Ann Roth - The Rancher She Loved

According to the P.I., a Mr. Tyler Phillips had bought the house from the Beckers all those years ago and still owned it. Unfortunately, his phone number was unlisted, and he hadn’t answered either of the two letters Sarah had sent. If she showed up at his door, he’d be forced to at least talk to her. Maybe he’d share some valuable insights about Tammy Becker and her parents and provide information on where Tammy lived now. He might even let Sarah into the house. She wanted to walk through it, see Tammy’s bedroom and gaze out the same windows her biological mother had once looked through.

She was curious. What kind of person was Tammy Becker, and had she ever thought about the daughter she’d given up? Sarah hoped to one day meet the woman and maybe even develop a relationship.

Even if Mr. Phillips refused to talk to her, she was determined to get some answers while she was in town. Following the directions on her iPhone GPS, she turned her travel-weary sedan onto a small paved street aptly named Dusty Horse Road.

Wouldn’t you know, rain began to pummel the car and the dirt-packed ground, sending splashes of wet dust flying.

Great, just great.

The last time Sarah had visited Montana, to research an article on fly-fishing during a hot week in July a few years ago, she’d heard about the fickle spring climate. Now she was experiencing the abrupt shifts firsthand.

Her windshield wipers fought to keep pace with the downpour. Sarah slowed to a crawl, squinting through the weather at the numbers on the mailboxes.

They were few and far between, sentries at the feet of the driveways of modest homes. After a few minutes, the rain eased to a lighter, slower rhythm. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever find the address she was looking for, when the GPS indicated the house she wanted was a few hundred feet away.

There it was—a bungalow situated back from the road, its pale green siding in need of fresh paint. Scraggly weeds filled the garden bed under the front window, but the large front and side yards were mowed, and buds filled the overgrown bushes along one side.

A black pickup was parked under a tall cottonwood at the edge of the gravel driveway. Someone was home—with any luck, Mr. Phillips himself.

This was it, the chance she’d hoped for. Slightly breathless, she pulled into the driveway and braked to a stop near the truck.

Shielding her hair with her shoulder bag, she dashed onto the porch, which was nothing but a concrete slab. Thanks to the overhang above the door, she was sheltered from the rain. Before ringing the doorbell, she smoothed her cap-sleeve blouse over her jeans and fluffed her hair, which had gotten wet despite the purse. Then she pressed the bell with a hand that trembled, thanks to a combination of nerves and a little fear. Though she couldn’t have said what scared her.

Through the door she heard the faint, chiming ding-dong. Above her, clouds raced by, and another gust of wind whipped wet strands of hair across her face. So much for trying to look decent.

Sarah dug into her purse and quickly found her comb, but she needn’t have hurried—Mr. Phillips, or whoever was inside, did not answer the door.

Maybe he needed extra time to reach it—the P.I. said he was in his mid-sixties—or maybe he hadn’t heard the bell.

Determined, she rang again, letting her finger linger on the buzzer. After a short wait, she knocked. Nothing.

Frustrated and disappointed, but too curious to leave without at least sneaking a peek inside, she left the porch. Keeping under the shelter of the eaves, she stepped into the neglected garden along the front of the house.

Knee-high weeds raked the calves of her jeans, and mud sucked at her expensive leather slip-ons. Wishing she’d worn sneakers, she leaned forward and peered through the large front window into what appeared to be the living room. A sofa backed up against the window, and two armchairs and a coffee table faced an old TV. The off-white walls were completely bare. Mr. Phillips wasn’t much for decorating.

Suddenly the deadbolt clicked. Sarah froze, but not for long. She turned and made a mad dash for the porch, stumbling over a dip in the ground in her haste. She’d barely regained her balance before the door swung open.

Caught in the garden like a thief. Great way to make a first impression, Sarah.

Her face burned, and she knew she was beet-red. With all the grace she could muster, she brushed off her hands and moved causally toward the door.

It wasn’t until she planted her feet on the concrete slab that she mustered the courage to actually look at the large male standing in the doorway.

When she saw who it was, she almost stumbled again from the sheer shock. What was Clay Hollyer doing here?

The corner of his sexy mouth lifted in the devastating quirk women everywhere swooned over. Not Sarah—not anymore. She’d never thought she’d see him again and hadn’t ever wanted to.

Yet there he was, as imposing and magnetic as ever.

He pushed his longish brown hair off his forehead, momentarily exposing the faint scar along his right temple, the result of an angry bull’s attempt to rid himself of his tenacious rider sometime during Clay’s brilliant career as America’s champion bull rider.

As talented and good-looking as he was, Clay Hollyer was also cocky and full of himself. He was one of the biggest players Sarah had ever met, let alone profiled for a magazine article. The buckle bunnies who buzzed around him, vying for his attention like bees around a honeycomb, only increased his inflated opinion of himself.

That Sarah had been one of them—not a buckle bunny, but just as smitten—made seeing him now all the worse.

It had been nearly three years. Plenty had happened since then, and she doubted he even remembered her. Hoped and prayed he didn’t. But the striking jade eyes known to every rodeo fan in the world narrowed, and his lips compressed into a thin, flat line, and she knew that he did.

She wanted to sink into the ground. Or better yet, make a beeline for the car. But she was no coward. She forced a smile. “Hello, Clay. You probably don’t remember me. I’m Sa—”

“Sarah Tigarden. How could I ever forget you?” His expression hardened, belying his light tone. “What the hell are you doing here?”

* * *

OF ALL THE women Clay had known, one of his least favorite was standing on his doorstep. If that wasn’t bad enough, she’d trampled through the dead flower bed to snoop through the window.

He was so not amused.

Despite his nasty-ass scowl, she barely flinched. She lost the phony smile though, and clutched the strap of her purse in a stranglehold. “I’m looking for Mr. Tyler Phillips.”

“You want to talk my landlord.” Clay snorted. “He doesn’t live here, and FYI, he doesn’t know anything about me.”

“But this is his house.”

“And he rented it to me. I don’t do interviews anymore.”

Even if he did, he wouldn’t talk to her. A few years back, her big oh-so-guileless blue eyes and great legs had all but reeled him in. That and the habit she had of pushing her then long black hair behind her ears and catching her provocative lower lip between her teeth.

He’d soaked up her interest in him, had liked her enough that he’d even considered dating her. She didn’t have the voluptuous curves he preferred, but those legs and her sweet little behind compensated for the small breasts.

Early one memorable morning, after ten days of letting her shadow him and answering her endless questions, he’d kissed her, in the stable with the horses, leaning against a clover-scented bale of hay. A sizzling kiss he’d thought about for months—and sometimes still did.

At the time, she’d seemed just as awed by the wallop that kiss had packed. Yet for some reason she’d cooled off, fast.