Читать книгу: «Three Kids And A Cowboy»
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
About the Author
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Copyright
“Mrs. Beetle, I’d like you to meet my wife.”
His what? Miranda froze. She’d stolen away for a few minutes—and what had happened in her absence?
Brodie’s long fingers massaged her shoulders as he manipulated her under the mantle of his muscular arm. “Darlin’, come in and say howdy to Mrs. Beetle…you know, the social worker. Once she heard you were going to stay and be a mom to these kids, her whole attitude about my keeping them changed.”
Be a mom to these kids. Longing waged in Miranda’s chest. To be a mom, to make a family with Brodie—how could that not move her? And to know that very dream relied on promising the impossible?
Dear Reader,
This July, Silhouette Romance cordially invites you to a month of marriage stories, based upon your favorite themes. There’s no need to RSVP; just pick up a book, start reading…and be swept away by romance.
The month kicks off with our Fabulous Fathers title, And Baby Makes Six, by talented author Pamela Dalton. Two single parents many for convenience’ sake, only to be surprised to learn they’re expecting a baby of their own!
In Natalie Patrick’s Three Kids and a Cowboy, a woman agrees to stay married to her husband just until he adopts three adorable orphans, but soon finds herself longing to make the arrangement permanent And the romance continues when a beautiful wedding consultant asks her sexy neighbor to pose as her fiancé in Just Say I Do by RITA Award-winning author Lauryn Chandler.
The reasons for weddings keep coming, with a warmly humorous story of amnesia in Vivian Leiber’s The Bewildered Wife; a new take on the runaway bride theme in Have Honeymoon, Need Husband by Robin Wells; and a green card wedding from debut author Elizabeth Harbison in A Groom for Maggie.
Here’s to your reading enjoyment!
Melissa Senate Senior Editor Silhouette Romance
Please address questions and book requests to:
Silhouette Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Three Kids and a Cowboy
Natalie Patrick
NATALIE PATRICK
believes in romance and has firsthand experience to back up that belief. She met her husband in January and married him in April of that same year—they would have eloped sooner but friends persuaded them to have a real wedding. Ten years and two children later she knows she’s found her real romantic hero.
Amid the clutter in her work space, she swears that her headstone will probably read She Left This World A Brighter Place But Not Necessarily A Cleaner One. She certainly hopes her books brighten her readers’ days.
Prologue
Just where are you headed to, Brodie Sykes?”
“Hell—if I don’t change my ways.” Brodie checked the bit in his horse’s mouth as he answered his ranch house cook, Curtis “Crispy” Holloman.
“As if they’d have you,” the scrappy older man muttered. “Besides, it ain’t your ways that need changin’—”
“It’s the company I keep,” Brodie said. He hoped getting the first jab in would avert a lecture from the only man alive who’d dare to give him one.
Brodie Sykes ran a tight operation. He commanded the respect of every man jack who rode for his Circle S brand—every man but that damned ol’ ornery Crispy. Somehow, in the month since he hired the cantankerous cook, Crispy had gotten under Brodie’s barbed-wire disposition to befriend him.
Brodie drew in the smells of horse and saddle leather. “Right now what I could really use is a change of scenery."
“Yeah, and I know where you’re a-goin’—down to that creek on the edge of your property. But don’t see why you have to go all that far. You can brood and be generally disagreeable anywhere.”
His horse snorted. Brodie couldn’t have given a better response himself, so he didn’t.
Crispy’s boots shifted, and the boards of the porch groaned. “She’s gone, boy. You got to get on with your life.”
Brodie ignored the fist-to-the-gut effect of that advice and tightened the cinch on his saddle. What Crispy couldn’t seem to get through his pigheaded skull was that even though he was only thirty-three, Brodie’s life wasn’t much worth living anymore. His wife’s leaving almost a year ago, had seen to that.
Dipping his hat to his cook, Brodie fit his boot into the stirrup and mounted his horse. “I’m going out to ride awhile.”
Crispy leaned against the post of the back porch. The summer breeze stirred the last few wisps of gray hair on the old man’s head. “You know you bought this place from your in-laws nigh on to a month ago?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, I can count the number of times you’ve stayed in for supper since then on my right hand. And you know it’s missing two fingers—lost in the line of duty.”
