Samantha's Cowboy. Marin Thomas

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      “Did you ever own a car?” Luke asked.

      “Son, that’s none of—”

      “Shush now.” Millicent waved a knobby hand in the air, excluding Wade from the conversation. “Years ago Mr. Peterson gave me his 1953 Bel-Air.”

      “What happened to the car?”

      “It’s over yonder in the barn.”

      Wade shielded his eyes against the glaring sun and stared at the dilapidated structure. “You’re storing a Bel-Air in that barn?” It was a miracle a strong wind hadn’t blown the structure down.

      “Said so, didn’t I?” The granny grunted.

      Before Wade had a chance to ask about the antique car the sound of a diesel truck engine met his ears. A large four-by-four extended cab pickup stopped next to his BMW. Samantha sat behind the wheel.

      Damn. The last person he wanted to run into today was the rich cowgirl.

      

      SAM GRIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL until her knuckles ached. All those stupid female fantasies she’d nurtured since meeting Wade yesterday had been run over and flattened when she spotted the little boy at his side. Of all the scenarios she’d envisioned of her and Wade there had never been a child in any of them.

      Go figure. The one man who’d piqued her interest, since her disastrous relationship with Bo, had a child. Kids weren’t part of Samantha’s future, so that meant Wade wasn’t, either. Swallowing her disappointment, she hopped out of the truck and headed toward the group gathered beneath the hackberry tree.

      “Hello, Wade.” Sam glanced at the boy and then looked away. The memory of Bo’s daughter wandering off while in her care forced Sam to retreat a step, increasing the space between her and the child.

      “Samantha, I’d like you to meet my son, Luke. Luke, this is Ms. Cartwright. She owns the property.”

      There was no mistaking the resemblance between father and son. The miniature male possessed Wade’s dark hair, dark eyes, square chin and even the same black-rimmed geeky glasses—not to mention they wore similar outfits.

      The boy flashed a crooked smile and waved his hand. “Hi.”

      “Pleasure to meet you, Luke.” She switched her attention to Millicent. “You doing okay?”

      “Jest shootin’ the bull.” The old woman pushed herself out of the rocker. “Best be headin’ inside.” Millicent shuffled toward the clapboard shanty.

      “Wait!” Sam and Wade spoke at the same time.

      Embarrassed by her outburst, Sam sputtered, “No need to leave on our account.” Wade unnerved her and she needed Millicent to act as a buffer between her and the financial guru. “What brings you out to the Last Chance Ranch?” she asked Wade.

      “The what?”

      “I’m calling my horse sanctuary Last Chance Ranch.” The ranch wasn’t only a last resort for unwanted horses but also an opportunity for Sam to finally strike out on her own.

      “I stopped by to get an idea of the amount of work that needs to be done on the place.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “There must be a hundred small spreads in the area in better condition than this.”

      Sam admitted the property was in poor shape, but that’s why she’d bought the place below market value. She flashed a smug smile. “Now you understand why I need my trust fund money sooner rather than later.”

      “Speaking of money,” Wade said, “I contacted a drilling company after you left the office yesterday. They phoned with a bid this morning.”

      “How much?” she asked.

      “A hundred dollars per foot drilled and the well comps in this area put the water table between a thousand and twelve-hundred feet.”

      “That’s $110,000,” the boy blurted.

      Good grief. The details had barely registered in Sam’s head before the little genius had spouted a dollar amount.

      “The cost doesn’t include testing the water or capping the well.” Wade nodded toward the ranch road. “The potholes need to be filled and new gravel laid down before heavy trucks drive in here.”

      “When can the drilling company break ground?” What was a hundred grand when she had millions?

      “They’re booked solid until September.”

      Panic pumped through Sam’s bloodstream and she forced herself to breathe in deeply through her nose. In…out. In…out. Becoming upset would lead to confusion and forgetfulness and she refused to make a fool of herself in front of Wade. Even though they had no future, she didn’t want him to believe she was a ditz. “The well can’t wait until September.” The faster she got the ranch up and running, the less chance her father would interfere with her plans. Sam had a nasty habit of backing down when confronted by her father. “I’ll phone the company Monday morning and offer more money.”

      Wade’s face lost color. “Don’t waste your money on bribes,” he insisted. “Acquiring the necessary permits to drill will take time.”

      “Bunch o’ nonsense if ya ask me,” Millicent said, inviting herself into the conversation. “Don’t need no machine to show ya where the water is.” She rolled her lips over her gum. “The water ain’t no thousand feet down, neither.”

      Sam cleared her throat. “Millicent is a dowser.”

      “You mentioned that yesterday,” Wade said.

      Oh. She’d forgotten.

      “What’s a dowser?” Luke pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted through the lenses.

      “I’ll show ya. First, I gots to find a divinin’ rod.” Millicent wandered off toward the barn.

      “A what?” Luke asked his father.

      “A magic stick—” Sam answered for Wade “—that shakes and wiggles when it senses water below the ground.”

      “Folklore, son.” Wade shook his head.

      “Maybe, but Millicent doesn’t charge a hundred thousand dollars for her services.”

      “What’s the going rate for a water witch?” he asked.

      “A can of coffee and a pouch of tobacco would probably suffice.”

      “After you.” Wade swept his arm out in front of him.

      Sam followed Millicent, the big geek and the little geek trailing behind.

      

      WADE WISHED HE’D NEVER suggested a drive in the country this morning. He’d rather be in his comfortable, air-conditioned condo reading Friday’s Wall Street Journal instead of tromping through prickly weeds in ninety-degree СКАЧАТЬ