The Cowboy in the Classroom
Given a choice, Luke Hayes wouldn’t ever leave his Wyoming ranch. Yet when his estranged grandfather dies, leaving him everything, he’ll travel to Valley Falls, New York—but only to collect his sister and his inheritance. He won’t be roped into saving a floundering girls’ school, no matter what mathematics teacher Elizabeth Wells says.
Elizabeth has defied social convention and her own family for the sake of her beloved Hayes Academy. Luke is pure rancher, from the tip of his Stetson to the scuff on his boots, yet he’s also becoming her unlikely ally. Only he can help save her job and school…but how much will she lose when the time comes for him to leave?
“Miss Wells, I can’t say I expected to find you here, either, but this works well.
I need to speak with you.” He glanced briefly at the equation-filled slate on her lap, and the side of his mouth quirked into a cocky little smile. “Do you ever take time off from that fancy math?”
“Do you ever take time off from being a cowboy?”
The smile on his lips straightened into a firm white line, and he swung down off his horse. “I own five thousand head of cattle in the Teton Valley. I’m a rancher. That’s a mite different than being the hired help we call cowboys.”
“Indeed.” She nodded curtly and drew in a long, deep breath. With Samantha sitting beside her, she couldn’t exactly persuade him to let his sister graduate, but she still needed to ask about donating money to the academy. If only she could be polite long enough to make her request.
It was going to be very, very hard.
NAOMI RAWLINGS
A mother of two young boys, Naomi Rawlings spends her days picking up, cleaning, playing and, of course, writing. Her husband pastors a small church in Michigan’s rugged Upper Peninsula, where her family shares its ten wooded acres with black bears, wolves, coyotes, deer and bald eagles. Naomi and her family live only three miles from Lake Superior, and while the scenery is beautiful, the area averages two hundred inches of snow per winter. Naomi writes bold, dramatic stories containing passionate words and powerful journeys. If you enjoyed the novel, she would love to hear from you. You can write Naomi at P.O. Box 134, Ontonagon, MI 49953, or contact her via her website and blog, at www.naomirawlings.com.
The Wyoming Heir
Naomi Rawlings
What doth the Lord thy God require of thee, but to fear the Lord thy God, to walk in all his ways, and to love him, and to serve the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul, to keep the commandments of the Lord, and his statutes, which I command thee this day for thy good?
—Deuteronomy 10:12–13
To Nathanael and Jeremiah, my amazing little boys. May you “grow in grace, and in the knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ” (2 Peter 3:18).
Acknowledgments
No book could ever make its way from my head to the story in front of you without help from some amazing people. First and foremost, I’d like to thank my husband, Brian. What would I do without someone to cook dinner and watch the kids and love and encourage me through each and every book I write? Second, I’d like to thank my critique partner, Melissa Jagears, for trudging through all the hills and valleys of this story with me. My writing
would suffer greatly without your keen eye and brilliant mind. I also want to thank my agent, Natasha Kern, for teaching me about writing and putting up with me even when I’m not that pleasant to put up with (which happens more often than it probably should). And my editor, Elizabeth Mazer, for her helpful suggestions and enthusiasm about my stories. Beyond this, numerous others have given support in one way or another—Sally Chambers, Glenn Haggerty, Roseanna White, and Laurie Alice Eakes, to name a few.
Thank you all for your time and effort and helping me to write the best books I possibly can.
Contents
Prologue
Teton Valley, Wyoming
October 1893
“Hello, Ma.” Luke Hayes removed his Stetson and stepped over the threshold to his mother’s room. His boots echoed against the sturdy pine floorboards as he moved to where Ma sat at her vanity. A faint, sour scent wound around him, tickling his nose and turning his mouth bitter. The vase of purple coneflowers on the dresser nearly masked it, as did the rose water Ma dabbed at her throat. But the subtle smell of sickness clung to the shadows and haunted the corners, a constant reminder of the enemy that would steal her life.
“You’ve come to say goodbye,” she whispered, her voice tired though