Brenda Mott - Sarah's Legacy

Trent grunted. “So that’s what you think of me, huh?”

Bailey pursed her lips and nodded. “Pretty much.”

“Humph.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to deny it.”

“I don’t deny it, Bailey, and I don’t make excuses for it, either. It’s simply the way I like my life.”

“Really?” Irritation bubbled within her. “You’re going to stand there and tell me you prefer being alone and lonely to being here with me and these kids, having a good time?”

“That’s right,” he said stubbornly.

“You know what?” She glared at him. “You’re hopeless.”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Probably.”

“I ought to stop wasting my time with you.”

“Maybe so.”

Then why didn’t she?

Dear Reader,

I first began writing romance in 1986. Fifteen years later, with more rejection slips than I can count, I finally got “The Call” from Paula Eykelhof, senior editor for Superromance. I’m sure you can imagine my excitement!

Sarah’s Legacy came straight from the heart. I was in the middle of writing this book when my seventeen-year-old nephew was killed in a snowmobile accident. It took months for me to be able to go back to the book, but when I did, the writing became a way to pour out the grief that threatened to drown me. There is nothing more devastating than the loss of a child. Trent Murdock must find a way to get past that pain. But I promise you, this book doesn’t need to come shrink-wrapped with a bottle of antidepressants! After all, the reason I write romance and love this genre so much is that the reader is always guaranteed a happy ending.

Just how does a city-woman-turned-country-girl manage to get a stubborn cowboy to love and laugh again, especially when she’s never had a family of her own? Come with me on Trent and Bailey’s journey and find out. I hope you enjoy their story, and that you never ever give up on your own goals and dreams. I’m living proof that if you keep at it, your dreams will happen.

I’d love to hear from you. My e-mail is BrendaMott@hotmail.com. Please reference the book on the subject line. Thank you and happy reading.

Sincerely,

Brenda Mott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated with love to the memory

of my nephew, Steven Dale Springer,

who left this world much too soon—I miss you, bud

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

EPILOGUE

BAILEY CHANCELLOR slowed her Ford Mustang, looking out through the car’s open window. The little Christmas tree seemed so out of place fully decorated in the month of August, yet there it stood, its red and green ornaments and shiny tinsel reflecting the summer sun.

Curious, she forged ahead on the gravel road until she spotted the entrance to the Roth Hill Cemetery. Putting on her blinker, she turned into the driveway, parked and got out of the car.

The Christmas tree rested beside a marble headstone, the blue-green branches sweetly fragrant. Flipping her braid over one shoulder, Bailey crouched in front of the stone. Sarah Adelle Murdock. A cowboy hat and boots were etched into the marble above the name.

Bailey’s throat thickened, making it difficult for her to swallow, as she read the dates and the words below the name:

Daddy’s little cowgirl. Gone from this earth, but not from our hearts.

From the dates on the headstone, Sarah had been just seven years old when her life ended a year ago…on this very day. Knowing that today was the anniversary of the little girl’s death made Bailey all the more sad. That a child’s life should be cut short seemed so unfair. Whose little girl was she? How had she died?

Bailey’s eyes burned with unshed tears. How many times had she wished for a child of her own? With no family, she often felt lonely. She traced the engraving with her fingertips, and her gaze strayed once more to the little blue spruce.

A porcelain angel, cheeks rosy, hands folded in prayer, topped the tree. The satin bulbs hung in the company of plastic reindeer, elves and teddy bears in Santa hats. The wind that must have blown through the night had scattered tinsel all about. Slivers of gold lay caught in the neatly clipped grass, and two of the ornaments had fallen to the ground at the base of the tree. Bailey picked them up.

The satin felt smooth against her palm, the ornaments weighing almost nothing. Carefully, she lifted one by its metal hook and placed it on the tree. As she hung the second bulb, she sensed someone behind her. Even so, the gruff voice startled her.

“What are you doing?”

Stifling a gasp, Bailey swung around and rose to her feet. Gray eyes as cool as the marble stones in Roth Hill glared back at her. At five foot nine, she had never been accused of being short, yet the stranger before her made her feel small. He topped six feet by a good three inches and had the muscles of someone well acquainted with physical labor. A black T-shirt stretched across his chest and was tucked into faded jeans, and he wore scuffed cowboy boots.

Bailey felt like an intruder. “I’m sorry.” She studied him. His face wasn’t movie-star handsome, but it was a face that would make a woman look twice. His dark blond hair, just long enough to brush the neckline of his T-shirt, made him seem like the type of guy a mother would warn her daughter to steer clear of. He clutched a paper sack in one hand; the other he held fisted at his side, not threateningly, but defensively.

“I saw the tree from the road,” Bailey went on, “and I was curious about it, so I stopped. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

His expression remained sullen. “It’s not meant as a curiosity.”

Her face warmed beneath his accusing glare. “Of course not.” She felt the need to say something further, but what? “I really am sorry.” She gave him a look of sympathy, sure he would soften. His expression changed not one little bit.

“Excuse me.” Bailey walked away, still feeling his gaze on her. Human nature had compelled her to stop, and she shouldn’t feel awkward that she had. But she did.

Reaching her car, she opened the door and slid inside. The hot upholstery burned her skin through her T-shirt. She cranked the engine and flicked on the air-conditioning. As she pressed the button to roll up her window, she couldn’t resist another glance at the stranger. He knelt in front of the grave and withdrew something from the paper sack.

Bailey watched him take an ornament and hang it on the tree.

Her heart ached for him and for the little girl who’d died at the age of seven.

She slammed her car door shut and drove from the cemetery.

BAILEY FOLLOWED the curves in the road, doing her best to shake the memory of the cowboy from her mind. He must be Sarah’s father. The way he’d stared her down left no other explanation. He didn’t want a stranger at his little girl’s grave, and she didn’t blame him. She reminded herself that small-town life was different from life in the city. A curious passerby in a cemetery in Denver might get overlooked. One here in the Colorado mountain town of Ferguson obviously wouldn’t. But then, that was the sort of thing that had first attracted her to this town. Its old-fashioned charm and laid-back ways were exactly what she wanted.