Robyn Carr - Promise Canyon

ROBYN CARR

“This book is an utter delight.”

—RT Book Reviews on Moonlight Road

“Strong conflict, humor and well-written characters are Carr’s calling cards, and they’re all present here … You won’t want to put this one down.”

—RT Book Reviews on Angel’s Peak

“This story has everything: a courageous, outspoken heroine; a to-die-for hero; and a plot that will touch readers’ hearts on several different levels. Truly excellent.”

—RT Book Reviews on Forbidden Falls

“An intensely satisfying read.

By turns humorous and gut-wrenchingly emotional, it won’t soon be forgotten.”

—RT Book Reviews on Paradise Valley

“Carr has hit her stride with this captivating series.”

—Library Journal on the Virgin River series

“The Virgin River books are so compelling—

I connected instantly with the characters and just wanted more and more and more.”

—#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

The Virgin River Series

MOONLIGHT ROAD

ANGEL’S PEAK

FORBIDDEN FALLS

PARADISE VALLEY

TEMPTATION RIDGE

SECOND CHANCE PASS

A VIRGIN RIVER CHRISTMAS

WHISPERING ROCK

SHELTER MOUNTAIN

VIRGIN RIVER

The Grace Valley Series

DEEP IN THE VALLEY

JUST OVER THE MOUNTAIN

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Novels

A SUMMER IN SONOMA

NEVER TOO LATE

RUNAWAY MISTRESS

BLUE SKIES

THE WEDDING PARTY

THE HOUSE ON OLIVE STREET

Don’t miss Robyn’s next book,

WILD MAN CREEK,

Available February 2011

ROBYN

CARR

PROMISE CANYON

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Susan Elizabeth Phillips

with my deepest affection and gratitude.

I’m deeply grateful for the dedicated assistance given to me by Scott Lampert, all-around horse expert, farrier and creator of www.ONTRACKEQUINE.com, a sophisticated program used by horse professionals, owners and breeders to assure peak equine performance. This story could not have been told without your help.

Special thanks to Sean Vasquez, Native American musician and actor. Through your eyes I could better envision the Native American characters in this story.

For this story as for almost every story I write, special thanks to Michelle Mazzanti for early reading and research assistance. I just couldn’t get to the end of a book without your input and help.

I am indebted to Kate Bandy and Sharon Lampert. Without your continual loyalty and support I would be lost.

My heartfelt gratitude to Ing Cruz for creating and managing Jack’s Bar online, where hundreds of Virgin River readers exchange book news. (http://groups.yahoo.com/ group/RobynCarr_Chatgroup/)

Thanks to Rebecca Keene for early readings of this and many manuscripts; her feedback is incredibly valuable.

Thanks to everyone at the Nancy Berland Public Relations Agency for the support and for always watching my back. Jeanne Devon of NBPR, thanks for the hours of reading and critiquing—your feedback is a tremendous help.

And as always, thank you to Liza Dawson of Liza Dawson Associates and to Valerie Gray, editorial director of MIRA Books, two of the toughest readers in publishing. Thank you both for being relentless, tireless, devoted perfectionists. Every push makes each book a little better and I owe you. This is always a team effort and I couldn’t have a better team!

Clay Tahoma headed into the mountains of Humboldt County, Northern California, along Highway 36, a narrow road that had lots of sharp turns along the way. According to his GPS the next left would lead him to a town called Virgin River. It appeared to be the nearest town to his destination, the Jensen Veterinary Clinic and Stables, and he wanted to check it out. He was nearing the turnoff when he noticed something up ahead—some pickups parked at the side of the road.

He slowed down and pulled over, curious to see what was going on. He got out of his truck and walked past a number of vehicles toward a large flatbed truck. There were men standing around watching as a forklift with a large cable attached pulled away from the edge of the road. Clay approached one of the men. He was as tall as Clay and wore a plaid shirt, jeans, boots and ball cap. “Whatcha got, friend?” Clay asked.

“One of our town slipped off the road and got stuck—luckily came up against a big tree not too far down the hill. That’s how he managed to get out and climb back up.”

“Who’s pulling him out?” Clay asked.

“Aw, one of our boys has a lot of construction equipment. He’s a contractor up this way.” The man put out his big hand. “Jack Sheridan. You from around here?”

“Name’s Clay Tahoma, originally from Flagstaff and the Navajo Nation. Lately from L.A. I’m up here to work with an old friend, Nathaniel Jensen.”

Jack’s face took light at that. “Nate’s a friend of mine, too! Pleasure to meet you.”

Jack introduced Clay to some other men who were standing around—a guy named John, who they called Preacher; Paul, who owned the flatbed and forklift; Dan Brady, who was Paul’s foreman; and Noah, the minister whose truck slipped off the road. Noah smiled sheepishly as he shook Clay’s hand. No one seemed to react to the sight of a Native American with a ponytail that reached past his waist and an eagle feather in his hat. And right at that moment Noah’s old blue Ford truck began to clear the edge of the road.

“Don’t you guys have a Highway Department or Fire Department you could call to do this?” Clay asked.

“If we had all day,” Jack said. “We tend to take care of ourselves out here. But the big problem is that weak shoulder. Highway Department reinforces it every time we have a slide, but what we really need is something more permanent. A wider road and a guardrail. A long and strong guardrail. We’ve requested it, but this road doesn’t see a lot of travel so our request just gets ignored or denied.” He nodded toward the stretch of road he was talking about. “We had a school bus slide down that hill a couple of years ago. Minor injuries, but it could’a been horrible. Now I hold my breath every time there’s ice on the road.”

“What’s the holdup on the guardrail?”

He shrugged. “Real small population in an unincorporated town in a county in recession that has bigger challenges. Like I said, we get used to taking care of things the best we can.”

“There’s no ice in August,” Clay said. “What happened to the pastor?”

“Deer,” Noah said. “I came around the curve and there she was. I hardly swerved, but all you have to do is get a little too close to the edge and you’re toast. Ohhhh, my poor truck,” he said as the vehicle made it to the road.

“Doesn’t look any worse than it did, Noah,” Jack said.

“Seriously,” Preacher said, hands on his hips.

“What are you talking about?” Noah returned indignantly. “It’s got several new dents!”

“How can you tell?” Jack asked. “That old truck is one big dent!” Then he turned to Clay and said, “Go easy around these curves and tell Doc Jensen I said hello.”