Cowboy on My Mind Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Excerpt from The Cowboy Next Door copyright © 2019 by Ruth Ryan Langan

  Rocky Mountain Cowboy copyright © 2018 by Sara Richardson

  Cover design by Elizabeth Turner. Cover photograph by Rob Lang. Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First Edition: June 2018

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  ISBNs: 978-1-5387-1115-6 (mass market), 978-1-5387-1114-9 (ebook)

  E3-20180507-DANF

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Cowboy on My Mind

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Mary Pat’s Beer Pot Roast

  About R. C. Ryan

  Also by R. C. Ryan

  Raves for R. C. Ryan's Novels

  A Preview of "The Cowboy Next Door"

  Cover

  Rocky Mountain Cowboy

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Acknowledgments

  About Sara Richardson

  Fall in Love with Forever Romance

  Newsletters

  To those families who, by blood or by choice, form an unbreakable bond.

  And to my own beautiful family, who fill my life with so much love and laughter.

  Prologue

  Haller Creek, Montana—Fifteen years ago

  A wicked wind blowing down from the Bitterroot Mountains assaulted the horse and rider.

  Mackenzie Monroe dismounted and knelt at a fresh grave site.

  His eyes were fixed on the names etched on the wooden cross that marked the final resting place of his wife, Rachel, and nineteen-year-old son, Robbie. A year earlier they’d been killed in a head-on collision with a cattle hauler on the interstate. He had planned on replacing the temporary grave marker with a fine piece of marble. Now there would be no time for that.

  The bitter cold froze the tears on his cheeks as he touched the bottle of pills nestled in his pocket that old Doc Peterson had prescribed to help him sleep.

  “There’s no joy left in my life, Rachel. The pain is too deep.” His hand rested on the mound of earth, now covered with snow. “You and Robbie were my reason for living. You know how I’ve loved this place. But now, without the two of you, all I see is a future of endless work and misery on this godforsaken land.”

  This land.

  He’d been born here, as had his father and grandfather. Not that it mattered anymore. It was dirt and grass and sweeping vistas. But the people who mattered most were gone.

  He got to his feet and swept off his hat in a courtly gesture. “I hope you’ll forgive me. But I can’t go on like this. I pray there’s truly a heaven, so I can join you there.”

  Pulling himself into the saddle, he turned his mount in the direction of his ranch in the distance.

  Once in the barn he unsaddled his gelding before turning the animal into a stall with fresh feed and water. From a rusted old truck he retrieved a bottle of cheap whiskey he’d bought while in town. Though he wasn’t much of a drinking man, he figured if he swallowed the entire bottle of pills and washed them down with enough whiskey, he’d never wake up.

  Leaning his weight against the barn door, he latched it and headed toward the house. While he walked, he began writing the note in his mind. He would try, in simple terms, to explain why he couldn’t live with his pain. He would leave his message on the kitchen table, where it would surely be found by Otis, Roscoe, and Zachariah, three characters who had, through the years, attached themselves to Mac and his family. It had been Rachel’s tender heart that had brought this diverse group of strangers into his home. She’d never once considered turning away anyone with a sad story.

  Otis Green had witnessed his family wiped out at the hands of a crazed firebomber and had fled their tenement on the south side of Chicago, a man broken in body and soul. He showed up one day on the Monroe doorstep, a black man, city born and bred, completely out of his element in cattle country but seeking a better way of life and willing to do whatever necessary to earn it. Rachel welcomed him like a long-lost relative.

  Roscoe Flute, an itinerant cowboy and handyman, came to fix a generator years ago and never left. It was Rachel who’d learned that he’d sold his horse in order to pay for a cheap room in a motel. When the money ran out, he had nowhere left to go. In exchange for a warm bunkhouse, he kept every piece of equipment on the ranch humming.

  Zachariah York was a successful rancher and retired lawyer who’d been living alone on his family’s neighboring ranch until Mac found him lying in a meadow, where the old man had fallen from his horse and broken his hip and was unable to get up. Mac and Rachel hauled him to the clinic in Haller Creek before taking him home, where Rachel had insisted on nursing him back to health. Months later he was still living here, insisting that he wasn’t ready to go back home and live alone.

  Otis and Roscoe were up in the hills with the herd. Zachariah was slow-moving these days. Though his hip had mended, he wasn’t ready to take on ranch chores yet. By now Zachariah had helped himself to a sleeping pill and wouldn’t wake until nearly noon. Mac figured, with those three otherwise occupied, he would be long de
ad before anyone could find his body, thus resisting any attempt to have his stomach pumped.

