Mary Sullivan - No Ordinary Cowboy

The rope tightened around them with the gentle persuasion of a mare nudging her colt home….

She’d raised her arms when he’d pulled her toward him and her hands rested high on his chest. They rose and fell with his quick breaths, branding him.

The sounds around him drifted away. He lost himself in Amy’s green eyes. His hands held the back of her waist, drifted down to her hips. He thought of ripe pears and his blond guitar.

She smelled warm, like the sun, like mango and papaya and coconut. Her skin looked soft enough to lick.

What if he did what he wanted and rested his head on her golden hair, felt the soft glide of it across his cheek? What if he leaned down to press his lips to her eyelids to close them, so she couldn’t see all of those handsome cowboys crowding around her? What if he kissed her until she was aware of only plain Hank?

Before he could act on the crazy impulse, she did the oddest thing. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, then smelled him with a delicate sniff.

She opened her eyes and smiled into his. “Soap. Nice.”

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Dear Reader,

What is a born-and-bred city girl of Irish descent, who grew up in Toronto eating Greek pastries on the Danforth, noshing on grapes from her Italian neighbor’s vines and drinking Turkish coffee with her Macedonian friends, doing writing romance novels about cowboys and cowgirls?

They fascinate me! I admire the committed work ethic that compels them to raise cattle under the toughest conditions, to battle summer droughts and winter blizzards to maintain a way of life that has been bred into their bones.

I also love horses, love reading about them and watching them in movies. Sadly, I’ve never been on one. A hopelessly inept athlete, I never stop trying. Recently I went dogsledding for the first time and came home bruised and euphoric. Rock climbing is next. After that…horseback riding? Maybe it’s time to get up close and personal with a real live horse and even, gulp, ride one. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

I hope you enjoy my debut novel of a rugged cowboy who falls hard for a beautiful city girl.

Mary Sullivan

When Mary Sullivan picked up her first Harlequin Superromance novel, she became hooked on romance. She wanted to write these heartfelt stories of love, family, perseverance and happy endings, about heroes and heroines graced with strength of character and hope. Mary believes that whether we live in the country, the city, or somewhere in between, home is where the heart is, with the people we choose to love.

To Kelly.

Home is where the heart is.

My heart is with you.

To Maureen, Michele, Molly, Sinead and Teresa.

I couldn’t have done this without you.

Thank you.

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

“HANK SHELTER, if you’re there, pick up!”

Hank ignored his sister’s order and strode from the desk to the window, putting distance between him and the telephone.

“Leila,” he muttered to his empty office, “I don’t feel like tangling with you today. The answering machine can deal with you.”

He leaned against the wall beside the open window, his arms crossed, staring across his fields to the distant hills. June in Montana. Was there anything on this earth more beautiful than his ranch?

Correction. Not his ranch. Leila’s. Another of Dad’s crazy decisions, to leave the ranch to her. It should have been Hank’s. He pounded his fist on the windowsill.

“Hank,” Leila continued, “you can’t stick your head in the ground like an ostrich and ignore reality.”

What reality? Things on the ranch were rolling along just fine.

Leila’s sigh over the phone line held a world of frustration.

“Okay, this is the deal. My friend, Amy Graves, is on her way to go over the books. She’s an excellent accountant.”

An accountant? Hank straightened and uncrossed his arms. What the heck for? He turned to stare at the machine.

He could run this ranch fine on his own, and had been doing so since Dad died.

He’d stopped in at the bank only yesterday and no one had said a word about any problems.

“Wipe the scowl off your face, baby brother,” Leila continued, but her tone held a hint of worry under her usual brusqueness. “Cooperate. After the letter I received from the bank this morning, I’m deeply concerned. The situation might have reached the point of no return.”

Letter? What letter? Point of no return? His heart pounded. Had the bank somehow figured out—They couldn’t have. He’d been so careful.

“Someone needs to take control of the ranch’s finances before the whole enterprise goes down the toilet.”

The toilet? As in losing the ranch? His breakfast threatened a return journey up his throat and he swallowed hard.

Dad’s voice echoed through his memory. “You’ve screwed up again, boy. Keep it private. We don’t need the whole world to know our business.”

Shame rushed up from his chest, leaving his cheeks hot enough to melt bullets.

“Hank—” Leila hesitated before saying more. Hank cocked his head. Strange for her to be unsure of anything.

“Amy’s fragile these days.” Leila’s voice held an uncharacteristic softness. “Take care of her.”

The solid click of his sister hanging up followed her “goodbye.”

Hank clenched his hands and rested them on the windowsill, digging his knuckles into the wood, hoping the pain would eclipse his panic. Even the scents of dust kicked up by horses’ hooves and 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.