Brodie grimaced as he worked his own hands into the soft leather of his work gloves. “Would you stop saying that? It makes it sound like you lopped off a couple fingers making beef stew or something, instead of losing them in an accident in the army.”
The older man laughed—more of a cackle, really.
Brodie had to admit that having Crispy around certainly gave the ranch, if not the food, a distinctive flavor. He smoothed one hand back over his straight blond hair, then fit his hat tight on his head.
“Now, I wouldn’t take note of your stayin’ away so much if you was keeping company with a lady friend, but…”
“That’s enough.” Brodie took the reins in one hand and glared down at the wiry old man. “I hired you to be a cook, not play Cupid.”
“Seems you could use a touch of Cupid’s folly, young fellow.
Brodie’s throat tightened. His lips burned as they thinned against his bared teeth. “Not interested, old man. Just forget it. Everything they say about me is true. The blood in my veins is as cold as any snake’s, and the only thing harder than this bullhead of mine is my heart.”
Brodie thumped his fist once against his chest and finished in a voice as clean and deadly as a gleaming dagger’s blade. “That’s the reason my wife left me. I ran her off.”
“Plain as that?”
“Plain as that,” Brodie echoed flatly. Everybody in and around Lost River, Texas, knew that he and his brother had been orphaned young, then farmed out and around to various family members until they were old enough to fend for themselves. That was why he didn’t bother prefacing his explanation. “I cut my teeth on the notion that family was everything, old man. Maybe only someone who had actually lost his family could understand this, but it meant the world to me to have children of my own.”
“And?”
“And—” Brodie let out a long sigh “—the doctors said Miranda couldn’t have children.”
With one hand, Brodie rubbed his leather glove across his upper lip, then turned his gaze toward the sunset. The bright oranges and crimsons streaking the big Texas sky stung his eyes as he went on, “But I wouldn’t let it go at that. I brought home books, found specialists, suggested she have operations. I pushed her to try everything.”
“What about adopting?”
“Sometimes adoptions don’t work out, you know. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d get to love a kid, only to see it taken away.” Brodie ran one finger beneath the blue bandanna tied around his neck, freeing it from the collar of his chambray shirt. “So, I wanted to try every possible avenue to have our own children first. I just kept pushing her until she had nowhere left to go but out of my life.”
The bridle clinked quietly in the prickling air between them.
“You still love the gal?”
“Love? Me?” He swallowed hard, but couldn’t budge the weighty knot in the center of his chest. “Haven’t you heard? This old cowboy ain’t capable of it.”
Touching his hat brim to bid the old man goodbye, Brodie turned his horse’s head toward the open range. He gave a quick kick to the animal’s flanks, let out a holler and rode off.
As soon as he was out of view of his ranch, Brodie leaned back in the saddle and gazed out at the darkening clouds rippling toward the setting sun. This was what he did to relax at day’s end. He was as comfortable on a horse as some men his age were in an easy chair.
Without thinking much about it, he rode toward the peaceful, winding creek that sliced through the new land he had recently acquired. Kissing Creek, it had been called for as long as anyone could remember. But Brodie had more than memories of kissing under the sweeping leaves of the trees on it’s banks. What he most vividly remembered there was his wife—and all the time they had spent courting when the land belonged to her parents.
His in-laws, the Robbins, had built up the best ranch in this part of Texas, but then the time had come for them to retire. They’d leaped at the chance to sell to him, because they trusted him to care for the place. Guilt stabbed at him for just an instant when he admitted to himself that they also hoped that their daughter, Miranda, would someday come back to him and live in her family home.
Brodie never kidded himself into thinking that Miranda might return. Never.
He coughed uncomfortably into his fisted hand.
Brodie didn’t give a Yankee dime what others believed of him, but he’d always been brutally honest with himself. In truth, he had envisioned his wife in that home more times than he would have cared to recount. Every time he opened the front door, his heart stopped, he held his breath, and he searched the entryway for any trace that Miranda had come home.
He forced a sigh through the familiar aching in his chest and raised his face to the horizon. He lifted his hat, and cupped one hand back over his hair. A gust of light wind blew his hair into his eyes before he smoothed the strands back and shoved his hat low on his head.
