Claire McEwen - More Than a Rancher

I am blessed to be surrounded by friends and family who helped me with this book.

My brilliant agent, Jill Marsal, my sister Sally, my husband, Arik, and my writing buddy, Lia, all joined the fray as I wrestled my ideas into a coherent proposal. My brother-in-law Steve, a talented cook and all-around knowledgeable guy, helped me clarify Sandro’s culinary vision. And my dear friend, Debbie, generously shared her experiences growing up in a Basque family of sheepherders and ranchers. All mistakes, detours from fact and outright embellishments are entirely my own.

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I had the privilege of working at a lovely ballroom with supportive colleagues and a wonderful dance partner, who was nothing like Jenna’s. The gracious and welcoming owner encouraged my dancing, and never gave our classes to her niece, or to anyone else. All characters in this book, along with their flaws and foibles, are completely imaginary.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text Does he dare to follow her lead? Ballroom dancer Jenna Stevens is done with all things romance. It’s so much more satisfying to focus on her career. That is, until she meets Sandro Salazar—a handsome, brooding small-town chef and sometimes rancher. Jenna is drawn to him immediately, but there’s no way Sandro could fit into her fast-paced, urban life. Still, as she gets to know this reformed bad boy, she begins to wonder if maybe their two worlds can merge. One thing’s for certain—Jenna will have to take the lead if she has any hope of Sandro seeing what’s possible for the two of them…together.

Introduction Jenna turned and came up against a chest. An intriguingly muscular chest. It was wrapped up like a present in a tight white T-shirt. But instead of a bow, there was a belt with a silver buckle. “Hey.” It was a low voice, kind of husky, and she finally looked up. The owner of the chest, T-shirt and belt buckle took a step back. His skin was olive-toned, and his black hair curled over his forehead. Dark brown eyes studied her face. He smiled, and his full lips parted to reveal teeth that were white and just a little crooked. “Hey,” she managed to say, and in an attempt not to gape at the man who looked as if he’d swaggered straight off the streets of Spain or Italy, she took the cloth grocery bag from his hand and set it on the counter. “I’m Sandro,” he said quietly. “Of course. Sandro the chef.” Her cheeks were on fire, and something was wrong with her brain. She stuck out her hand, and he took it, wrapping it in his long fingers and giving it a firm shake. “Um, nice to meet you. I’m visiting. From San Francisco.” “I see. Well, I hope you’re hungry.” “I’m always hungry,” Jenna blurted out. “I mean, I try not to eat too much—I’m a dancer…. You know, dieting and all.” This was ridiculous. Just a scant hour ago she’d given Samantha a speech about how her focus was going to be on her career, and yet now she couldn’t even think straight, or talk, just because of one good-looking guy.

Dear Reader

Title Page

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dedication

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

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

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

WHEN JENNA’S BEST friend described the scenery in the Eastern Sierra, she’d called it soothing and peaceful. But as Jenna stood on a dirt road next to a barren pasture, staring at the pancaked tire on her beloved Mini Cooper, those were not the words that came to mind. She muttered a few of the four-letter variety instead and looked around, wondering what to do next.

Sagebrush, punctuated by beige grass, rolled along for miles eastward. To the west, beyond the highway she’d left behind a few bumpy miles ago, the Sierra Nevada sheered upward in an empty, vast wilderness of gray granite. The mountains rolled on, peak after peak, as far as she could see. Jenna and Samantha agreed on most things, but today Jenna would have to take issue with her best friend’s feelings about this place. There was nothing soothing here. Intimidating was a far better word.

Sighing, Jenna walked around to the passenger side and opened the door, taking her cell phone out of her purse. No reception, of course. Not when she needed it most.

This was crazy. She should have called off the trip when her blender exploded this morning. Jenna wasn’t completely superstitious, but the smoothie spattered all over her kitchen walls had felt like a sign. As if the universe was telling her to crawl back in bed, pull up the covers and stay safely home in San Francisco.

While she’d wiped up the smoothie bits, Jenna had fought the temptation to call Samantha and cancel their plans. She’d been up late last night, hosting a Latin dance party at the ballroom where she worked, and her warm bed had looked incredibly inviting. But her friend was planning her wedding and wanted help. Plus, Jenna felt guilty that she’d never even seen the ranch that Samantha lived on with her fiancé. So she’d dismissed her premonition and forced herself to load up her car and get on the road. And that was when everything started going wrong.

First was the phone call from Jeff. During that disastrous conversation, Jenna learned that there was nothing like an ex-boyfriend confessing to numerous infidelities to make a girl wish she’d stayed hidden beneath her covers all day. Jenna had pulled over, thrown up, cried, then driven to the nearest convenience store for the most massive soda she could find.

Sugar, bubbles and caffeine had worked their magic and she’d managed to continue her calamitous journey. And now here she was, with a flat tire, stuck beyond nowhere. The smoothie volcano had been a sign. And she’d been a fool not to pay attention.

Jenna opened the glove compartment and rummaged around for the owner’s manual. Next time she would listen to her instincts when her kitchen appliances started erupting. This was crazy—she had no idea how to change a tire. Opening the booklet, she started reading. She hated diagrams and instructions of all kinds, but maybe if she stared at them long enough, a miracle would occur and she’d figure them out.

For an instant she was back in school, trying to focus on the textbooks while her teachers looked on in disappointment. Panic fluttered. One step at a time, she told herself. That was the way to get through anything complicated, whether it was a dance routine at the ballroom or a flat tire on a wrong-turn dirt road.

The manual said there should be a jack in the back of the car, so Jenna set the little book on the roof, opened the hatchback and pulled out her bags to uncover the compartment where the tool was allegedly hidden. As she moved her duffel bag, her iPod slid out and dropped to the ground. She picked it up and automatically put the earbuds in. Music was a huge part of her life. It soothed her, helped her think—and she needed all the help she could get right now.

The iPod was set to the song that she and Brent, her dance partner, were using for their upcoming competition. Jenna touched the arrow to play it. At least she could get more familiar with the rhythms while she tried her hand at auto repair.

Jenna walked over to the offending wheel, clutching the object she hoped was the jack. She set it gingerly on the ground and began reading the manual again. The words still weren’t sinking in. Instead the upbeat tune vibrated through her body, and her mind drifted from the dry instructions on the page to the cha-cha routine she and Brent were choreographing.