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Chapter One
1990’s—The Bar M Ranch
Janet Smith held her six-month-old daughter close to her chest as she carefully picked her way up the cobblestone path that led to the entrance of the McIntyre ranch house. Thankfully, Hannah was a good baby and was sound asleep in her arms, bundled against the icy weather and gathering storm clouds.
Standing in the fading daylight, she rang the doorbell as she looked around at the impressive entry. Twin cushioned swings faced each other across the length of the porch, giving an allusion of welcome that she definitely wasn’t feeling. Double doors sat back from a covered gabled porch that looked as if it had come straight out of Architectural Digest magazine.
She took a deep breath and tried to wait patiently. When she shivered so hard she felt the ache deep in her spine, she gave up and rang the bell again, cuddling the sleeping baby to her chest. And then she waited some more.
The door finally opened and Janet found herself looking up into the scowling face of what, she guessed, was a very young teenaged boy, or possibly only a pre-teen. Dark eyes stared back before dropping to the baby she held in her arms. The boy studied her infant daughter for a moment before his gaze came back to hers, questioningly.
“Hi,” she said quickly.
“Hello?” he answered back, showing only a mild hint of curiosity.
“Is your mom home?” she asked.
His face went from inquisitive to scowling to harshly blank in less than a heartbeat. “I don’t have a mom,” he shot back succinctly with narrowed eyes.
Ouch. Wincing for the kid, she asked, “This is the Bar M, right?”
“Yep,” he answered shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Okay,” Janet said as she adjusted Hannah from one shoulder to the other as fatigue began to wear her down. “Is your dad home then?”
“He’s out back in the barn,” the boy answered and then stalled a moment, tipping his head toward Hannah. “Is that your baby?” he asked, as if the concept of a tiny human being was something he’d heard about but had never encountered.
“Yeah. This is my daughter, Hannah, and I’m Janet Smith,” she said, pressing a light kiss to the top of her child’s head, the feeling of joy and pride almost overflowing—reminding her that she’d created the precious little life she held in her arms and was now tasked with the sole responsibility of raising her. “The man at the grocery store said that y’all might need a housekeeper. Do you think your dad could make some time to talk to me for a minute?”
The kid reared back as if supremely intrigued and asked, “Can you cook?”
Well, damn. She hadn’t expected that question quite so soon. “Of course,” she prevaricated with only a mild feeling of guilt. She could cook—the boy hadn’t asked if she was any good at it.
“Then come in. I’m starving.” He opened the door wider and stepped back, as if admitting strangers into the house was nothing new to him—or maybe, he just wasn’t worried about it. Janet didn’t stop to analyze his reason, she took the opportunity to step inside, removing her daughter from the inclement weather.
As she followed the boy through the house into the kitchen, she looked around with a mild feeling of awe. She’d only experienced a house on this scale once before, but being reminded of her former in-laws wasn’t something she cared for—now, or at any other time.
The house looked huge and quite new, but there wasn’t a feminine touch to be seen, confirming what the boy had already told her. The windows were covered with blinds but no curtains. There wasn’t anything hanging on the walls except a clock, and what appeared to be an antique branding iron beside it.
“What’s your name?” she asked the boy as she stood back and took in the spacious kitchen he’d led her into.
“Zach,” he answered quickly, walking toward the refrigerator.
She glanced toward the back of the room, into a mudroom of sorts, where a gun rack hung on the wall—filled with guns—or rifles—or whatever they were called. She tore her eyes away from the unnerving sight and focused on the kid as he hunched down and began unloading items from a drawer in the stainless steel, subzero fridge, as if he were going to put her to work that very moment. She swallowed and shifted the baby from one arm to the next. “I don’t mind making you something to eat, but maybe I should talk to your dad first? He might not care for me making myself at home.”
“He won’t care,” the boy assured her bluntly, tossing a package of cheese onto the countertop.
“Are you sure?” she asked, swallowing down nerves as she saw the sink filled with dirty dishes—both sides of the sink.
“I’m sure,” he answered, closing the fridge and turning to give her his attention. “You need me to hold that baby for you?”
“That baby?” she asked. The kid was clearly not used to babies. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Nope,” he said, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, the action so self assured, almost bordering on arrogant, that a frisson of unease enveloped her as she wondered if the trait had been copied.
“How old are you?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking, amazed at his self-confidence.