Something was blowing in, and he didn’t belong out tonight. He clucked softly to his horse to turn him toward home, but a high-pitched screech, as harsh as fingernails on a blackboard, stopped him.
“What the—”
A metallic crunch came quick and hard, followed by several thuds, then nothing.
His heart contracted fiercely with every beat. He strained to hear. He scanned the dimming horizon, unable to make out any shapes against the deep blue-gray of dusk.
Then the ferocious wind picked up and sent a sound swirling across the plain to him. A frigid shudder rippled down his spine.
Desperately he searched the landscape for any sign to direct him to the child crying for help. Anything, he prayed silently. Then he saw the puff of red dust near the road running just south of his ranch.
“H’yaw!” He urged his horse to fly over the flat ground.
The moment he saw the faded beige station wagon, he knew it belonged to his longtime friends and nearest neighbors, Donna and Travis Stone.
To find the two of them in the wreckage would have been heartrending enough, but as Brodie rode faster and closer to the smoldering heap of an automobile, he recalled his last conversation with the couple. This was the day the Stones were bringing three siblings they hoped to adopt home for a trial visit.
“Please let those kids be okay,” Brodie whispered as he brought his horse to a halt beside the fence.
Dismounting, he thanked God that he still wore his heavy work gloves and could easily push open the barbed wire and get through. In a second, he was kneeling over the sobbing, battered woman and the wailing toddler at her side.
“Donna? What—?”
“Oh, Brodie, I’m hurt real bad. I got Katie out, but I can’t seem to move now.” Still, she grabbed his shirt with incredible strength. “You’ve got to get the other two children before the fire spreads.”
That was when Brodie smelled the smoke. A heavy chill sank to the pit of his stomach.
“Hurry, Brodie.” Donna choked out the word. “It’s bad, real bad.”
One look at the crumpled mass of metal and Brodie knew she was right. He held little hope of finding any survivors, yet he had to try. Gritting his teeth, he rushed to the wreck, hoping things were not as bad as they appeared from the outside,
“Travis? Can you hear me?” he called as he reached the driver’s side. Black smoke rolled from the front seat, burning Brodie’s eyes and filling his lungs with hot, suffocating thickness.
With one hard yank, he pulled the blue bandanna around his neck up over his mouth and nose before he tore open the only door accessible to him. He stretched into the back seat, feeling, more than looking, for the two other children.
His hand curved around one plump leg. A tiny hand struck out and snatched at his shirtsleeve. As gently as he could, he pulled a young child from the car.
“I’m okay,” the girl, who appeared to be about five, told him. “It’s Bubba. He’s stuck in there.”
She wriggled from his grasp, determined to go back in.
Brodie pulled her away. “You have to get clear. I’ll get Bubba.”
She stared at him for a moment, blood matted in her pale hair, gray ashes smudged on her pink cheeks.
He nudged her toward the safety of the ditch. “Go. Now.”
Gulping in fresh air, he plunged in to the car again to rescue the little boy. The heat and smoke from the front seat had grown more intense. Any second now there could be a burst of flames, and then there would be no helping anyone.
Brodie groped in the hazy, stifling air. “Bubba? Can you hear me?”
A muffled gurgle led him down, feeling his way along the floorboards until his fingertips brushed a mass of silky hair. Working blind, he quickly located the child’s trapped ankles.
His muscles tightened as he curled his fingers under the edge of the seat. It wouldn’t budge.
The child whimpered.
Brodie tightened his grip and pulled harder, bracing his legs on the floorboard for leverage.
Metal squawked. Brodie felt a hot, gouging pain in his thigh. He couldn’t see what was prodding him, but knew that neither he nor the child had much time left.
He drew in the fiery, filtered air and held it, disregarding the searing heat in his lungs. Grunting out his frustration, Brodie tried to remember not to swear. What he needed right now was a little help from the Almighty, not a string of words that would singe a demon’s ears. One last time, he tightened his grip and forced the seat upward.
The little boy cried out, but this time was able to wrench himself free. Brodie let the seat drop and scooped up the child. He dragged the small body to his chest to protect the boy from the heat and the jagged metal surrounding them.
