Cathy Mcdavid - Last Chance Cowboy

His hand drifted to the middle of her back and pressed lightly.

Sage’s own hands rested awkwardly at the sides of his denim jacket. For one brief second, she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to circle his middle with her arms and nestle fully against him.

Crazy. And highly inappropriate. Certainly not the kind of thoughts a crying woman had about a man.

Except she wasn’t crying anymore.

And since her crying had subsided, she really had no reason to keep standing there, snug in Gavin’s embrace.

“Sorry about that,” she murmured and slowly began to disengage herself.

“Don’t be.” He halted her by tucking a finger beneath her chin, tilting her head up and bringing his mouth down on hers.

Her arms, no longer awkward and indecisive, clung to him as she gave herself over to what quickly became the most incredible kiss of her life.

Dear Reader,

I consider myself a very fortunate person. One reason is that I live in the foothills of the McDowell Mountains, a gorgeous urban mountain range that borders north Scottsdale. I get to wake up every morning to a spectacular view from my bedroom window and walk my dogs along scenic nature trails that are only minutes away. When I was a teenager, this part of the valley wasn’t yet developed, and I used to ride my horse through the same empty desert where I and a thousand of my neighbors now reside. Kind of amazing in a way.

With inspiration like this, I couldn’t help but let my mind wander and imagine all sorts of stories blending the past and the present. I’m not quite sure where the idea for Last Chance Cowboy came from—it probably occurred to me while driving past the few remaining ranches in the area on my way to the river. But once born, the idea of a wild mustang roaming an urban mountain range quickly took hold, and I couldn’t shake it.

I am delighted to bring the story of Gavin, Sage and an amazing horse to you and thrilled to be writing about a place that is both literally and figuratively close to my heart.

Warmest wishes,

Cathy McDavid

P.S. I always enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me at www.cathymcdavid.com.

Last Chance Cowboy

Cathy McDavid

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The trail, narrow and steep, all but disappeared as it wrapped around the sheer mountain ledge. Good thing heights didn’t bother him, Gavin Powell thought as his horse’s hoof slipped and sent a shower of rocks tumbling to the ravine bottom forty feet below. He loosened his reins, giving the paint mare her head. She was small but sure-footed and carefully picked her way along the ledge with the concentration of a tightrope walker.

This wasn’t a trail for novices—not one on which Gavin took the customers of his family’s riding stable. He’d discovered the trail as a teenager over fifteen years ago and rode it every now and then when he craved peace and solitude.

Shaking his head, he chuckled dismally. Who’d have ever thought he’d need to retreat to this remote trail in order to find solitude? Not Gavin. Until a few years ago, their nearest neighbors had been fifteen miles down a single lane road that saw little traffic. Now, their nearest neighbors were at the end of the long drive leading from what little remained of Powell Ranch.

All nine hundred of them.

Gavin pushed away the thought. He’d come here to relax and unwind, not work himself into a sweat. Besides, if he was going to expend large amounts of mental and emotional energies, it would be on one of his many pressing personal problems, not something he was powerless to change.

The mare abruptly stopped, balancing on a precipice no wider than her shoulders. Gavin had to tuck his left arm close to his side or rub the sleeve of his denim jacket against the rugged rock face.

“Come on, Shasta.” He nudged the mare gently. “Now’s not the time to lose your courage.”

She raised her head but remained rooted in place, her ears twitching slightly and her round eyes staring out across the ravine.

Rather than nudge her again, Gavin reached for the binoculars he carried in his saddlebags, only to realize he’d forgotten to bring them along. Pushing back the brim of his cowboy hat, he squinted against the glaring noonday sun, searching the peaks and gullies. The mare obviously sensed something, and he trusted her instincts more than he trusted his own.

All at once, she tensed and let out a shrill whinny, her sides quivering.

“What do you see, girl?”

Shasta snorted in reply.

Gavin continued scanning the rugged mountain terrain. Just as he was ready to call it quits, he spotted movement across the ravine. A black shape traveled down the steep slope, zigzagging between towering saguaro cacti and prickly cholla. Too dark for a mule deer, too large for a coyote and too fast for a human, the shape could be only one thing.

The wild mustang!

He reached again for his saddlebags, but he’d forgotten his camera, too. Dammit. Well, he really didn’t need another picture. Especially one from such a far distance. He’d already taken dozens of the mustang, many of which he’d sent to the U.S. Bureau of Land Management when he’d first spotted the horse. All he’d received in response was a polite letter thanking him for the information and giving a weak assurance they would investigate the matter.

That was June. It was now October.

The BLM probably figured the horse was an escapee from one of the residents in Mustang Village, the community now occupying the land once belonging to Gavin’s family. Or that the horse had crossed over from the Indian reservation on the other side of the McDowell Mountains. The last wild mustangs left this part of Arizona more than sixty years ago, or so the stories his grandfather used to tell him went. As a teenager, his grandfather had rounded up wild mustangs. No way could this horse be one of them.

But Gavin’s heart told him different. Maybe, by some miracle, one descendant had survived.

Gavin was going to capture him. He’d made the decision two months ago when yet another phone call to the BLM yielded absolutely nothing. Even if the horse was simply an escapee, it was in danger from injuries, illness, ranchers not opposed to shooting a wild horse, and possibly predators, though mountain lions in this area were a rarity these days.

He told himself his intentions were selfless—he was thinking only of the horse’s safety and well-being.

Truthfully, Gavin wanted the horse for himself. As a tribute. To his grandfather and to the cowboy way of life he loved, which was disappearing bit by bit every day. Then, he would breed the mustang to his mares, many of which, like Shasta, had bloodlines going all the way back to the wild mustangs of his grandfather’s time.

He’d recently acquired a partner with deep pockets, a man from Mustang Valley, and developed a business plan. All he needed was the stud horse.