Candy Halliday - A Ranch Called Home

Gabe could tell from the expression on Sara’s face that she meant to send him packing the moment five minutes were up.

“I know my brother had his faults, but turning his back on his own child wasn’t one of them. Blood kin is blood kin. We Coulters have always taken care of our own.”

“Well, here’s a news flash for you,” she said. “I made the decision not to tell Billy about Ben because there wasn’t any reason to tell Billy about Ben. It wasn’t like Billy was father material.”

This wasn’t going as planned. In fact, nothing about his interactions with her had. He needed some way to show her that her son, his nephew, needed to know his Coulter heritage. Gabe pulled the check from his front shirt pocket, unfolded it and held it up for her to see. “Take Billy’s insurance money. Use it to start a new life for yourself. But let Ben go back to Colorado with me. Let me give Ben the home and the legacy Billy would have.”

She stared at the check as if it were a coiled rattlesnake ready to strike. Then she glared at Gabe. “You must be crazy if you think I’d trade my son for money.”

Dear Reader,

In 1999 my dream came true. I sold my first romance to Harlequin Books. Now ten years later I’m thrilled to be back home with my first Harlequin Superromance novel.

Over the past decade I’ve written about single women looking for Mr. Right. I’ve written about housewives keeping hubby happy. But I’ve never had the chance to write about the kind of woman I was once—a single mom. Thanks to Harlequin Superromance, I’ve been given that opportunity.

I know exactly what it’s like to have more month than money. I know the agony of worrying if you’ve made the right decisions. And I know how hard it is shouldering the responsibility alone. But I also know the joy of being a mom far outweighs any hardships we face along the way.

A Ranch Called Home is my tribute to the single mom. And my message is simple: regardless of your finances or the mistakes you make, you still possess the most precious gift we can give our children—a mother’s everlasting and unconditional love.

Best always,

Candy Halliday

Candy Halliday embraced women’s lib in the 60s, was a 70s single mom, married her Mr. Right in the 80s, became a proud grandmother in the 90s, and sold her first romance novel at fifty. Growing old gracefully has never been on Candy’s agenda. And since sixty is the new fifty and chubby is the new thin, Candy claims life in her world is good. Candy’s best advice: never put an age limit on your dreams.

This book is dedicated to my best friend

Lynda Tucker, an amazing single mom who has always been there for me through the good times and the bad. I love you, Tucker. Your friendship means more than words could ever express.

Special thanks to my wonderful agent

Jenny Bent for putting up with me.

A million thanks to my fabulous editor

Wanda Ottewell for giving me the chance to prove I can write traditional romance as well as romantic comedy.

Thanks to author Emilie Rose, my fellow

romance sister, who keeps me pointed in the proper writing direction.

Congrats to all my Duetter buddies as we celebrate

our tenth anniversary together in 2009.

And thanks always to my incredible,

supportive and loving family: Blue, Shelli, Tracy, Quint and Caroline— you guys rock!

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 FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

GABE COULTER BOLTED upright in bed at the shrill ring of his bedside phone. When the person on the other end confirmed what Gabe had been waiting months to hear, he switched on his bedside light.

“And you’re certain you found them?”

“I’m positive,” the private detective said. “She and the kid are living in Conrad, Texas, a two-bit town just north of El Paso. She waits tables in a diner next door to a motel where they live. The boy stays in a back room at the diner while she works.”

“She hasn’t married?”

“Nah, she’s still single,” the detective said. “Still goes by the name Sara Watson. The kid’s name is Ben.”

“Ben,” Gabe half whispered.

Finally, he had a name.

He raked a hand through his hair, slowly processing the information. Finding them hadn’t been easy. The next step would be even harder.

“What do you want me to do now, Mr. Coulter?”

“Give me a second to get to my office,” Gabe said.

Grabbing his jeans from the bottom of the bed, Gabe pulled them on. With the phone still to his ear, he hurried downstairs in search of a pen and paper. He found what he needed on the massive mahogany desk that had served three generations of ranchers at the Crested-C.

What Gabe didn’t need was looking up to find that the late-Monday-night phone call had also awakened his foreman. The old man was standing in his office doorway, a worried expression on his gray-bearded face.

“I finally got a few photos of the woman and the boy,” the detective said. “But everything in Conrad is already closed for the night. I’ll have to drive back to El Paso before I can fax them to you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Gabe said, jotting down the name and address of the diner. “I’ll leave as soon as I get my gear together. If I drive all night, I should be there in time to surprise her tomorrow.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Mr. Coulter,” the detective agreed. “She runs every time I pick up her trail. Conrad is nothing but a mud puddle in the middle of nowhere. It won’t take long before word gets around town that I was asking questions about her and the boy tonight.”

“You’ve earned that bonus we talked about,” Gabe told the detective. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I get back.”

“Good luck,” said the detective.

And Gabe knew he was going to need it.

He lowered himself onto the chair behind his desk, staring at the address he held in his hand. He purposely ignored the presence still looming in his office doorway. It should have been a subtle hint for Smitty to leave Gabe alone and go back to bed. But Smitty never had been good at doing what other people wanted.

“You just can’t let sleeping dogs lie, can you, Gabe?”

Gabe and the old man traded scowls.

“Spare me the lecture, Smitty. I’m fully capable of making my own decisions.”

“Well, you sure can’t prove that by me.” Smitty snorted. He pulled his suspenders up and over his stooped shoulders before he pointed a gnarled finger in Gabe’s direction. “The search for that boy should have ended when your brother was killed, and you know it.”

A muscle in Gabe’s jaw clenched.

The pain of Billy’s death was still as raw as the day of the accident. Images he usually kept at bay clicked through Gabe’s mind like a horror film: Billy waving to the cheering crowd as he lowered himself onto the back of eighteen hundred pounds of raw muscle; cheers turning to terrified gasps when the angry bull reared; every bull rider’s nightmare coming true as Billy fell backward into the stall; cowboys running from every direction trying to rescue their trampled hero.