Quickly but cautiously, Brodie backed from the car. In long strides that jarred him to the bone, he carried the boy to safety.
As Brodie knelt beside Donna once more, the children huddled together, seeking solace from one another.
“Bubba, will everything be all right?” The five-year-old turned to her brother, who looked to be a year or two older.
The boy rubbed a streak of blood from the bridge of his nose and turned his serious gaze to his younger sisters.
Brodie knew that look. Suddenly it seemed not so long ago that he had been the older brother thrust too soon into the role of caregiver. Even as the memory loomed in his mind, Brodie had to admit that this child wore the responsibility with poignant ease.
This wasn’t the first time this child had dealt with loss. As things stood, they were about to face it once again. The family they had hoped to find would never be now. These three small souls had only each other to cling to and count on.
Chapter One
Six Weeks Later
“Mom! Daddy? Time to kill the fatted calf. Your prodigal daughter is home.” Miranda Robbins Sykes kicked open the front door of her parents’ farmhouse with one upraised knee. It swung fully open, cracking against the empty pegs of the coatrack on the entry wall—just as it always had when she came whooshing in from school as a child.
She shut her eyes and inhaled the musky scent of old wood and lavender. Smiling, she dropped her purse, and the one small suitcase she’d brought from her car. She shut her eyes and sighed. Home at last.
Miranda shook back her dark hair and caught a glimpse of movement just to her right. “Mom?”
Turning to face her own reflection in the hallway mirror, Miranda gasped in surprise. The long trip from Tulsa had certainly taken its toll on her. Who’d have guessed that road-weary face had once belonged to the former Cameron County pioneer princess, the Lost River Rodeo Roundup queen and the second runner up to Miss Texas?
Miranda batted her wispy bangs from her forehead with the back of her hand and wrinkled her nose at the image staring back at her. Those days of big hair and big hopes seemed as distant to her now as her childhood here in this house. Her worldly-wise deep green eyes seemed to belong to someone she didn’t quite recognize anymore.
She had come back to Lost River to face her past and force him—no, it, she corrected mentally—to let her forge a future for herself.
She glanced again at the mirror, looked away, then fixed her gaze firmly again on the woman she had become. “Miranda Jean Robbins Sykes, you are a liar.”
She tried to smooth down the windblown mane that framed her face and tangled around her suntanned shoulders. Tugging at the waistband of her jeans, which fit even more snugly than they had a few weeks ago, she said, “You didn’t come here to face your past. You came to confront him.”
Closing one eye like a gunfighter calling out a coward, she set her lips in a hard line. “You’ll never be able to go through with this, girl, if you don’t admit right now that you’re here to look Brodie Sykes dead in the eye and tell him your marriage is…”
Over. She couldn’t make herself say it, even though the word rang loud and clear in her mind. She inhaled the familiar scents around her and dropped her gaze to the faded needlepoint rug at her feet. Through the dull but persistent pain throbbing in her being, she forced herself to admit it, even if only in silence. She had come here to make official what a year of loneliness and self-scrutiny had already taught her—her marriage was over.
The marriage had been over ever since the day she found out she could not give Brodie the thing he wanted most in life, a child of his own. Miranda ran one hand down her sleeveless cotton shirt, letting her palm rest atop the cool buttons over her flat stomach. Even after all this time, the cold reality still cut like a blade twisting in her belly.
When they first learned of her infertility, she had believed that she and Brodie could move beyond it. It wasn’t as though they didn’t love each other. If they worked together…
Brodie Sykes, she had learned during the year it took for their relationship to unravel to the point that she felt she had no choice but to leave, was not the work-it-out-together kind. It simply wasn’t in his nature.
She must have known that before, she realized now. Brodie never pretended to be anything but the man his life’s experience made him. The same Brodie who had stepped in to take charge of his younger brother, had applied the same determination to build a first-class cattle operation and then to cope with her infertility.
