Christine Rimmer - Cinderella's Big Sky Groom

Stories of family and romance beneath the Big Sky!

Jennifer McCallum: Whitehorn’s little darling has started kindergarten—just like every five-year-old. Except Jennifer isn’t just any school-age tot—she’s an heiress with a trust fund that might prove tempting to folks with bad intentions….

Ross Garrison: As a lawyer, he’s got to protect little Jennifer’s interests. But as a man, Ross knows getting close to the girl’s sweet teacher could lead to consequences a confirmed bachelor isn’t ready for!

Lynn Taylor: It isn’t every day a plain Jane like Lynn is swept off her feet by a prince. Now the rumors are flying that prim Miss Lynn is about to compromise her virtue for a certain irresistible lawyer….

www.millsandboon.co.uk

came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job—she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day. She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.

For Betty Lowe, a dear friend and dedicated reader.

This one’s just for you, Betty.

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

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Lynn Taylor set down her pencil. “Sara?”

The child, the only one of Lynn’s kindergartners who hadn’t left for the day, lifted her shining blond head from the picture she’d been working on.

“What time is it?” Lynn asked.

Sara turned to look at the clock on the wall above the chalkboard. “Little hand on the twelve. Big hand on the two….” Her expression turned grave as she processed that information. After a moment she ventured cautiously, “Ten minutes after twelve?”

“That’s right.”

A sunny smile burst forth. “That means my mommy’s coming real soon to take you for your birthday surprise.”

“Yes, she is. And I think you’d better—”

“It’s a big surprise, Miss Taylor.”

“I know. Your mother told me. And so did you. Several times.”

“And I can’t tell you anything more.”

“You told me that, too.”

“Because Mommy said you have to wait. That’s what it means, when you get a surprise. You wait and wait.”

“Yes, and I think you’d better—”

“It’s like at Christmas, when you have a big present and it’s under the tree and your mommy won’t let you even tear off just a little bit of the pretty paper to see what’s in there. And every morning you get up and you look at it and you know you can’t open it till Christmas. And that kind of makes you a little bit mad, because you want to know what it is so bad. But you are etcited, too, because you know it’s something real special in there, maybe a great big doll or…everything for a puppy that would grow up to be just like Jenny’s dog, Sugar.”

“Sara—”

“You know, I mean, your mommy couldn’t put a puppy in a box for all that time, so it would just be the puppy bed and some puppy food and bones for him to chew on. And your mommy would be keeping the puppy someplace safe so that, when Christmas morning came, you could—”

“Sara.”

The child caught herself—finally. “Uh. Yes, Miss Taylor?”

Lynn mimed pulling a zipper across her lips.

“Oh. Okay.”

“I think it’s time you put your picture away and got ready to go.”

“Yes, Miss Taylor…but you know what?”

“What?”

“I really hope I get a puppy someday.”

“And maybe you will. But right now—”

“I know.” She giggled. “Zipper my lip.”

“That’s right.”

Holding her drawing in one hand, Sara flipped up her desktop with the other—then peeked around the top at Lynn. “And put my coat on.”

“Yes.” Lynn closed her lesson plan book and stuck it in her top desk drawer as Sara tucked her drawing away, shut her desk and pushed her chair back.

Right then, there were three strong taps on the door that led to the outside hall. Sara chirped out, “I’ll get it! It’s probably Mommy….” She shoved her chair into place under the desk and darted for the door, grasping the steel knob and giving it a hearty push.

The door swung outward on its hydraulic hinge and a chilly gust of October wind blew in, ruffling the loose papers on Lynn’s desk. Lynn saw them start to fly. With a low laugh, she put her hand over the stack. “Come on in and close that—”

“It’s not my mommy,” said Sara. “It’s a man.”

Lynn looked up—and right into a pair of dark, uncompromising eyes.

Her gaze moved down, over strong cheekbones and a well-shaped nose. Along a square jaw and a chin possessed of an absolutely perfect masculine cleft. His clothing—a chocolate-brown sport coat, dark slacks and tooled boots—spoke quietly of money. Lynn knew who he was. Ross Garrison. Whitehorn’s new lawyer. Lynn had never actually met him, but she’d seen him around town. And her younger stepsister, Trish, was his secretary. Since Trish lived with Lynn, Lynn had heard all about him, in gushing, adoring detail.

Another gust of wind blew in. Lynn shivered. And found her voice. “Mr. Garrison, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, please. Come in. And let Sara close the door.”

He stepped into the classroom. Sara pulled the door shut. Lynn took her hand off the stack of papers and stood. Resisting the urge to smooth out her plain wool skirt, she moved around from behind the desk.

“I’m looking for Lynn Taylor,” the lawyer announced. “The woman at the office said—”

“You have the right room. I’m Lynn.”

He extended a large, tanned, beautifully shaped hand. At first she thought he wanted to shake. But no. He was holding a business card. She took it.

As the card changed hands, his gaze ran over her in a cursory fashion—and then went straight on by.

Lynn glanced down at the card. It was cream colored, of thick, linenlike stock, rich and rough textured under the pad of her thumb. His name was in gold ink: Ross Garrison, Attorney-at-Law. In smaller black print, in the lower left-hand corner, she saw the address and phone number of his law office on Center Street.

She looked up at him once more. He was still gazing past her—and scanning her classroom, as if inspecting it for flaws. Those dark, knowing eyes took in the chalkboards and the wall displays of alphabets and brightly colored numbers.

“An attractive setup,” he said.

“Thank you.” She waited for him to say why he’d come.

But he didn’t. Instead, he began prowling her room, scrutinizing the October calendar, with its border of black cats, witches’ hats and autumn leaves. He paused at the student storyboard, where the little booklets her students had made with such care and bound with bright yarn dangled from pushpins. Finally he stopped by the far wall, opposite her, and stared out over the study-group arrangement of the desks.