“It’s not a waste.” Cole doled out halved apples to his siblings’ mounts. “If I can convince them to hold off a couple months, and we have a good season, we could turn things around.”
“I figured out another way without including the bank.” Boyd pulled the stable door shut behind them once they finished.
“Good to hear.” Cole glanced at his frowning father from the corner of his eye. Why didn’t Pa seem pleased?
“Not sure you’ll think so.” They ambled closer to the two-story homestead built by their ancestor, Colonel Archibald Loveland, an army veteran. He’d deserted from the Colorado War, married a Cheyenne interpreter and settled here over a hundred and thirty years ago, breathing life into the first of many Loveland scandals.
Must be in their blood.
“Why would I object?” Cole noticed a few green shoots alongside the fieldstone walkway to their front porch. With any luck, they might get three hay crops...
Boyd paused on the porch’s stairs. “Was approached by an outfit to do a story about our feud with the Cades. They’ll pay enough to cover our mortgage through the season if I give them access to the property.”
Cole leaned against the pine banister, absorbing his father’s news. Like the rest of the home, it’d been culled from the distant forests and hauled over great distances. Their ranch was a bastion against a landscape of forbidding mountains, its warm hearth and hand-hewn timber beams communicating self-reliance, simplicity and lack of pretentions. His heart swelled at the thought of what his ancestors had wrought.
They’d fight to their last breaths to safeguard their family’s legacy. But a story dredging up old scandals? It’d upset the tenuous peace between them and the Cades and jeopardize his father’s wedding. His hard-won happiness.
“What kind of outfit? Something local?” Cole’s hands tightened around the banister as he recalled the frenzied media who’d hounded his family after his mother’s death.
“Cable show.” For some reason, his pa seemed to have trouble meeting Cole’s eye.
“National TV?” Cole squinted into the strengthening sunshine and glimpsed an approaching black car bumping down their drive. “We don’t want them sniffing around the place, dragging out old skeletons.”
“Better than being thrown off our land before the wedding,” Pa countered.
Cole shoved his balled hands into his pockets, unable to counter the argument. “They’ll drag up stuff about Ma.”
The vehicle neared, its engine’s smooth purr sounding expensive, foreign. Out-of-towners. Someone lost?
“Got assurances to the contrary.” Boyd stepped off the porch and, to Cole’s astonishment, waved two hands overhead as if he expected whoever was driving.
“Who’s this?” Cole strode to his father’s side and peered at dark-tinted windows as the town car slid to a smooth stop.
“The show’s producer and host.”
“This is a done deal!” Cole exclaimed. “Why’d you keep it from me? Does anyone else know?”
The door opened and a fetching pair of slim, shapely legs in black heels emerged.
“Nope. You’re the first.”
A tall blonde ducked gracefully from the car. Something about her struck him as if he knew her, though he wasn’t sure with the sun backlighting her, casting her features in shadow.
“I don’t understand.”
A suited man joined the lady, and they stepped gingerly across the pebbled drive. She held her head high and stared directly at him.
“The show’s called Scandalous History,” Pa said, then hustled to greet his company.
Scandalous History... Now where had Cole heard of it?
Then it hit him, a sucker punch straight to the gut, leaving him off balance.
“Hello, Cole.”
His body stiffened at the familiar, silky-smooth voice. A flash of memory—listening to her speak as they’d watched campfires, stargazed, fly-fished—pulled a lump into his throat. He’d once thought her words sounded like lyrics, her laughter a song. He’d also thought she walked on water until she’d skated right out of his life.
He peered into the beautiful face he’d seen in his dreams, the one he envisioned while riding the range, gorgeous as ever with her perfectly symmetrical features and large blue eyes in a heart-shaped face. Only she looked different somehow. More sophisticated. Elegant. As if someone had slapped a coat of varnish over her natural beauty, making it harder to see who she really was...if he’d ever really known at all.
Old hurt stalked through him, residual anger on its heels. When she’d left, she’d nearly done him in. Was she back to finish the job? Not a chance.
His jaw clamped shut, and he spoke through gritted teeth, minding his manners for Pa’s sake until he got rid of her and the threat she posed to him and his family.
“Welcome home, Katie-Lynn.”
KATIE-LYNN.
Besides her family, no one had used her real name since she’d changed it to match her makeover. Katie-Lynn was another person, a ghost from her past.
In LA she was a star.
Remember that girl.
“Katie-Lynn, you’re as pretty as ever.” Boyd beamed at her as he pulled a can of coffee from a wooden cabinet. He hadn’t changed much. Sun streaming through the kitchen’s windows glowed on his thick white hair and highlighted unbowed shoulders in a flannel shirt. The extra lines on his craggy face added to his distinguished appearance.
“That’s sweet of you. Thanks. And I go by Katlynn, now.”
“Help yourself to some fruit if you’re hungry,” Boyd added. “I could make you some toast if you haven’t had breakfast.”
“No. This is great.” She leaned across the oak table, filched a cherry from a bowl and popped it into her mouth, hyperaware of Cole’s eyes trained solely on her. The sensation was unsettling. It reminded her of the buzz of anticipation accompanying a roller coaster’s first lurch, one she’d ridden before. This time, however, she knew the drops, twists and corners ahead.
Her limbs stiffened, and her jaw clamped as she fought the crazy urge to squeeze her eyes shut. She practically lived under a microscope in California; why did Cole’s scrutiny fluster her?
She squashed the disturbing question—he had no sway over her anymore—and glanced across the table at the inscrutable rancher. Cole Donovan Loveland, the first man she’d ever loved, and the only man who’d ever broken her heart.
His eyes were still that unnerving shade of clear, glacier blue. Clipped black hair showed no signs of gray or thinning. And he was still crazy tall—obviously—people don’t shrink in their thirties, least of all a Loveland.
Katlynn’s toes tapped the wide-planked floor.
Cole was as mountain-size and rugged as his surroundings, and he still radiated his enigmatic, I’m-the-puzzle-you’ll-never-solve vibe. Oh...no. This was not good.
“Katie-Lynn?” Tom’s nose scrunched as if he smelled something bad. In his polished Italian loafers and custom suit, her producer appeared out of place in this rustic setting. Hollywood called him a shark, but in the Rockies, he resembled a beached guppy.