The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis

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      RACHEL THOMPSON’S HANDS SHOOK.

      She clenched her fingers and tucked her hands beneath her arms, watching Ben pull away in a black Mercedes blanketed with dust that dulled the expensive car’s shine.

      Ben Blackwell was going down, along with the rest of his swindling family.

      Thanks to her anonymous guardian angel, Rachel thought she had what she needed to get the Double T’s river rights back and to put the Blackwell Ranch in secondary position for water from Falcon Creek. Her confidence should have been unflappable.

      And yet, her hands shook.

      Because Ben Blackwell was intimidating. Perfect walnut brown hair. Strong chin. Cold blue eyes that judged her just as harshly as she’d judged others as a teenager. Tailored suit and red silk tie. Ben spared no expense to look like a rich and powerful attorney who’d crush the opposition beneath his fine Italian loafer.

      For heaven’s sake, those shoes cost as much as the used truck she was driving.

      He’d looked at Rachel as if she was a speck of dust, an inconvenience that ruined his shine, just like the dust on his car.

      Five years ago, she’d been a speck of dust. She’d been a young, green lawyer paired with a crotchety old man who’d been no match for Ben. The Blackwells had stolen their river resources, forcing Dad to sell off some of their land or pay through the nose for water that should have been theirs. Three years later and the stress of the struggle to keep the Double T alive had sent Dad to an early grave.

       Win back the water rights.

       Set the ranch to rights.

      Those were her mantras lately.

      A shiny red truck parked in front of the office where the Mercedes had been. Rachel’s ex-husband got out of the vehicle that used to be hers. Ted Jackson was uncouth, compact and cowboy rough—everything Ben wasn’t. Everything that shouldn’t throw Rachel off her game. She repeated her mantras, adding one:

       Win back the water rights.

       Set the ranch to rights.

       Get a signed custody agreement.

      Everything threw her off her game lately, especially the thought that she should add more to her list of mantras.

      Rachel opened the door to the June heat with a hand that still trembled. “The custody papers are ready for you to sign.”

      Ted paused on the porch, staring at her with bloodshot gray eyes. “I didn’t say I’d sign. I said I’d look.”

      She wanted to slam the door and shut Ted out of her life. She wanted to press the reboot button and start her adult life over. It’d taken her three months to get Ted to sign the divorce papers. Three more to get this close to him signing the custody papers. No way was she dividing custody of her nine-month-old baby equally with this drunk.

      And yet, if he didn’t sign that was exactly what the court demanded.

      Rachel gave Ted her lawyer smile, polite but withdrawn. “Let’s review the papers and see what you think.”

      He came inside and waited for Rachel to shut the out-of-kilter front door before following her back to the office, not taking off his straw cowboy hat. “One weekend a month. That’s what we agreed to.”

      “Only at your parents’ house.” His mother watched Poppy sometimes. She was a capable and trustworthy adult.

      “That’ll work since I don’t change diapers.” Ted slouched in a chair and stared at her with a lecherous smile.

      Rachel’s stomach did a slow, sickening roll. Ted was proof the pickings in Falcon Creek were slim. A ticking biological clock, a night of dancing, and she’d been convinced she could make her father’s handsome, blond ranch hand into something. She hadn’t counted on a prior, much stronger claim being staked by whiskey. Whiskey made Ted something else. Something sour and dangerous.

      She clicked the point on a pen and slid it with the papers across her desk. She’d flagged the places Ted needed to sign with red sticky notes. If he agreed to this, she’d file the agreement at the county courthouse within the hour.

      Ted didn’t reach for the paper or the pen. “I was talking to the boys down at the Watering Hole...”

      He’d been taking advice from his drunk buddies at the bar again? Rachel straightened her spine and cleared her throat of angry responses that would do her no good.

      Ted pointed at the custody agreement, still not touching it. “I want you to put in there that you can never take Poppy away from Falcon Creek.”

      Rachel’s neck twinged. She was a fool for once telling Ted she’d like to try life outside of Falcon Creek.

      “I want that moving bit in there because I deserve to watch my daughter grow up.” Ted stood, scraping the chair across the wood floor. “I deserve things, you know.”

      He did. He deserved a stay in a rehab facility or dry out in a county jail cell. He didn’t deserve Rachel’s truck, her money, her daughter or her freedom.

      “I deserve things,” Ted repeated, spinning in slow motion until he found his bearings and headed toward the door. He yanked it open and slammed it on the way out.

      Rachel tried to breathe normally. She shouldn’t feel trapped in Falcon Creek. This was home. It always had been. It was just...

      She had dreams. She sometimes wondered. What would it be like to be a lawyer in California or Florida, someplace it didn’t snow? Or even New York, where...

      It was foolish to think she was good enough to practice law in New York. It was foolish to think about anything but this life—managing the ranch, handling a few small cases, raising Poppy.

      She had to be strong for the Thompson legacy, for the Thompsons left. Mom and Nana Nancy. Her sister and her kids. Poppy.

      There was a noise in the second office. A thin wail. Poppy was waking up. The sticky front door had been slammed too many times.

      Rachel squared her shoulders. Dreams were for sissies. She had to accept the consequences of her choices and be strong.

      If not for herself, for Poppy.

       CHAPTER TWO

      THE BLACKWELL FAMILY RANCH.

      That’s what the new, grand metal arch over the gravel road proclaimed. Ben’s childhood home.

      Family? Not hardly. The only Blackwells who lived there were Big E and Zoe. Mom and Dad were dead. All five Blackwell brothers had vamoosed.

      Ben drove the Mercedes down the road with a speed that matched his reluctance to return.

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