Books, specialists, treatments. Brodie had been relentless in his quest to create a child. With each new failure, another brick had formed in the wall between them. The passion that had once burned so hot that a look could set their hearts afire at a shared glance had been reduced to something calculated and clinical. The long talks about hopes and dreams and the future had slowly changed into discussions about odds and statistics and new procedures to aid conception. In the weeks before she left, they’d hardly spoken at all. Still, Brodie had persisted. One more theory, one more medical opinion.
Miranda shook her head at the irony. The very things she loved most about Brodie, his untamable animal passion, his mule-in-the-mud stubbornness, even his scruffydog sense of loyalty, made it impossible for her to stay married to him.
Divorce. The very word sank like stone in the pit of her stomach.
She’d found a lawyer—or, in truth, he’d found her. Conrad Harmon III was a Dallas attorney whose work brought him to Tulsa frequently. One rainy morning in the diner where she had waited tables for the past year, she’d shared a cup of coffee and an earful of her troubles with the young man.
He’d patted her hand, dried her tears and promptly offered to handle her divorce free of charge, provided she could assure him that her husband would not contest it. Once she had that assurance from Brodie, the wheels would be set in motion. And even though those wheels would run right over her heart in the process, she knew this was the right thing to do. Brodie would be free.
This way, twenty years from now, she wouldn’t wonder if the man she loved with all her being secretly resented her for cheating him out of something another woman might easily have given him. This way, he could find a woman who could love him and be the mother of his children.
She glanced around the entryway, not seeing anything in particular through her fog of sadness and resignation. Once she was out of the way, Brodie could marry again, buy a big house like this, and start filling it up with energetic, happy children. She could almost hear them now, squealing and thundering through the halls.
“I ain’t taking a bath, and you can’t make me!”
Miranda jerked her head up and glared through narrowed eyes at the still staircase in front of her. “What the—?”
A series of thumps and bumps shook the ceiling over her head. The ancient hinges of the upstairs bathroom door squawked unmercifully as it banged open.
“Catch Katie! Catch Katie!” two young voices chimed in unison.
“Who’s Katie?” Miranda murmured to no one.
“I’ve got her by a wingbone,” a rusty-throated older man hollered.
A wingbone? Maybe she should ask, “What’s Katie?” The image of her parents wrestling an angel popped into her mind. Miranda moved toward the foot of the steps, her head tilted upward. “Mom? Daddy? What’s going on up there?”
“Yeeeoooww!” The older man let out a long howl that drowned out her question even in her own ears. “That little bas—er, darlin’, bit me.”
Obviously, Katie was no angel. Miranda blinked. She pressed her hand to her chest and edged warily onto the first step. She drew a deep breath to call out again, but the sound of bare feet slapping on the floor upstairs, followed by a commotion of voices, cut her off.
“She’s headed for the bedroom!” a child cried out.
“Get her, get her!” another child screeched.
“Grab aholt and hang on,” the older man said encouragingly. “Jest stay clear of them chompers of her’n.”
What had happened here in her absence? Miranda batted her eyes, trying to comprehend what she was hearing. Had her parents started a day-care center, or could they be looking after neighbors’ children?
She hadn’t spoken to her folks in almost three months. She hadn’t dared, because she’d known they would either try to talk her out of her plan or let Brodie in on it. The last thing she wanted was a set of disapproving parents and a forewarned husband lying in wait for her when she rolled into town.
Not that this hubbub was much better. She gripped the smooth, polished wood of the oak banister, deciding the best thing to do was to go upstairs’and see for herself what was going on. Her foot had barely touched the second step when the frantic cries started again over her head.
“She’s too slippery to hold on to, Mr. Crispy,” a child complained at top volume.
Mr. Crispy? Miranda cocked her head. That sounded more like a fried-chicken franchise than someone who belonged in her parents’ home.
“She’s getting away,” the child said again. “Look out, she’s heading for—”
The stairs. Miranda raised her gaze in time to see a chubby cherub—a chubby naked cherub—with a frothy halo of white bubbles encircling wet blond hair flying straight at her. The child’s feet hardly seemed to skim the steps as she streaked down the stairs and away from the two children and one old man running after her.
For an instant, Miranda considered nabbing the fleeing child, but in the flurry of confusion, she couldn’t act fast enough. The little girl whisked past in a blur of arms, legs and suds, leaving a soapy imprint on Miranda’s jeans as she did.
