Mary Sullivan - Rodeo Rancher

It was just strange for Travis to have someone. Not just a girlfriend, but the one. He’d never talked about love before though he’d had plenty of girlfriends, even that phony Vivian he’d been so infatuated with. Thank God that hadn’t lasted.

But who was this Rachel? How had he fallen so hard so quickly? What was she like? Could Sammy trust her to love Travis as much as he deserved to be loved?

“I’m going to marry her, Sammy.”

Samantha choked. When she stopped coughing, she whispered, “Marry?”

“Yep.” Her brother had never sounded more certain.

“I’m happy for you, bro.” She was, but a tiny part of her knew that this changed everything.

She bit her lip. “Where will you live? In the house?”

“Yes, with her two children.”

Rachel had children? “But—” She’d thought the house would be a home for her and the boys.

“It will all work out, Sammy. We’ll make it work. You’re going to love Rachel and her girls,” Travis said, and his calm confidence soothed her even while she still worried. How on earth was it all supposed to work?

Sammy and her boys would never again have her brother’s undivided love and attention.

Well, wasn’t that the point you were going to make when you arrived at the house he bought for you? Weren’t you determined to pay him every cent he paid for that house, even if it took years?

Weren’t you the one who was going to finally fight for independence from every single man, even your brother?

Her father and her ex-husband had let her down. Depending on men sucked. Only Travis had been trustworthy.

“I love you, bro.”

“And I love you, sis. Tell the boys I love them, too.”

“I will. Bye.” She hated to hang up, hated to wait another day or two before seeing him, before moving to a happier home than this one seemed to be. But the house she was moving to with Travis would soon contain another woman and two more children.

She just didn’t know what to think.

Everything was topsy-turvy. Her ex had taught her some hard lessons about life. She would find a way to be independent, for her own sake and her sons’.

If the house didn’t work out, she would find some other place to live. After all, she was a hard worker and had a job to start next month.

Turning away, she found Michael watching her. “Is everything okay?” he asked. “Did you get through?”

She smiled. “Yes. It was good to talk to him. Thank you.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

“Close to six months.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs and shivered.

He frowned. “I didn’t ask. Did your clothes get wet in the snow?”

“My pants are really damp.”

“Follow me.” He led her into his bedroom. “I’m a lot wider than you, but we can find something.”

He handed her a pair of gray sweatpants. “You can cinch these with the string at the waist. If that’s not enough, I’ll find you a belt.”

He also gave her a sweatshirt, which was faded but soft. “Layer this over your sweater to keep warm.”

Michael left the room. The pants were snug in the hips, but big in the waist. She managed to tie the string tightly enough to hold them up. She put on the sweatshirt and immediately felt warmer.

In the bathroom, she hung her pants over the shower stall to dry.

She joined him in the kitchen. “Thanks. That feels a lot better.” She stepped close to the counter. “We should probably start cooking, right?”

* * *

DAMN. SAMANTHA LOOKED good in his clothes. They weren’t the least bit feminine, but she made them so...and that was a problem.

Michael turned away from her to open the fridge door, resisting even the faintest hint of awareness.

“We do need to cook,” he finally said in answer to her question. Lighten up, Moreno.

He might not be able to control the situation, but he could control his reaction to it. “It’s better to have the food cooked before we lose power. It’ll keep longer than raw.”

“What’s all the meat for?”

“Chicken soup and meat loaf. The kids like both.”

“My boys would like that, too.”

So they weren’t vegetarians like her? Strange.

He got the proteins out of the fridge.

“That’s a lot of ground beef,” she said.

“I was going to make a couple of loaves. I’m not much of a cook, but I can handle the basics.”

“Would you mind if I check your cupboards to see what else there is?”

He spread one arm wide. “Have at it.”

He stood back, leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms while he waited.

He didn’t like having her in his kitchen, but maybe she could come up with more ideas to feed six people with his supplies.

She dived into the task, surprising him with what excited her. A tin of black beans nearly sent her into raptures. He almost smiled.

“You have spaghetti and canned tomato sauce. Your spices look old, but we can try to jazz it up a bit. How about one meat loaf and a pot of Bolognese?”

“We’re having bologna?” Mick asked. He stood behind Michael with the other children.

Samantha spun around. “Bolognese. Basically, beef sauce for spaghetti.”

Why didn’t she just say so? Awkward and unsophisticated beside her with her fancy words for meat sauce, he bristled.

“We’re hungry,” Mick said.

“You keep checking out the food,” Michael told Samantha. “I’ll make snacks.” He gave them cheese strings and granola bars.

“They need a fruit or veggie with that.”

He knew how to feed children, for God’s sake. He had two of them. The woman didn’t seem to notice that she’d butted in. She insisted they have apple slices spread with peanut butter. Health freak.

Not a bad idea, though. They carried their snacks to Mick’s bedroom.

She rummaged through his cupboards again.

“Barley!” she squealed.

“You get excited about strange things,” he said.

“I can use it to make a vegetarian soup for myself.”

He cocked his head. “You said your sons eat anything. Aren’t they vegetarians, too?”

“No. I’ve told them my philosophy, but they can eat what they want and make their own choices when they’re old enough. They eat all of my food, but if anyone offers meat, they eat that, too.”

Hell of a way to go about it. He taught his children his values and he expected them to follow. He didn’t give them choices.

He shrugged and moved on. No skin off his nose if she was a screwball parent.

“What are you comfortable making?” he asked.

“I love cooking soups. Do you want to make the meat loaf with half the ground beef and brown the rest for the spaghetti sauce?”

“Suits me fine.”

While he focused on the meat, she started pulling out every vegetable in his crisper—cabbage, carrots and celery.

“Do you have potatoes?”

“I’ll get them. How many do you want?”

“As many as you have.”

“I’ve got ten pounds.”

While she digested that, she chewed her bottom lip. “An entire bag?”

“Close to it.”

“There are six of us. Should we use half of them to make mashed potatoes to go with the meat loaf and bake the rest?”

“Yeah. We can always eat them cold tomorrow if need be.”

He stored the bag at the top of the stairs to the basement. He retrieved it and also snagged a rutabaga and a bag of onions.

He returned to the kitchen and came up short. It was strange to see a woman there and even stranger that he had to pass close to her to get to his own counter.

Careful not to touch her, he sidled past, feeling her heat nonetheless.

It was going to be a long night.

She asked, “Are you sure you’ll have enough food? We’re three extra mouths.”