The Cowboy and the Angel
Marin Thomas
Renée jumped inside her skin at the deep, throaty rumble.
Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a sheepskin jacket and a cowboy hat, the stranger joined them. Her gaze traveled the length of his long jean-clad legs, stopping at his snakeskin boots.
The cowboy grinned. “Duke Dalton.”
Duke? What kind of a name was that?
His large hand swallowed hers, and she held on longer than necessary, soaking up the heat from his calloused fingers. “Why don’t we discuss this over dinner?”
There were worse things than sharing a meal with a citified cowboy. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no harm. But she feared she’d need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.
’Tis the season for miracles.
Who knew? Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be her Christmas miracle.
Dear Reader,
When one thinks of Detroit, Michigan, they think cars. Motown. Sports. They also think poverty, economic depression and crime. If one looks beyond the troubled car industry and foreclosing homes, the Motor City is a community of rhythm and passion. You will discover in this book that Detroiters of all ages are strong, resilient survivors—there’s no better backdrop for a Christmas story.
I’ve teamed up an unlikely pair—a corporate CEO, Duke Dalton, and a Detroit social worker, Renée Sweeney. Together they must figure out how to pull off a Christmas miracle for those who deserve it most—children. And in the process Duke and Renée will discover their very own happily-ever-after.
This season may the holiday spirit fill your heart with the joy of giving. Let us not forget the children in our communities who are waiting to experience the miracle of Christmas.
For information on my upcoming books, please visit www.marinthomas.com or contact me at [email protected].
Happy Holidays!
Marin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Typical of small-town kids, all Marin Thomas, born in Janesville, Wisconsin, could think about was how to leave after she graduated from high school.
Her six-foot-one-inch height was her ticket out. She accepted a basketball scholarship at the University of Missouri in Columbia, where she studied journalism. After two years she transferred to University of Arizona at Tucson, where she played center for the Lady Wildcats. While at Arizona, she developed an interest in fiction writing and obtained a B.A. in radio-television. Marin was inducted in May 2005 into the Janesville Sports Hall of Fame for her basketball accomplishments.
Her husband’s career in public relations has taken them to Arizona, California, New Jersey, Colorado, Texas and Illinois, where she currently calls Chicago her home. Marin can now boast that she’s seen what’s “out there.” Amazingly enough, she’s a living testament to the old adage “You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.” Her heart still lies in small-town life, which she loves to write about in her books.
To my former college basketball teammates
from the University of Arizona in Tucson: Kirsten Smith-Cambron, Yolanda Turner, Alicia Archie, Angie Dodds-Seymour and Dana Patterson. What a privilege it was to run the court with you ladies. Thanks for the memories!
Go Wildcats!!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter One
Renée Sweeney stood defiantly in front of the ten-ton wrecking ball and glared at the crane operator inside the cab. The man’s mouth twisted from side to side, but she couldn’t hear a word over the rumbling engine—probably a good thing. No doubt he was spewing cuss words.
Too bad. If she had her way the 1892 Screw & Bolt Factory Warehouse along the historical Detroit Riverfront would stay standing—long enough for her to come up with a plan for the six little problems taking refuge inside the marked building.
The brisk December wind shoved her off balance, but she locked her knees and managed to remain upright. A moment later, the squeal of the machine’s grinding gears ceased and an eerie silence reverberated through the air. Thank goodness.
The operator climbed from the cab and jabbed a meaty finger in her direction. “Hey, lady! What the hell are you doing?”
Wasn’t it obvious? She stared at the man without answering.
“I’m calling the cops,” he raged, pulling a cell phone from his coat pocket, then trudged out of hearing range. If his wild arm gestures were any indication, the 911 operator was receiving an earful.
Renée snuggled deeper into her white ankle-length goose-down coat. In her rush to reach the Riverfront, she’d grabbed her scarf but had forgotten her gloves. The day’s high of thirty-eight was losing ground fast against the projected overnight low of ten degrees. She hoped she’d accomplish her mission before all ten of her digits blackened from frostbite. At least the scarf prevented her ears from curling up and dropping off her head.
With watery eyes she searched for a windbreak, but the few barren trees that called the concrete parking lot home were useless. She was tempted to take shelter in the giant holly bushes that hid the first floor of the building, but feared the crane operator would set the ball swinging at her retreat. Once in a while her job as a social worker required creative action to protect children at risk, but challenging a wrecking ball was a bit extreme and Renée doubted her boss would approve.
Across the parking lot a handful of construction workers huddled inside their vehicles, smoking cigarettes while their boss dealt with this latest interruption. A hot coffee from the men would have been a nice thank-you for shortening the end of their workweek.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she’d skipped lunch. She glanced at her watch. Four o’clock. In a few minutes the cops would arrive. Hopefully by the time the police sent her on her way with a warning, it would be too dark to proceed with the demolition.
The crane operator snapped his cell phone shut, tossed a furious look over his shoulder, then proceeded to make another call—probably the fire department in the event Detroit’s finest were engaged in more important activities such as apprehending real criminals. She wiped her runny nose on the back of her coat sleeve and stared at the river across the street. This time of year few boats navigated the chunks of ice floating on the water, turning the Riverfront into a nautical ghost town. The Screw & Bolt building sat in the middle of the warehouse district among several turn-of-the-century structures.
The area was desolate, and she questioned the sanity of the fool who’d purchased the derelict property between the Renaissance Center and Belle Isle. A short while ago she’d chatted with her brother, a Detroit police officer, and he’d mentioned seeing the demolition equipment as he’d patrolled the area. In a