The old man came pounding down the stairs with his knobby knees and elbows poking out at odd angles from his thin body. He pointed to the quivering plops of bubbles that left a trail into the formal living room to the right of the stairway. “She went that-a-way.”
The two children, a young boy and an even younger girl, both dressed in what in Texas would be called their “Sunday best,” stomped down the stairs behind the man. The girl clutched a faded red robe that Miranda recognized as her own, left in her bedroom closet years ago. None of them seemed aware of her presence on the stairs until they were almost on top of her.
Miranda held up one hand, keeping her voice steady as she tried to get the situation under control. “Excuse me, but who are you, and what are you doing in my parents’ house?”
“Whoa!” the old man bellowed, practically in her face. He stopped short one step up from her.
When the two children stumbled into the man’s bony back, Miranda grimaced, but she held on to her composure. “Just what is going on here?”
“It’s her.” A blush of pure awe colored the words whispered by the young girl, who was peering up at her from behind one of the old man’s legs.
“Her who?” the boy asked. He crossed his arms over his chest, and his tortoise-shell glasses bobbled as he crinkled his nose at her.
The old man reared back his head and clamped his hands on his hips. “Well, tuck a feather in my shirt and call me tickled, it is her.”
“Her who?” the boy demanded again. Then, suddenly, his blue eyes seemed to grow huge behind the brown circular frames. “Oh, m’gosh,” he murmured. “It’s the lady whose picture is on the wall in the den.”
“Howdy-do, Miz Sykes,” the man said in a soft voice.
Miranda pursed her lips and cocked her head. How did this odd fellow know her name? Had they met before?
“Who are you?” she asked again. “And what are you doing in my parents’ home?”
“Whur’s my manners?” He let out a quiet clucking laugh. “My name is Curtis Holloman, ma’am, but just every-danged-body calls me Crispy.”
The man dipped his head, his hand raising automatically to his head, as though to tip a hat that wasn’t there.
Miranda noticed something else that wasn’t there—two of the man’s fingers. She made a quick study of him, from his thin gray hair to his bowed legs, and felt certain that if she had ever met this man before, she would not have forgotten it.
She nodded stiffly and said, “Nice to meet you, Mr.—”
“Call me Crispy, ma’am.” He pressed a hand to his chest.
Miranda realized he probably did that because there were people who felt uncomfortable about shaking hands with him. Sighing, she wished she could smack some sense into whoever had made him feel he had to shelter them from his injury. She thrust her own hand out. “Nice to meet you, Crispy.”
He glanced down at her hand, then into her eyes, and then he seized her hand with outright enthusiasm. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Miz Sykes. Been mighty curious to make your acquaintance, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Curious. Now there was a word for the moment. Miranda returned the hearty shake Crispy gave and held his hand a bit longer as she asked, “I don’t mind your saying so if you don’t mind explaining why you’re in my parents’ house and what—”
“Sorry, ma’am, but I make it a strict personal policy not to mix into other folks’s bidness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I got to ketch little Katie.”
“B-but—” Miranda grasped air as she tried to keep Crispy in the handshake.
He slipped past her, only pausing in the doorway of the living room to say over his.shoulder, “Got someone from the dee-partment of social services coming ’round today. And it jest wouldn’t do for her to find one of the children runnin’ through the house all wild and nekkid, now would it?”
“I…suppose…not.” Miranda wound her arms over her churning stomach as she watched the old fellow lumber out of sight. Twisting around, she suddenly became aware of two blond heads close together, with two sets of big blue eyes focused on her.
“I don’t suppose either of you can tell me what’s going on here?” she asked, leaning against the banister.
The pair looked at one another, but said nothing.
“Can’t you at least tell me where the owners of this house are?”
The little boy narrowed his eyes and moved one step closer to her, puffing out his chest as he said firmly, “We’re not allowed to talk to strangers, and even if we did we can’t tell ’em important stuff like where the owner of the house is.”
“She’s not a stranger, Bubba.” The girl wadded Miranda’s robe into a ball and used it to nudge the boy out of the way as she moved to share the second stair with Miranda. “She’s the princess on the wall.”
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