Cindi Myers - Her Cowboy Soldier

Can she open her heart?

The Hartland Herald isn’t exactly the big leagues. But for army widow Amy Marshall it’s the first step to a career that will allow her to support her young daughter and start a new life in the city. Unfortunately, writing a story that will get her noticed requires stepping on a few toes. Josh Scofield’s toes, to be exact.

Sure, her article was less than flattering. She probably shouldn’t have suggested the injured veteran got his teaching position unfairly, but a real reporter can’t pull punches. And she hadn’t pegged the former military man as someone who cared what other people thought.

As she digs deeper, though, Amy realizes there’s more to Josh than just a good story. But it will be hard to win his trust, and is there any point when she doesn’t plan on sticking around?

She clenched her hands into fists and glared at Josh.

“I’m sorry I hurt your feelings with my little article,” Amy said, “but you know what? I’m tired of you using that against me.”

She turned to walk away, but he pulled her up short, one hand on her arm. “Did you drive your husband this crazy?” he asked.

He was staring at her lips, as if measuring their fit against his own. “Y-yes,” she stuttered. “He used to say our fights kept the marriage interesting.”

“I’ll bet.” He pulled her closer, one arm encircling her waist until she was snugged against him.

“Josh?” she whispered.

“What is it?”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

He released her so quickly, she stumbled backward. “Go on back to the others,” he said. “I can’t think straight when you’re around.”

Clearly, neither could she. She’d been ready to kiss a man she wasn’t even sure she liked.

Dear Reader,

I love small towns. I grew up in one, and I live in one now. Close communities—whether small towns or a neighborhood in a big city—become like extended families. They can be a great source of support, or of annoyance, since it’s hard to be anonymous when everyone knows you and your business.

Hartland, Colorado, isn’t a real place, but it’s patterned after small towns I’ve known, and I think it’s the perfect location for a romantic relationship that’s aided and abetted by the extended family of friends and neighbors. My heroine, Amy, has never really known a true home, and she isn’t sure what to think about the interest the people of Hartland take in her. Josh, my hero, grew up in Hartland, but he’s not that comfortable with close scrutiny, either. These two have a lot to learn about themselves and each other, and I hope you’ll enjoy their journey.

I love to hear from my readers. You can contact me online via my website, www.CindiMyers.com, or write to me in care of Harlequin Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Cindi Myers

Her Cowboy Soldier

Cindi Myers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CINDI MYERS

Cindi Myers is the author of more than fifty novels. When she’s not crafting new romance plots, she enjoys skiing, gardening, cooking, crafting and daydreaming. A lover of small-town life, she lives with her husband and two spoiled dogs in the Colorado mountains.

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For Katie

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

AMY MARSHALL SLID a basket of tomatoes into the gap in her display and stepped back to admire the rows of gleaming produce. A banner behind the farm stand proclaimed ANDERSON ORCHARDS—FRESHEST FRUITS AND VEGETABLES. She’d toured the spice markets in Egypt and bazaars in Afghanistan, but she’d never seen a prettier sight than her own family’s produce set out for sale.

“Don’t just stand there daydreaming,” a voice behind her admonished. “See if you can find room for more squash.”

“Aye, aye, Grandma.” Amy straightened and snapped a mock salute at the trim, gray-haired woman in jeans and a sleeveless checked blouse who leaned on a metal walker. Amy’s grandmother, Bobbie Anderson, might be temporarily slowed down by hip surgery, but she still knew how to issue a command. “I’ll squash in more squash.”

“Squash the squash!” Giggling, Amy’s five-year-old daughter, Chloe, twin brown ponytails like antennae high on her head, stood on tiptoe to look over the piles of the yellow vegetable that had arrived by the bushel load from the greenhouses this morning.

“We won’t be squashing anything,” Bobbie said with mock severity. She surveyed the rows of vegetables critically. “On second thought, Amy, forget the squash for now and help with the customers. Tell Neil he can unload the truck. Chloe, come help me stack onions.”

Amy hurried to the checkout area, where retired rancher Neal Kuchek was weighing out shiny green peppers for a young couple in matching khaki shorts. “I’ll take over here,” she told him. “Grandma wants you to unload the truck.”

“Does she, now? That woman just loves to order me around.” But he grinned and headed toward the truck parked behind the produce stand.

Amy finished assisting the young couple and turned to the next customer in line. “May I help you?”

“Just these.” A man extended a plastic bag that contained three tomatoes toward her. But the hand that held the tomatoes wasn’t a hand, it was a steel hook. Amy’s smile faltered, and she lifted her gaze to meet that of her customer. He was a young man, near her own age, with the fine creases around his blue eyes of someone who had spent a lot of time squinting into the sun, and the close-cropped brown hair and erect posture that spoke of military training.

He met her stare with a steady look of his own. “You must be Bobbie’s granddaughter,” he said. “She told me you were coming to live with her. I was sorry to hear about your husband.”

In the week Amy had been in the little town of Hartland, Colorado, she had heard similar expressions of sympathy from almost everyone she’d met, each one heartfelt, and each one a sharp reminder that, though Brent had been killed in Iraq three years ago, the loss still hurt. “Thank you,” she murmured, looking away. “Did you know Brent?”

“No. I didn’t have that privilege. I suspect I was already back in the States, recuperating, when he was killed.” He offered his left hand—the one that wasn’t a hook. “Josh Scofield. I teach science at the high school.”

“Amy Marshall.” She shook hands, a brief touch that nevertheless sent a shiver up her spine, maybe because this injured soldier was such a tangible reminder of her late husband, who had never recovered from his own war wounds.

“Hello.” Chloe climbed onto an empty apple crate beside her mother and frowned at Josh. “Why do you have a hook instead of a hand?”

“Chloe!” Amy shushed her daughter, her face burning.