It was a surprisingly balmy Tuesday for November. Fall seemed reluctant to leave and Leanne Walsh was fine with that. She had too much to do on the ranch.
Late afternoon sunshine softened the day, creating gentle shadows on the Porcupine Hills of Alberta. A chill cooled the air, a threat of winter coming. Leanne hoped it hung off for at least a week. They still had cows to move down from the upper pastures and then had to process them.
Her son, Austin, sat astride the palomino mare his grandfather purchased a half a year ago when Austin was only two. Leanne had protested the expense but George Walsh insisted that Walshes learned to ride a proper horse as young as possible.
Now Austin was laughing down at her, his shock of brown hair falling over his forehead, his chubby hands clutching the saddle horn, the cowboy hat he’d gotten a couple of weeks ago clamped firmly on his head. Since George had given it to Austin, he’d worn it nonstop.
“He looks comfortable up there.” George stood by the fence, his arms hooked over the top rail, his battered cowboy hat pushed back on his head. Though he was only fifty-eight, Leanne’s father-in-law looked twenty years older.
Life had knocked a lot out of the man, Leanne thought, acknowledging his gruff comment with a tight nod. He’d lost his first wife to cancer and was left with a young son, then he was abandoned by the second wife, leaving him with another young son. Dirk, his eldest son and Leanne’s late husband, now lay buried in the graveyard abutting the church in Cedar Ridge, and the son of his second marriage, Reuben was so far out of George’s life, he may as well be dead.
“Is that mare favoring her one leg?” George asked, concern edging his voice.
Leanne watched more carefully as the horse walked, each footfall of Heart’s Delight’s hooves raising small puffs of dust in the round pen. “I can’t see it,” she said glancing up at her son again, the sight of him pulling her mouth into a full smile. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Not always easy for someone like you to catch that kind of thing.”
Someone like you.
Though Leanne knew he spoke of her ability to read horses, those three simple words had the power to make her shoulders hunch and her hands clench the halter rope.
Those three words held a weight of history behind them. George had tossed them at her when he discovered that she, a Rennie, daughter of one of the most hated and useless men in Cedar Ridge, dared to think she could date his favored son, Dirk Walsh, let alone marry him.
“I know enough about horses to see if one is lame or not,” she finally returned. “And if you have any further concerns, we can bring it to see Tabitha or Morgan.” Her sister held an equine specialist degree and her fiancé, Morgan Walsh, was a vet. Together they were starting a new vet clinic on some acreage Tabitha owned close to town.
“Morgan doesn’t even have his clinic done yet,” George groused.
“It will be. But for now they can still diagnose any problems Heart’s Delight might have.”
George’s only reply was a slight curl of his lip and she fought the urge to defend her sister. Leanne knew it was only because of her marriage to Dirk and because of his grandson, Austin, that George tolerated her presence.
Which had made her even more determined to prove herself to him. Prove she was worthy. As a result she spent every available minute working on the ranch. Showing that she could ride and rope better than any hired hand they had, including their latest, Chad. She did the bookkeeping and dealt with the accountant.
“Is Chad coming again tomorrow?” Leanne asked.
Their new hired hand had started a couple of days ago but hadn’t come to work yesterday and called in sick today. Which made her wonder if she would have to start looking for another hired hand all over again.
“He said he would. Though I don’t know why you hired him. He doesn’t know much about cows or horses,” George grumbled.
“He’s willing and I think he can be trained.” She wanted to say more but the sound of a truck engine caught both their attentions.
The ranch was nestled in a valley, well off the main road snaking through the hills. People arriving at the ranch had to drive along a switchback road that traversed the hill leading down to the ranch. If they didn’t know the road, it could be trouble. And this person was driving far too fast.
“Idiot is going to overshoot the second turn,” George muttered, pushing away from the fence, irritation edging his voice. “Probably some salesman who doesn’t know how to drive his fancy truck in the back of the beyond.”
But whoever it was seemed to know the road because, in spite of the speed of the vehicle, the truck easily made it around the corner and then down the tree-lined road toward the ranch. It suddenly slowed at the cattle guard, and as it rattled across, unease niggled through Leanne.
Though the driver seemed familiar with the approach to the Bar W Ranch, Leanne didn’t recognize the black truck with the gleaming grill getting coated with dust.
It made the tight bend past the house, then came toward the corrals. As the driver killed the engine, silence fell again.
The door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped out wearing a cowboy hat over his collar-length hair. Sunglasses shaded his face and he dropped a cell phone into the pocket of a worn twill shirt, the sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms. Faded blue jeans hugged his hips and his boots were scuffed and worn at the heel.
He started walking toward them with the easy rolling gait of a man who had spent time on a horse. Definitely not a salesman.
“Can I help you?” George asked, the irritation in his voice shifting to aggression.
Leanne groaned. Please, Lord, she prayed as she led Austin and his horse to the rail fence, don’t let this be one of the officials from the association who promised to come and visit someday.
Seeing George in full-on Walsh mode wouldn’t help their cause. She was the temporary secretary for the Cedar Ridge Rodeo Group. For the past couple years the group had tried to get their town’s rodeo to be a part of the larger Milk River Rodeo Association. They needed all the goodwill they could muster.
“This is private land,” George continued as the man drew closer.
“Here, punkin, why don’t you come down?” Leanne asked, tying up the horse and reaching for Austin. She had to intervene before George took a notion to grab the shotgun stashed in the barn behind them.
Leanne lifted her son over the fence, clambered over herself, picked Austin up, then hurried over to where her father-in-law stood, hands planted on his hips, head thrust forward in an aggressive gesture. “What’s your business here?” George growled.
But the stranger was unfazed by George’s belligerence. A slow smile crawled across his well-shaped mouth, shaded by a scruff of whiskers, and the unease in Leanne grew.
“Hey, George,” the man said, sweeping his sunglasses off, tucking them in the pocket of his shirt and flicking his cowboy hat back. “Been a few years.”
Leanne’s legs suddenly went numb. Her heart turned to ice at the sound of that voice. At the sight of those brown eyes, crinkled at the corners.
Reuben Walsh.
Prodigal son come home.
And right behind all her initial reactions came a wave of anger so fierce it threatened to swamp her.
* * *
Reuben Walsh had known his father