The Cowboy's Return. Susan Crosby

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      With gratitude to Kathy Coatney, author and friend, who steered me to some brilliant experts in their fields, and who is a constant cheerleader.

      And to Kirsten Olson, a cheerleader for family-run orchards and farms. Thank you for sharing your process and your passion. Without your generosity, I could’ve gotten it all wrong!

       Chapter One

      Nostalgia struck Mitch Ryder with unexpected force as he drove the final miles toward home. He’d been out of the country and might have continued to stay away longer except his father had issued his fourth edict—more emphatic than previous ones—to get home or else. The Ryders were cattlemen, having ranched in this particular area of Northern California since the gold rush. Mitch was expected to pull his own weight in the family business, something he hadn’t done for three years now.

      As he drove, Mitch drew a deep breath, letting the heat of midsummer fill his lungs, savoring the magnificent view. The landscape changed with almost every mile—except for the spectacular sight of Gold Ridge Mountain, which was a constant, the centerpiece. The Red Valley surrounding it could be flat endless acres of hay or low grassy hills or orchards, all of it beautiful in its own way, but Gold Ridge Mountain dominated from every vantage point.

      Nerves grabbed at Mitch as he neared the road leading to Ryder Ranch, gripped so hard he didn’t make the turn but kept going. Twenty miles later, his gut finally unclenched, just before his truck coughed and lurched. “Are you trying to tell me something, Lulu?” he asked his prized old vehicle as she smoothed out. “I shouldn’t have driven past the homestead?”

      Mitch was only half kidding. He believed in omens. As a man who dealt with the realities every day of animals and often unforgiving land and weather, it probably seemed fanciful, but he’d learned to pay attention to his instincts, even if it was for something mechanical.

      Like now. His truck coughed harder and lurched farther, signs of imminent death. He spotted the mailbox and private driveway of John “Barney” Barnard and turned in. Then Lulu died.

      He checked his cell phone. No service.

      Mitch didn’t waste energy getting angry. He’d been asking a lot of the old girl to be in top shape after three years of neglect.

      He started walking. The land looked different, less abundant, not the well-tended orchard it had always been. Barney’s small, weathered house was blocked from view until Mitch got much closer, where the property looked better maintained, less of a jungle. Berry bushes stretched in orderly rows, and raised boxes held thriving plants, although the greenhouse was a dilapidated mess. Chickens pecked at the ground, ignoring him.

      What had happened here? Barney had always been—

      The front door opened, and out stepped a woman—maybe five-five, curvy, with long, blond hair pulled into a ponytail. Younger than him, he figured, but not by much.

      “It’s about time,” she said, plunking her fists on her hips. “Did you get lost? Or go on a binge?”

      “Um, no, ma’am,” Mitch said, entertained. He wondered who she’d mistaken him for.

      “You were supposed to be here yesterday. That’s what you promised on the phone. Look around. You can see how much work there is to be done.”

      Mitch swept his hat off and brushed it against his thigh as he considered her. She looked anxious, and sounded desperate.

      “Well?” she asked. “Are you going to take the job? Room and board, just like we discussed, and a small salary. I can’t do more than that.”

      His whole body relaxed as he settled his hat back on his head and moved a little nearer to the house. Mitch took her offer as an omen and went with it. She needed a handyman, apparently, and he’d just realized he could use a little adjustment time himself before going home. Whatever his father wanted was not something he was anxious to learn. “I keep my word, ma’am.”

      “Please don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel old.”

      He’d gotten close enough that he could see she had eyes the color of the moss that grew on rocks by the stream he’d played in as a boy, a dark, rich green with bits of gold—and annoyance—giving them some glitter. “What should I call you?”

      “Annie. СКАЧАТЬ