don’t.” She’d closed the door on Tripp McGraw nine years ago, when he’d broken their engagement, and she’d never looked back. Hadn’t dared. The only way to happiness had been to pretend Tripp didn’t exist. Never had. “We have to pay him back immediately!”

      “That’s what I suggested in my letter. We’ll have to sell. To him, if we don’t find a higher bidder. He’ll deduct his loan from the purchase price and—”

      “Are you out of your mind?” Kaley pushed herself upright to stare at him. “Sell the ranch?” Four generations had struggled to hold this land, and now Jim was going to trade it for an airborne toy? A shiny toy that was only his on loan from the government?

      “Yes, sell it, why the hell not?” Jim stalked off the steps and wheeled back again, eyes blazing. “You don’t want it—you’re an English teacher, not a cowgirl now! I’m supposed to hang on to your dreams for you if you won’t do it yourself? You call that fair?”

      Slowly, Kaley shook her head. “No…” She put one hand to her stomach, the other to her cheek and found it wet—knuckled the tears away and tried to smile.

      “So what exactly do we owe Tripp, and when is it due?”

      CHAPTER THREE

      WATCHING LONER WALK INTO the buyer’s trailer had been harder than Tripp would have thought possible.

      “Loads well,” Huckins noted with satisfaction as the stallion followed his man up the ramp, ears pricked, dark intelligent eyes taking in the new conveyance with his usual bold curiosity.

      “Yep.” All my horses load well. That the Californian should be surprised wasn’t the best of signs. A horse that feared the ramp—well, that said more about the animal’s handler than it did about the horse. Should have insisted he ride him before I agreed to sell. Watching Huckins in the saddle, Tripp would have known for sure if he deserved the stallion. If he had the patience, and the know-how, and the appreciation that he ought.

      For Pete’s sake, McGraw, that’s just a damn horse! Not your virgin daughter.

      Smartest, fastest, finest cutting horse he’d ever owned. With more cow sense than a twenty-year-old bull. Tripp had bred him himself, begun gentling him within an hour of his foaling. Loner and he had had the best kind of understanding.

      The back gate of the trailer was swung shut with a careless bang. Tripp winced inwardly and set his back teeth. I owed him that much, to watch Huckins ride.

      Too late now. He brushed his thumb across his shirt pocket, and the folded check rustled softly. Cold comfort at this moment. He’d never dreamed this would hurt so much. Never dreamed he’d need to do it.

      Huckins had first phoned him months ago after Loner had ranked a close second for the National Cutting Horse Association World Champion of the year. The Californian had offered a truly astonishing sum should Tripp ever care to sell.

      Back then, selling Loner had been unimaginable. Downright laughable. The chunky buckskin was going to be Tripp’s foundation sire for a line of cutting horses the likes of which had never been seen before. McGraw horses that would spin on a dime and give you eleven cents change. A line of cutters that would bring the ranch a second source of income, to offset the sickening swoops in the cattle market.

      Instead, here he was, cashing Loner in like a forgotten check he’d found in the back of his wallet. Because there was one thing in the world Tripp needed more than the country’s finest cutting horse, and that was land.

      Tripp swallowed and found his throat aching. “Well…” He held out his hand. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you.”

      “Don’t worry about him, McGraw. I’ll treat him well. Like the prince he is.”

      You do or you’ll find me on your doorstep! “Sure.” Tripp turned on his boot heel and walked. Land, he reminded himself, trying to drown out the sound of Huckins’s pickup starting up behind him. Land—that magical, crucial word. No, make it two words. Enough land.

      Maybe he’d stop by Cotter’s, before he went home, cheer himself up. Plant his feet on the land Loner had bought him.

      JIM WEDGED his duffel bag onto the floorboard of his truck and closed the door. Walked around to the driver’s side, and stood, fingering the handle. “I hate to leave you like this. It isn’t right.”

      “Can’t see you’ve got much choice.” And by now Kaley was swaying with fatigue and shock. She just wanted him gone so she could crawl up to bed. Sleep first, figure it out later, she told herself. “Stop worrying. I’ll be all right.” Somehow. She shuffled forward and hugged him fiercely. “Now, go knock ’em dead, flyboy. Make me and Dad and Whitey proud.”

      She waved till his pickup had topped the first rise, then her shoulders slumped and her smile flattened to a trembling line.

      Closing her eyes, she stood, hearing the quiet creep in around her. Each time she returned, she marveled how quiet it was out here. It had never mattered when, come suppertime, there’d be family at the table. One hand crept to her stomach, then she turned and went inside.

      AFTER SHE’D USED UP all the hot water showering, Kaley wrapped herself in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, the one she’d taken from her mother’s closet after her death. It had been Kaley’s for years now, since she was fourteen. Had accompanied her to college, then out to Arizona. But Richard had never liked it, so on one of her visits she’d left it here, where it belonged. One more raggedy, comforting landmark waiting for her return.

      Lying on her bed, she bit the sleeve, her nose brushing its fuzzy nap. Oh, Mama, what now? To come home—and find it yanked out from beneath her feet just when she needed it the most! Tears trickled down her cheeks. She flung her forearm across her eyes, mopping up the flow, shutting out the awful day. Sleep now, figure it out later.

      SHE LAY ON HER BED, listening to the approaching engine—a shiny black hearse idling into the backyard. Whitey sat behind the wheel, with her father riding shotgun—same way they’d always driven the ranch truck. They’d come to tell her about her mother’s fall. “Too sassy,” Whitey said. “That was always her problem. If she could have saddled a locomotive, she’d have tried to ride it.”

      Her father nodded bleakly.

      “We thought we’d take your baby, too,” said a man dressed in a doctor’s green surgical scrubs and mask, coming in the kitchen door behind them. “That’ll save a second trip.”

      “Aaah!” Kaley sat up, heart lurching, breath coming in terrified pants. “Oh…” She stared around her old bedroom. Horrible dream, somehow worse for its silliness. She pulled in a shuddering breath and tried to hold it. Let it out in a gasp. Couldn’t have been asleep for long—the angle of sunlight slanting across the windowsill had barely changed. “Only a dream,” she muttered, rubbing her stomach.

      A bad-luck dream.

      No! No, not at all. Simply foolishness—nothing but exhaustion and stress.

      Knock-knock.

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