“Almost thirteen,” he replied.
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What was it about kids wanting to grow up so soon? “So, it’s just you and your dad?”
“Yep.”
“Have you ever held a baby before?” she asked, studying him.
“Nope—but it doesn’t look all that hard,” he drawled in a cocksure tone that gave Janet an indication of what kind of man he might grow up to be—and what kind of man he might have inherited the attitude from.
She took a deep breath and tried not to be intimidated by a mere child. “All right, I’ll make you a deal, Zach. I’ll make you a sandwich while you hold Hannah, but you have to sit down first.”
The boy shrugged as he sat at the kitchen table and held out his arms, saying firmly, “Two.”
Janet began to hand the baby to him but stalled and asked, “Two, what?”
“I need two sandwiches. One ain’t gonna to be enough.”
“Isn’t,” she mumbled distractedly as she released Hannah into his arms.
“Isn’t, what?” he asked as he stiffened a bit at the unfamiliar weight he was holding, but then seemed to relax back in his seat, eyeing Hannah with curiosity.
“One sandwich isn’t going to be enough,” she corrected. “‘Ain’t’ isn’t a word.”
“You think I don’t know that already?” he asked a tad sharply, rolling his eyes.
Contemplating him, Janet stepped back and stood to her full height. “If you know better, why do you say it?”
“I like to irritate people,” he snapped. “Is it irritating you?”
“Yes,” she answered bluntly.
“Well, there you go then. I’ve got your attention already.”
Janet studied the boy who held her daughter, a mishmash of feelings coming to the fore. She’d learned several things about the kid already: He was arrogant, he could eat like a grown man—and he craved attention that he probably wasn’t getting at home.
As she stood in pensive thought, she heard the sound of a door echoing from the back of the house. She tried to tamp down the sudden butterflies in her stomach as she listened to the clatter of booted feet across tile as the sound came closer. Assuming it was the father of this man-child about to make an appearance, she admitted she was holding a bit of ill will toward the owner of the Bar M already. Why wasn’t the man looking out better for his son?
Even as she had the thought, the rancher appeared at the entryway between the mudroom and kitchen. He glanced across the room and saw her at once, immediately coming to a full stop. As their eyes clashed and held, she couldn’t help but notice the coil of power that radiated from him. She sucked in a silent breath at the picture he made. He was tall—extremely tall—and broad around the shoulders, his face weathered, probably from working outside in the conditions for years.
He carried an attitude of self-command, almost as if he held a monopoly on virility. His hair was dark, nearly black, and cut extremely short, leaving nothing to soften the merciless lines of implacability carved into his bone structure. He looked to be around mid-thirties and given the boy’s age, that sounded about right to Janet. This man had at least a decade on her twenty-five years.
As she took in his formidable appearance with a single glance, his gaze left hers to rest on his son—almost as if checking to see that the boy was okay.
And then his eyes came back to hers yet again, this time with a measure of anger. She swallowed down her apprehension as she realized that she couldn’t entirely blame him for his withering stare. After all, she was a stranger in his home, talking to his son as if she had every right, when she clearly did not. But knowing she was in the wrong didn’t stop the rush of butterflies that settled in the pit of her stomach at his angry, threatening glare.
She cleared her throat and tried to speak while he continued to watch her as if he’d like nothing more than to shake her before throwing her back into the ice and snow, posthaste.
And if she hadn’t been desperate, she probably would have grabbed her child and made a mad dash for her car.
But she was desperate, or so close she didn’t want to think about it. So she stood still and let him look his fill—furious as his inspection was. And she knew exactly what he was seeing: a thin, bedraggled woman with zero looks left—zero make-up on her face and lines of tension so deep that she probably looked like she was thirty years old. God forbid.
She tried to give herself a quick pep talk. She wasn’t completely desperate. She had enough money for a couple of nights in a cheap motel, and if all else failed, she certainly had enough gas money to get to Shreveport, where her mother lived. She closed her eyes for a mere second and quickly counted her blessings. Her mother had offered them a home because she truly wanted them to come live with her and that was a comfort that Janet clung to.
Thank God for mothers—thank God she had a good one.
When she lifted her lashes, she looked to the boy again and felt an arrow of pain for him, wondering if he was truly motherless or if the woman simply wasn’t in the picture anymore. She felt a twinge for him either way, but from the unmistakable hostility clouding the room, she knew she wouldn’t get an opportunity to nourish the child in any way—with food or anything else.