  Through his fog of pain, he shrugged aside a twinge of remorse at the thought of leaving his three housemates to fend for themselves. He hoped the profit from the auction of his ranch and outbuildings would afford them a comfortable retirement. The note he intended to leave would designate them equal beneficiaries of his estate. It would be his last gesture of goodwill before departing this world.

  How he yearned for just one more of Rachel’s sweet smiles. For the infectious sound of Robbie’s laughter. His heart ached for the loss of the joy they had brought to his life.

  Tears misted his eyes as he mulled the proper wording of the letter he intended to leave behind.

  I, Mackenzie Monroe, being of sound mind…

  He shoved open the back door and stepped into the puddles of melted snow on the floor of the mudroom before stopping in midstride.

  Puddles? Snow? He’d been gone for hours.

  Who could have done this?

  From the kitchen he heard the sound of muffled voices.

  By heaven. Intruders. Thieves.

  Taking aim with his rifle, he kicked in the kitchen door to confront the villains. He stared in stunned surprise at the sight of three filthy boys. One was at the table, devouring a chicken leg. One was standing at the open door of the refrigerator, drinking from a carton of milk. One stood at the counter shoveling cold beans into his mouth.

  Runaways. Dirty, ragged, scruffy boys. Their clothes were thin, with no sign of parkas or gloves or boots. In fact, one was barefoot. One was wearing a pair of Robbie’s boots that had been stored in the mudroom. And one had drawn a checkered tablecloth around himself for warmth.

  Surprise, pity, fear for his safety warred within him.

  In some small part of his mind he watched as their heads came up sharply.

  The boy seated at the table jerked to his feet and took aim with a kitchen knife.

  Survival took over.

  “Drop it or I’ll drop you where you stand.” Mac’s voice was colder than the snowstorm raging outside the door.

  The boy looked to the taller one, who nodded and stepped in front of the other two. The knife clattered to the floor.

  “Now you’ll tell me who you are and what the hell you’re doing in my house.”

  His words were greeted by sullen silence.

  “All right.” He pulled his cell phone from his breast pocket. “You can tell it to the sheriff.”

  “No way.” The tallest of the three swore a blue streak and reached out a hand in an effort to snatch away the phone. Seeing Mac make a swift turn, his rifle aimed clearly at his heart, the boy lifted both hands over his head. “Hold on. Don’t shoot. I’m Ben Turner. These are my brothers, Sam and Finn.”

  Mac sized up the two younger boys before returning his attention to the tallest, who had positioned himself to protect his brothers. “What’re you doing out on a night like this? And where the hell is your family?”

  “Our folks are dead. They died six years ago, when I was six.” The boy exchanged a look with his brothers. “Sam was five and Finn was four.”

  “Where’ve you been living since?”

  Ben shrugged. “All over. We’ve been separated and living in foster homes. Our”—he swore again, using words Mac rarely heard except from an occasional world-weary wrangler—“caseworkers keep saying they’ll find a way for us to be together, but we know it’s never going to happen.”

  The middle brother nodded. “Those”—the boy mimicked his older brother’s choice of coarse language—“say whatever they want, and keep on moving us around. We know they’re lying. They’ve been lying since the day they took control of our lives. I overheard one of them telling my caseworker we were too old and ornery to ever be adopted, and it’d be a cold day in hell before they’d ever ask any family to take on all three of us.”

  “So we decided to run away,” Finn put in.

  “Shut up, Finn.” The other two glared at him.

  Seeing the youngest boy shivering uncontrollably, Ben squared his shoulders and dropped an arm around him, drawing him close. “Okay. So he’s telling it straight.”

  Sam darted Ben a look of shock and anger. “You said we wouldn’t tell…”

  Ben put a hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s okay.” He turned to Mac. “We made a pact. Nobody’s going to separate us again. We figured this was a good night to run. No freakin’ fool’s going to follow us in this snow.”

  Sam nodded. “Especially way out here in the middle of this piece of…”

  “That’s enough.” Mac’s voice had the desired effect of shutting him up.

  Ben again shoved the other two behind him, sending a clear message that he would do whatever necessary to protect them. “If you let us go, I promise we’ll be on our way and won’t bother you again.”

  Mac lowered the rifle and nodded toward the window. “In case you haven’t noticed, that’s not just a storm raging out there. It’s a blizzard. I don’t know how you made it this far, but you won’t survive an hour in this kind of deep freeze. Especially dressed like that.”

