Christyne Butler - The Cowboy's Second Chance

Good Lord, where’d that come from?

“N-not without breakfast. My grandmother would skin me alive if I let you leave before tasting her blue-ribbon muffins.” She backed up until her butt hit the door. She pulled it open and stepped inside. “Besides, your horse is going to need—”

“I know what G.W. needs.”

The screen door banged closed between them at his abrupt words. Maggie didn’t know him from a hole in the wall. Her gut told her he was a good man, but hell, she’d been wrong before. Her body’s reaction was a poor barometer. She had her family and ranch to protect. Besides, it was clear he wanted to leave.

“Fine…do what you want.”

She forced herself not to look back as she made a beeline for the bathroom. The phone on the hall table rang. She grabbed the extension before it stopped. “Crescent Moon.”

“Mama?”

Joy flooded Maggie at the sound of her daughter’s voice. “Hey, sweetie.”

“Are you okay? Did I wake you?”

“I’m fine, honey, and no, you didn’t wake me.” A tall, sexy-as-sin cowboy who’s no doubt packing his truck as we speak, did. “Why are you calling so early?”

A long pause filled the air. “I wanted to check on things.”

Oh, Anna. Maggie leaned again the wall and pressed a hand to her forehead. Eight years old is too young to be such a worrier. “Everything is fine here.”

“No accidents while we were at the carnival?”

“You know Hank stayed at the ranch while we were in town.” Maggie straightened and forced a smile into her words. “Did you and Julie have a good time last night?”

She listened to her daughter’s excited chatter for a few more minutes before ending the call. After lingering under the spray of the shower, she grabbed her robe and headed to her bedroom. Once inside, she paused at the door. Despite the nearness of her room to the kitchen, she didn’t hear a word of conversation.

Not her grandmother’s lilting pitch, which still carried a hint of her Irish heritage, or Willie’s gravel-filled murmur that reminded her of aged leather. And certainly not the low, smoky tone of her rescuer-cowboy.

Girl, you’ve got more important things to worry about than a cowboy and his lame horse. She closed the door and moved to her dresser. Like the financial standing of your ranch.

Financial leaning was a better way to put it.

After pulling on her boots, she used the hair dryer to blast her shoulder-length hair then pulled it into a ponytail as columns of figures from her so-called budget flashed through her mind. An upcoming vet payment to the Watson Clinic loomed, and her credit line at the feed store was near its limit. Not to mention the final balloon payment on the loan she’d had to get to buy her ex out of the Crescent Moon.

Balloon payment! What a stupid term for a financial dealing. Made it sound like something connected with a birthday party instead of a way for her to lose everything.

Lose everything? Over my dead body.

Maggie marched into the kitchen, drawn by the aroma of her grandmother’s cooking. Weaving her leather belt through the loops on her jeans, she walked right into a heated wall of muscles.

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