When the man, who was certainly Jeffrey McIntyre, continued to watch her as if he wanted to throttle her, she realized with mortification and anxiety that she didn’t think she would have the stamina to deal with him on a daily basis—even if he was willing to give her a job. She cleared her throat and managed to speak. “I didn’t mean to intrude. The man at the grocery store said you might need a housekeeper and your son said he was hungry. But I can see you have this under control so we’ll get out of your hair.”
As she spoke, she held out her hands for Hannah, but the man’s son tightened his hold and refused to hand the baby over. “I’m starving,” the boy said as he sent her a beseeching look that, whether an act or not, almost broke her heart before he continued, “and we had a deal.”
As she glanced between the two McIntyre males in indecision, the elder narrowed his eyes sharply before turning to his son with only a slight softening of expression. “You’re not starving. You had supper not an hour ago.”
“I’m starving, Dad,” the kid instantly refuted.
“Bullshit. Hand her back that baby and grab a protein bar and a glass of milk.”
That baby? Really? And bullshit? The man disputed his child with ‘bullshit?’ What the hell kind of father was he? And Christ, had she ever heard a voice that deep? Seriously, it was deep. And while she’d always been attracted to older men, there was something about this stern-faced, unemotional man that was sending warning bells to her brain.
As the heartless asshole slid his gaze to her once more, she licked her lips, nerves settling in her belly while he studied her as if she were nothing more than an insect pinned to a pegboard. Wanting to leave while she still had enough daylight to navigate her way back to town, Janet couldn’t contain a gnawing ache for the motherless boy, so against her better judgment, she offered, “I can make your son a couple of sandwiches before I leave—it’s no problem.”
The room fell silent for a moment, intensifying the sound of sleet that began coming down and hitting the windowpanes. The boy seemed preoccupied with her daughter while his father pierced her with a laser-sharp gaze. A hot charge of electricity seemed to ripple between them and an inappropriate shiver of response ran down Janet’s spine while she waited for him to accept or decline her offer.
“Rigsby told you I needed a housekeeper?” the man asked, switching the subject, watching her subjectively.
Goose bumps broke out under his unrelenting gaze. “Yes, I think that was his name.”
He stared at her for another long moment before announcing in a booming voice, “He was wrong. We don’t need any help—not that you look strong enough to do much work around here.”
Okay. Guess he told her. Asshole.
“Dad—” The boy broke in but was temporarily silenced by the look on his father’s face.
“We?
?re doing fine, Zach. We don’t need strangers butting into our business,” he stated decisively.
But the kid wasn’t deterred for long. “She doesn’t look like she could hurt a fly. What harm could it do to give her a shot? We haven’t had any inside help in what, like two years?”
“Something like that,” the man agreed distractedly as he continued to watch her as if she were capable of stealing the family silver—or sneaking into his bed, uninvited, in the middle of the night.
“Dad, the house is filthy,” the boy argued. “We eat the same canned shit over and over again and I’m at that crucial age where I’m supposed to be gaining weight, not losing it.”
At the words that were supposed to pull at his father’s heartstrings, Janet was somewhat appeased to see the look the man bestowed on his son, one side of his mouth tipping up into what might possibly be labeled a smile. “You’re not losing weight, little man.”
“Well, I’m not gaining any,” the boy argued.
Ignoring his son’s last remark, the hard-nosed rancher looked back to her. “Where you from?”
She took a breath and tried not to tremble under his rapier-like inspection. “Shreveport, originally.” And then Texas, California, and back to Texas. But he hadn’t asked for her life story and she damn sure wasn’t about to offer it up.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Janet Smith,” she answered quickly.
“Is the kid yours?” he questioned in a voice that assured Janet he thought her baby would be nothing but a nuisance.
“Yes,” she bit out through gritted teeth.
His gaze drifted to Hannah for a split second. “It’s a girl?”
No shit, Sherlock. Surely the pink blanket was clue enough? Janet swallowed down her irritation at his succinct questions. “Yes, her name is Hannah.”
“Where’s her father?”
Janet stalled at the intrusive question, more concerned about the motherless boy who was listening than with her own feelings. Wondering if the woman was an absentee mother or truly dead, and not wanting to cause these two men any sad reminders, she answered quickly and softly, “He died.”
