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  With Bull, she was more restrained. They had been enemies for a time, but friends in the end, and once again he had saved her life. “Take care of my land,” she said. “You can never tell when I might come back and want it.”

  “My offer to buy it from you is still open,” Bull said. “Just let me know.”

  She shook her head. “Tanner and I talked about it. We could use the money, but when the land’s gone, it’s gone. Not yet. Not without a very good reason.”

  “We’ll leave it at that, then.” Bull shook her hand and Tanner’s. Then Tanner helped Rose into the truck. She waved good-bye and then lost sight of the little group. She was still wiping away tears as he drove down the lane toward the highway.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “Never better.”

  “So, Mrs. McCade, are you ready for an adventurous new life?”

  Laughing, she leaned across the seat and kissed him. “Bring it on!” she said.

  EPILOGUE

  Wyoming, three years later

  ROSE LEANED FORWARD IN THE SADDLE, WIND SWEEPING THROUGH her hair as she galloped her buckskin horse across the meadow. The runaway yearling calf dodged and twisted, but the well-trained gelding cut off its escape and herded it back to the branding pen.

  Tanner, astride his tall bay, gave her a thumbs-up as she galloped off after another animal. There was no need for Rose to help with the roundup, especially now that Clint and Ruth’s two older boys were old enough to do a man’s work on the family ranch. But she loved being out in the fresh mountain air, riding through grass that was almost tall enough to tickle her horse’s belly.

  Behind her, pine-skirted mountains, still snowcapped in early summer, rose to the sky. A red-tailed hawk circled overhead and settled in the gnarled top of a dead lodgepole pine. A marmot whistled from its den in a clump of rocks.

  Rose had fallen in love with this country the first time she’d seen it as a bride. She’d learned a great deal since then—how to rope a steer, how to make venison jerky with meat and brine, how to keep animals alive in a winter storm, and so much more.

  She, a lifelong loner, had learned how to fit in with the big, noisy, close-knit McCade clan—when to step in, when to give advice, when to listen, when to lend a hand, and when to stand aside.

  And she had learned how to be a mother. Rose and Tanner’s two-year-old daughter, Maria, was a handful, but she had cousins to keep an eye on her while her mother helped with the roundup. In the McCade Ranch family, everybody pitched in. And thanks to the extra help Rose and Tanner had brought, the ranch was finally beginning to prosper.

  Sometimes Rose thought of her own lonely, miserable childhood. What a blessing that her children—and there would be at least one more—would grow up surrounded by love and family.

  Now the sun was low in the sky. It was time to end the roundup for the day, to douse the branding fire, box up the tools and medicines, and ride the horses back to the barn.

  Tanner rode up alongside her and slowed his bay. “Good job today,” he said, “but are you sure you should be riding with the baby and all?”

  “The doctor said it shouldn’t be a problem this early,” Rose said. “Don’t worry. I’ll know when it’s time to hang up the saddle.”

  They rode down the slope toward the big, sturdy barn. Tanner had built a beautiful three-bedroom log house on the far side of the ranch compound, close enough for easy access to the rest of the family but distant enough to afford some privacy. “I’ll put your horse away if you want to ride ahead. You can get Maria and take her home,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Rose said. “I put a pot roast in the oven this morning. With luck, it should be nicely done and on the table by the time you get to the house.”

  Nudging the buckskin to a trot, she headed downhill and left the horse at the hitching rail outside the barn. At Clint and Ruth’s house, she picked up Maria, a curly-headed cherub, and carried her back across the yard.

  “Da-da?” Maria pointed toward the barn. She was a daddy’s girl from the get-go.

  “Yes, he’s taking care of the horses.” Rose gave her a kiss. “You can help me fix supper. Okay?”

  “Okay.” It was her new favorite word.

  Carrying her child into the house, Rose looked forward to sharing supper with Tanner across the table and Maria in her high chair, then, after putting the little girl to bed, snuggling in front of the TV with her man while they wound down from the day. At last they would go to bed, make tender love if they weren’t too tired, and drift off in each other’s arms.

  Sometimes Rose thought of her old dream—living a solitary and independent life on her little strip of land. That dream had long since faded into the past. This was her life now—a life of honest work, family, and love.

  It was the best life of all.

  Don’t miss the start of Janet Dailey’s heartwarming new Christmas

  Tree Ranch series, coming just in time for the holidays!

