Victoria Chancellor - An Honorable Texan

“Why?”

“Because there’s too much unresolved between us.”

“This might be a good opportunity to resolve some of those issues,” Cal said, no longer kissing her skin but still holding her tightly against his hard body and the soft couch.

“I don’t think making love will resolve anything. I think it will just make our lives more complicated and confusing.”

Cal moaned against her shoulder, “You think too much, Christie.”

She pushed and he levered himself away. She scooted off the couch, her shorts and top badly crumpled and her emotions in a jumble. “Someone has to think for both of us,” she said as she flipped her hair out of her eyes. “I’m going to bed—alone.”

Dear Reader,

I’ve learned, in the past thirty-four years I’ve lived here, that Texas is a state rich in honor and tradition, especially among the original settlers and ranching families. Sometimes, such devotion to principle might even be seen as stubbornness.

The men of the Crawford family of Brody’s Crossing are single-minded in their convictions. When I wrote Troy Crawford’s story, Temporarily Texan, I knew I had to write his older brother Cal’s story, as well. Cal’s family traditions and his personal history shaped him more than most heroes I’ve “met” in the more than twenty books I’ve written. Of course, Cal deserves (and gets!) a very independent, smart and caring woman in Christina Simmons. He thought she was special when they spent two days—and nights—together in Fort Worth before his military service in Afghanistan, but knew she could be only a weekend fling. That was before he returned to find the consequences of their actions.

I hope you enjoy Christie and Cal’s story. And if you think these are the last of the Crawfords, don’t be surprised if the brothers discover one more family secret in the upcoming months. I would love to hear from you via my Web site, www.victoriachancellor.com. Have a wonderful summer filled with your own discoveries, and I hope you’ll look for more BRODY’S CROSSING stories beginning in December, when the town’s mayor, Toni Casale, is reunited with her former love, the dashing and successful Wyatt McCall.

Victoria Chancellor

Victoria Chancellor

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Victoria Chancellor married a visiting Texan in her home state of Kentucky thirty-five years ago, and has lived in the Lone Star State for thirty-two years after a brief stay in Colorado. Her household includes her husband, four cats, a very spoiled miniature pinscher, an atrium full of tortoises, turtles and toads, and lots of visiting wild critters. Last year she was blessed with both a new son-in-law and a granddaughter. Her former careers include fine jewelry sales, military security and financial systems analysis. She would love to hear from you via her Web site, www.victoriachancellor.com, or P.O. Box 852125, Richardson, TX 75085-2125.

To my editor, Kathleen Scheibling,

for making my books better, and for her patience

with my sometimes humorous and

embarrassing errors of omission.

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

Epilogue

Thanks to SSG Kenneth Marion, U.S. Army, Plano,

Texas, for his help with the army reserves and active

duty details. Any errors or literary license are mine.

Also, thanks to Beverly Brown

of the Lucky B Ranch in College Station, Texas,

for her help understanding and appreciating bison,

and for all bison ranchers and organizations who

have useful information on their Web sites.

Christie Simmons put her Cadillac SRX into Park but didn’t turn off the engine. She didn’t plan to get out of the car unless a certain tall, tan, brown-haired rancher exited the ranch house and asked what the heck she was doing on his property.

She waited, but no one came out. Which meant he probably wasn’t home yet.

But he was coming home, any day now. That’s what his brother’s fiancée had told her on the phone yesterday. That’s what the nice waitress at the café in town had told her. Christie knew small towns had very active grapevines. By now, they’d probably be buzzing with news that a blond “city girl” had been asking about Cal Crawford.

A blond city girl with a nine-month-old baby, Christie corrected herself, turning to look at the rear-facing car seat. She could only see his cute little face in the special infant mirror attached to the backseat. Peter slept as he usually did when she drove long distances—just like a baby. If she stayed parked here too long, though, he’d awaken and want a bottle, some attention or his diaper changed. Maybe all three. She’d rather find a place to stay before Peter started fussing. A bed-and-breakfast, or even a motel would do, as long as it was clean and safe.

Still, she sat for a minute longer, returning her attention to the beige brick ranch house with the green trim. It was neat and well maintained, as was the red barn maybe half a football field away. In the pasture surrounding the yard, black-and-white cows—the kind in those cheese commercials—grazed on newly greening grass. In another pasture, bison, of all things, appeared to be dozing in the noontime sun. On a rocky hill, chickens of every color pecked among the stunted shrubs and clumps of cactus. What a strange and wonderful place!

Especially for a city girl, she thought. She was rarely around animals, except for her mother’s overindulged, yappy and slightly asthmatic Pekingese, Mr. Boodles. Christie had always wanted a yellow Lab, but her parents had insisted big dogs were too much trouble, so she’d lavished her attention on her friends’ pets.

When Peter was old enough, she’d get him that yellow Lab she’d never had as a child. She’d have a yard for him to play in and one of those cute inflatable kiddie pools. When Peter and the dog got wet and dirty, she’d clean them up and laugh with them, not scold them for making a mess.

She would not raise her child as she’d been raised, in a luxurious but cold home where perfection was more important than happiness.

With a sigh, she circled back onto the drive leading to the county road. She passed under a wooden arch that spelled out Rocking C in rustic iron letters. She was sure Cal had told her that four generations of Crawfords had lived on the ranch. She also had a vague memory of him mentioning he raised Hereford cattle. She recalled those red-and-white animals from the annual Fort Worth Fat Stock Show. She’d dutifully attended for years as the child of one of the rodeo sponsors. Everyone who was anyone in Fort Worth had ties to the Fat Stock Show, the Bass Performance Hall or the Kimball Art Museum. Maybe all three.