Rescued by the Ranger. Lauri Robinson

Trace had ignored her letters. It was time to see just how well he could ignore her.

      Face-to-face.

      Though he ran from her, Trace never ran from Wyatt. Instead he seemed eager to get to know him. It probably wasn’t right, using her son as a pawn, but when one needs a Trojan horse...

      Standing, she squeezed Wyatt’s hand a bit tighter while tugging him toward the door. “How about I saddle a horse for you? We’ll ride out to the north pasture together.”

      Trace had sensed who the riders were long before they were close enough to recognize, but he still couldn’t control the way his heart beat faster or the other things that happened inside him. Annie was a stunning woman and any man would feel a hitch in his chest at appreciating that beauty, but there was more to it. More than a hitch when he looked at her. The boy, too. He saw a lot of familiarity in Wyatt. Maybe that was where the pride came from. Family genes.

      He cut his horse out of the herd and steered the animal toward Annie and the boy, riding out to meet them before they got too close to the dust churned up by hundreds of hooves.

      “Where you driving those cows to?” the boy asked, leaning one forearm across the saddle horn as if he was four times his age and tipping the front of his hat back to gaze over the herd.

      Trace fought a grin. His nephew was all Edwards, from his dark hair and brown eyes to the chip on his shoulder—a good one—that gave him just enough conceit to pull off his stance in life. Trace glanced to Annie, and as he noted the smile on her face, his broke free. She was proud of her son. Rightfully so. Something else broke loose, too, and flooded his insides. Wyatt could have been his—if things had happened differently six years ago. But they hadn’t, and since arriving home he’d found himself fighting harder than ever to remember that. How things had changed.

      “We’re taking them to town,” he said, tearing his gaze away from both Annie and her son while gesturing toward the herd.

      “For the trial?” Wyatt asked.

      The boy was only five and in Trace’s mind there were things a child that age didn’t need to know. Annie, however, must have thought differently when it came to raising her son, considering the way she was looking at him, waiting for him to answer.

      She had on a riding hat with a flat top and stiff brim. White, and tied beneath her chin with a leather strap. Her blouse was white, too, with red stitching, and her pants black, along with her boots, which came up to her knees. The ensemble was eye-catching, and fit her so perfectly it could have been painted on.

      “Both Wyatt and I will be attending the trial,” she said when he didn’t offer a reply.

      Annie looked the part, that of a rancher’s wife. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Do you think that’s wise?”

      “I think it’s necessary,” she answered, never looking away. “Roy would never have purchased stolen cattle.”

      “Maybe he didn’t know they were stolen,” he suggested. Thirteen years older than him, Roy had raised him after their parents had died when he was four, and until it came to Annie, the two of them had never said a cross word to one another. It tore at Trace how he still loved his brother, mourned his death deeply, yet hated him for taking the one thing he’d treasured above all else from him. Annie.

      “Roy would have known,” she insisted. “He checked the brand on every cow he bought.”

      Of course she’d believe in Roy to the end. She’d loved him. Maybe even years ago when Trace had thought differently—that it was him she loved. She’d been at the ranch back then more often than she’d been home—a small farm between here and town where she lived with her grandfather. Will Houlton had passed on a few years ago—that was how Trace understood it—and her few acres had been merged into the thousands claimed by the Lazy E. Maybe that was all she’d wanted, and it didn’t matter which brother she had to marry to get it.

      Trace spun his horse around and was about to send it into a trot when she spoke.

      “Running away again?”

      Years of anger and resentment bubbled up as Trace steered the animal back around. “Running away?”

      “Yes, you’ve been doing it for years.”

      “I haven’t been running, Annie.”

      “Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “And yes, you have been.”

      He’d nicknamed her Annie years ago. It fit better than Annabelle. Still did. Trace let out a low sigh. “No, Annie, I haven’t been.” Keeping his tone even to not frighten the boy, he continued, “If you remember right, I went to Texas because my brother asked me to go and buy a bull and have it transported back here to Montana, but, if you’ll recall, the stage I was on was robbed shortly after I crossed the Texas border.”