  The two younger boys looked to their leader.

  Ben lifted his chin like a prizefighter. “So, what’re you going to do? Tie us up until the”—he let loose with a string of swear words—“law can come and take us back?”

  “I said that’s enough of that kind of talk. I won’t have it in my house.”

  Needing time to think, Mac walked to the mudroom to hang his parka and hat on hooks by the door, before setting aside his rifle. He sat on a bench to nudge off his frozen boots. Then he surprised them by walking into the kitchen and turning on the stove.

  “First, let’s deal with hunger. Mine and yours. The quickest thing I know how to make is scrambled eggs.” He pointed to the refrigerator. “Sam, bring me that carton of milk and a dozen eggs. Finn, there’s bread in that breadbox. Put some in the toaster. Ben, since you already started on that chicken, cut off enough to fill a platter.”

  While he turned eggs in a skillet, he pointed to a cupboard. “There are mugs up there. Fill them with milk and stick them in the microwave. When the milk’s hot, add some of that chocolate. It’ll take the chill off our bones.”

  The boys did as he said, and in short order they were seated around the table, eating their fill of chicken, eggs, and toast, and drinking mugs of hot chocolate. Afterward, they piled their dishes in the sink and waited expectantly, to see if the man in charge would now call the law.

  He surprised them by saying, “I don’t know about the three of you, but I’m too tired to deal with anything more tonight. Come on. You can sleep upstairs.”

  They followed him up the stairs and peered inside when he opened a door.

  Ben spoke for all of them. “So, what’s the trick?”

  “I’m fresh out of tricks. Go to sleep. I’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

  As they stepped inside, seeing two narrow beds covered in matching plaid quilts, Ben shot him a look of suspicion. “Who else will be sleeping in here?”

  “Just you three.”

  The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Who usually sleeps in here?”

  “My son, Robbie.”

  “Yeah? And where’s Robbie tonight?”

  Mac absorbed an arrow straight to his heart. “Robbie’s dead. For tonight, it’s yours. But only for tonight,” he added with a growl. “So enjoy it while you can.”

  He pulled the door shut and listened as the voices within began an intense debate.

  With a muttered curse he descended the stairs, too keyed up to think about sleep now. What had just happened here? How had all his carefully laid plans gone south? He didn’t want to deal with any of this. Not three angry delinquents who were mad at the world. Not a call to the authorities in the morning. And not another night of pain and anguish over his terrible loss and the emptiness of his life. How much more should a man have to take? Were the Fates having fun at his expense?<
br />
  After washing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, he made a pot of coffee and sat at the table, mulling over his options.

  He knew what Rachel would have said about this. He could hear her voice inside his head, soft, coaxing. Hadn’t she always had a soft spot in her heart for the downtrodden? The lost? The outcasts of society?

  But Rachel wasn’t here now. And he couldn’t even cope with his own troubles, let alone those of three foul-mouthed runaways.

  These three were trouble. With a capital T. And thankfully, not his problem.

  He drained his coffee and made his way up the stairs. When he tried to open the door to Robbie’s room, he found it blocked. It took plenty of time and a lot of sweat to wrestle aside the dresser the boys had placed against the door.

  He stepped inside, expecting to find them gone out the window. Instead they were in a dead sleep in one small bed, tangled up around one another, obviously too exhausted to be roused even by his noisy entrance. Despite the fact that there was a second identical bed, they’d been unwilling to separate for even that small distance.

  Then he noticed something else. The blanket had slipped from the shoulders of the oldest brother, Ben. The tough guy. The leader. The boy’s back and shoulders were crisscrossed with scars that could have only been made by repeated whippings.

  The sight of it had his hands clenching into fists. What sort of monster would beat a helpless kid? How much pain and fear had this boy endured in his young life?

  Mac glanced at Robbie’s picture on the dresser. It had been taken when he’d been about Ben’s age, dark hair slicked back, wearing his best shirt and tie, standing proudly between his loving parents, smiling broadly for the camera. In his lifetime, the boy had never had a hand raised against him. He’d known only pride and unconditional love from his mother and father. Like most innocents, Robbie couldn’t have conceived of a lifetime of pain and abuse.

  Mac’s heart contracted painfully.

  He let himself out and walked to his room at the end of the hall. Inside he stored the bottle of pills and the whiskey in a file cabinet in his closet before locking it and heading back downstairs.

  He poured himself another cup of coffee and walked to the window, staring out at the raging storm. Even if he got phone service, there was no sense calling the authorities. The roads way out here would be impassable for days.