Rodeo Rancher. Mary Sullivan

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      He cracked his knuckles. “Sorry,” he murmured, knowing it was inadequate. He didn’t have much more to offer.

      He glanced at the kids and realized only Mick was watching him. Lily was gaping at Samantha with openmouthed amazement.

      And why not?

      They didn’t often have visitors and rarely women, except for Karen, who was nothing like this woman with her skinny pants and pleather jacket.

      Lily still stared. At only four years old, Lily barely remembered her mother. He kept a photograph of Lillian beside his daughter’s bed to remind her.

      He guessed Lily would miss her mother’s touch most and, as much as he held and cuddled Lily all the time to try to fill that void, he could never be Lillian.

      The walls crowded in on him. His breathing became shallow enough to concern him. He wasn’t up to this fathering and mothering of them, of being both parents to them 24/7.

      Samantha Read made him feel every single deficiency he tried to ignore.

      He wished to holy hell she hadn’t shown up on his doorstep.

Chapter Two

      Samantha watched Michael come to grips with his emotions. She had to do the same with her own.

      He didn’t talk much, but when he did, he packed a punch.

      Her hands shook. How dare he? How dare he criticize the way she raised her children?

      Since the day Jason had been born nine years ago, her life had been all about him. Then another gift, Colt, had come along five years ago and she’d doubled her efforts.

      This man didn’t want them here.

      Probably because of her talking. She knew she talked too much, but couldn’t control herself when she was nervous.

      And she had been so nervous when they’d been caught in the storm.

      Maybe that’s why his disdain hit hard.

      Had she put her sons at risk? She didn’t know about snowstorms. She had little experience with this kind of weather.

      “I didn’t know the storm was going to be so bad.” She glanced out the window, baffled by the savagery on the other side of the glass. “I’ve never been in a snowstorm before. I had no idea what to expect.”

      Compelled to be honest, she added, “I should have stopped sooner, but we were so close to Rodeo. I thought we could make it to Travis’s house. I didn’t really know where else to stop once the storm started. I didn’t see a motel.”

      “It got bad really fast, mister,” Jason said.

      Jason. Her defender. She wished he didn’t have to take on that role. She’d told him many times not to, but still he looked out for her.

      “It was just a few flakes of snow and we liked it.” Jason looked nervous taking on the big stern man, but he swallowed and continued. “Colt’s never seen snow in his whole entire life. Then, all of sudden, we couldn’t see anything except too much snow.”

      “I was scared,” Colt piped up.

      The man’s expression softened. He unbent enough to tell Jason and Colt, “I bet you were. I would have been, too.”

      Ever the peacemaker, Jason said, “Don’t blame my mom. It came out of nowhere. She was brave.”

      The man straightened and looked at her with a trace of chagrin.

      Good. He should be ashamed. He was lucky she wasn’t one to hold a grudge.

      Maybe she shouldn’t let him off the hook too quickly. She had the suspicion he felt worse that her children had heard him than he did about criticizing her in the first place.

      He could fault her all he wanted. She didn’t care. She knew she was a damned fine mother.

      She loved her children.

      What was his problem, anyway?

      He watched her steadily with eyes that were deep brown, almost black, and inscrutable.

      Defiantly, she gave the same kind of direct scrutiny right back.

      Not much taller than her own five eight, he made up for any lack of height with an impressively broad chest and developed biceps and thighs. Dark chocolate hair curled over his collar, matching his eyes.

      She might have found him attractive if he didn’t grind his hard jaw, as though softness and compromise were dirty words.

      Good God, just what she needed. She’d been exposed to enough inflexible men in her line of work. She’d left all of that behind. She didn’t need it here in Rodeo.

      She glanced at her boys. They would make the best new start here that she could manage, even if it killed her. Her boys deserved no less.

      In a month, she would start work at her new job in town and would work her butt off to be independent from everyone, even her brother.

      She glanced back at the hard-edged rancher.

      Maybe they shouldn’t have stopped here.

      Dumb thought. They’d had no choice. If she hadn’t stopped, her children would have been dead by morning. This had been the only light visible through the storm.

      Sammy would never admit it to the boys, but she’d been terrified.

      Everyone stared at her. No one seemed to know what to do next.

      The silence stretched, unnerving her. Her antsy inner neurotic raised her unwelcome head, just like clockwork. Sammy rushed to fill the space and stillness of the room...as she always did.

      “Well, hey, you. What are your names?” She leaned forward to inspect the two cute little darlings, especially the girl, who stared at her as if she had two heads. You’d think she’d never seen a woman before.

      Sammy loved children. Adored them.

      “I’m Mick,” the boy said, his voice too loud in the quiet room. Was he overcompensating like her with her silly chatter? She guessed him to be about Colt’s age. He pointed to his sister, who peeked around him. “She’s Lily.”

      Lily was maybe three or four. A beautiful child, her mass of unruly hair, dark chocolate like her father’s but shot through with red highlights, overwhelmed her delicate heart-shaped face.

      “I’m so happy to meet you both. You’ve met my boys.”

      To Michael, who watched her as though she were an exotic and not-too-welcome bird, she said, “My older son is Jason, and this little troublemaker is Colt.”

      “Mo-om,” Colt complained, but smiled as she’d known he would.

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