  MY KIND OF CHRISTMAS

  Sometimes the best surprises are right at home . . .

  Returning to Branding Iron, Texas, is Travis Morgan’s last resort, and the abandoned ranch he inherited isn’t much more welcoming than the prison cell where he spent the last three years doing time for a tragic accident. Completely without funds or family, Travis finds celebrating Christmas is the last thing on his mind, but there’s no escaping the holiday spirit in this close-knit little town—not with Branding Iron’s longtime Santa retiring, and sweetly stubborn Mayor Maggie Delaney determined to find a replacement. When her no-nonsense façade slips to reveal the sensual, vulnerable woman beneath it, Travis realizes Maggie just might be as lonely as he is—and that this holiday season, love could be the gift that heals them both.

  “The spirit of Christmas permeates this charming holiday

  romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Merry Christmas, Cowboy

  MAGGIE DELANEY, NEWLY RE-ELECTED MAYOR OF BRANDING IRON, had driven out to check on Abner Jenkins, whose farm was a few miles out of town. Earlier that morning, when she’d called the old man to make sure he was prepared to play Santa in this year’s Christmas Parade, his landline phone had rung without an answer. Worried about the old man, she’d climbed into the big Lincoln that had been her father’s, and gone to check on him. She’d found Abner’s truck gone from the yard. His house, when she checked inside, had been empty.

  After leaving a note on his door, she’d been about to turn around and drive back to town when an impulse had changed her mind. The recently paved road, which cut off the highway and ran past Abner’s place, had been an icy mess. Two passing farm trucks had almost slid into her. Maybe it would be better to go forward, following the less traveled part of the road where it looped through the back country and rejoined the highway a couple of miles to the south.

  It had been a bad idea. The rest of the road was even icier. She was already late for her 10:00 meeting with the Library Board, and now her dad’s beloved old Lincoln had slid, spun and crashed into a metal gatepost, causing a startled man to fall off his windmill.

  From the car, she could see him lying on the frozen ground. He didn’t appear to be moving. Good Lord, what if she’d killed him?

  She flung herself out of the car, her kitten-heeled boots barely finding purchase on the ice-encrusted ground. The car had pushed the gatepost to one side, freeing the gate to swing open in the wind. She hurried across the bare yard to where the man lay at the foot of the windmill, sprawled on his back.

  Approaching, she could see the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath the old woolen peacoat he wore. His long legs, clad in faded jeans and worn-out work boots, were moving slightly. At least he appeared to be alive. But he could be badly hurt.

  Her gaze took him in. He was a stranger—tall and whip-lean, dressed in worn-out work clothes. Below the knit cap that covered his head and ears, the planes of his face were sharply chiseled, the closed eyes deeply set.

  It was a striking f
ace, almost handsome in a stubble-jawed, Clint Eastwood sort of way. But how could she be ogling the man at a time like this? She needed to be checking him for injuries and calling 911.

  As she bent over him, his eyes opened—slate-colored eyes, their look so piercing that she drew back with a little gasp. His lips tightened. He cleared his throat. “What the blazes did you think you were doing?” he muttered.

  With effort, she found her voice. “I was trying to decide whether you need an ambulance.”

  He stirred, wincing as he sat up. “I’m fine. That’s not what I meant. You were driving like a bat out of hell down that icy road. You’re lucky you didn’t break your fool neck—and mine.”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  His mouth tightened. “I hope that’s a joke,” he said.

  She stood as he hauled himself to his feet. Maggie was a statuesque woman, almost five-foot ten. He loomed over her by half a head.

  “I was late for a meeting in town,” she said. “I’m sorry for distracting you. And I’m sorry about your gatepost. My purse is in the car. I’d be happy to write you a check for the damage.”

  “Don’t bother. I can fix it myself.” He turned away from her and walked over to the metal gatepost, which stood askew against the front bumper of the car. Maggie could tell he was in some pain.

  What was he doing out here? As she recalled, this run-down ranch had been abandoned for several years, since the people who’d been leasing it moved away. What was this ragged-looking stranger doing on the property? Was he some homeless derelict needing shelter from the cold? Or worse, a fugitive criminal, hiding out from the law?

  Either way, it was clear that he didn’t want her around. Maybe she should ask the sheriff to check him out. There was something raw and a little wild about the man. Something that whispered danger.

  Her key was still in the ignition. If she was smart, she’d get back in the car, lock the doors, and pray that the engine would start.