the damp humus of Hannah’s garden couldn’t calm him now.
Cripes almighty, Leila’s sending an accountant to the ranch.
He walked to the desk and shuffled the piles of paper, read the numbers, tried to make sense of Leila’s distress.
As far as he could tell, everything was fine. His system was working.
Why would the bank send a letter to Leila, anyway? All the statements came here.
He picked up the phone and dialed the bank, then asked for Donna. She had worked there since before Hank was born. She did Hank’s payroll taxes for him, would handle the year-end as she’d done for Dad. If Donna couldn’t straighten things out, no one could.
Five minutes later, he hung up. Nope. No problem. The accounts were fine. The bank had no record of a letter being sent to Leila.
Hank heaved a sigh.
Leila was overreacting to something sent to her by mistake. Or whatever. He should call her and tell her what the bank had said. Honest, though, he didn’t want to tangle with her today. Once Leila got her mind on something, she was worse than a terrier for not letting go. Next thing, she would come down here to cluck around him like a mother hen, then order him around.
The ranch hands, including Willie, hated taking orders from her. Best just to leave things as they were.
A small voice in the back of his mind warned that Leila was not the kind of woman to run off in a panic for no reason.
Well, he’d get the accountant to relay the message to Leila that all was well here.
He stared at the piles of paper on the desk, on the floor, on every horizontal surface. He might have a great routine that kept things up-to-date and all bills paid, but his filing system was abysmal.
“Keep it private, boy,” Dad whispered through his memory again.
“All right,” Hank murmured. “I got it the first twelve hundred times.”
Even without Dad’s harping in his memory, Hank was embarrassed to think of an accountant coming in to see this mess.
He shook his head and returned to the window.
Five of this month’s kids, the older ones, saddled horses in the yard for their overnight camping trip.
Wish I could go with them. Next time.
He’d tell the accountant Leila had made a mistake. There was nothing wrong at the bank.
What if she made a fuss, insisted on seeing his books anyway? Damned if he was going to let some city accountant go through his personal stuff, mess up his ranch and his life over nothing. He’d find a way out of this himself—whatever this was.
He slammed the window shut and strode to the desk. Dad used to keep a key in the top drawer.
He walked out of the office, turning to lock the door behind him. It hadn’t been locked since Dad died. He slipped the key into his pocket.
Down the hallway in the dining room, the younger five of this month’s kids, the six-to nine-year-olds, still lingered over breakfast, their chatter mingling with the scents of bacon, eggs and hot chocolate.
Hank peeked in on them. Their baseball caps hung from the backs of their chairs, leaving their delicate scalps exposed.
He clapped his hands. “Who wants to go see the horses?”
They jumped out of their seats and swarmed him, laughing and talking.
He ran a hand over Kyle’s soft head, fuzz like freshly seeded grass making a hesitant show.
“Hey, Hank,” Jamie yelled, “I can ride a horse good.” Some kids did everything full blast, even talking.
Hank grinned.
Quiet Cheryl patted his arm for attention and he picked her up. Her hair resisted regrowth, leaving her skull as bare as a newborn’s.
His heart swelled to bursting.
This was what mattered—these children, and keeping the ranch alive for them.
TOO SOON, Amy Graves’s twitchy stomach told her she’d arrived at the Sheltering Arms ranch. When she stepped out of her car into the dry heat, a breeze kicked up her bangs and sent them flying around her forehead. It ruffled the feathery branches of a weeping willow that beckoned from the front lawn. A shady refuge.
She took a breath of clean, pure air and tried to calm her nerves. She could do this. She could face this ranch and what it meant to her.
Dust settled on the stretch of dirt road she’d just driven in on from the highway. The driveway bisected golden fields of…what? No clue. Amber waves of grain. But what kind of grain? One of the things she’d have to find out. What was it and how much profit did they make on it? Or did they feed it to animals, an expense they could claim?
Meadows of green and gold stretched as far as she could see, changing into rolling hills on the horizon.
Above it all, white puffs of cotton candy dotted the huge bowl of brilliant blue that earned Montana the moniker Big Sky.
She sucked in a breath. “Beautiful.” She listened to the gentle breeze carrying the distant sounds of children’s laughter and her heartbeat slowed, her shoulders relaxed. Calmness crept through her.
A sigh slipped from her lips.
Not fifty yards away, a flock of birds waddled through the grass, older birds leading the flock and young furry chicks following behind. Ducks? Geese? She didn’t know the difference.
She was out of her element here. Once a city girl, always a city girl.
The ranch house stood wide, white and placid in the late morning sun. Blue shutters framed windows on the second floor, flower boxes brightened windowsills with yellow pansies. Wicker chairs on the veranda beckoned. Come and rest a spell, put up your feet, unburden your weary shoulders. Welcome.
Pretty. She’d expected something rugged, made with logs and adobe or whatever materials people used in the country.
She stepped onto the veranda and heard a cacophony of children’s voices approach from the side of the house. A big man with kids dangling from his back, arms and legs rounded the corner of the house. Muscles on top of muscles bulged in his denim shirt and jeans.
Amy smiled. This must be Hank Shelter. Leila said her brother always had children hanging on to him. Amy hadn’t known she’d been speaking literally. She counted five children clinging to the man.
Hank leaned down to talk to the two sitting on his feet. “You kids are comin’ in for lunch whether you want to or not.” His voice, as rough as cowboy boots shuffling on gravel, sent sexy shivers running through Amy.
She rubbed goose bumps from her arms.
The kids answered Hank in varied chirps, “No, Hank, not yet.”
“We want one more ride around the house.”
“Now kids, we’ve been around this veranda three times already this mornin’ and old Hank ain’t gettin’ any younger. I gotta wet my whistle and fill my grumblin’ belly.”
Amy rolled her eyes. Corny. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
The man looked up from under the brim of a dusty white cowboy hat. Eyes that shone with the warmth of aged scotch widened when he saw her.
His average-looking face—large nose and strong jaw—would never grace a magazine cover, but a face as bracketed by creases as Hank’s was spoke of character.
He snatched the hat from his head, exposing a thick mass of glorious brown hair. One streak of caramel ran across the top of his head from a widow’s peak.
Then he smiled and Amy’s breath caught. The world was suddenly a brighter place. Good thing he lived under the open Big Sky. He’d eclipse