The Rancher She Loved. Ann Roth

      Chapter One

      Sarah Tigarden drove down the deserted highway in the small ranching town of Saddlers Prairie, Montana, asking herself the question that would remain forever unanswered. Why hadn’t her parents told her she was adopted?

      Anger that had been with her since she’d discovered the truth welled, and the sunlit prairies on either side of the road seemed to dim.

      Sarah didn’t fault her father, who’d died when she was ten. But her mother, whom she now referred to as Ellen, could and should have told her. Now that she was gone, buried six months ago, it was too late.

      They’d been close, growing closer still during the year before Ellen had succumbed to the ovarian cancer that ravaged her. Sarah had put her own life on hold, giving up her apartment and moving back home to care for Ellen. They’d talked about Sarah’s recent breakup, finances, Ellen’s burial—everything except the fact that Sarah was adopted.

      She was still reeling from the shock that had awaited her when she’d emptied her mother’s safe-deposit box. Surely Ellen had realized Sarah would find the birth certificate. She had to know how upset, how hurt Sarah would be. Not because of the adoption—because of the lies.

      Why hadn’t Ellen told the truth?

      Sick of asking herself the question she might never find the answer to, Sarah cranked up the music and sang along with Adele. The words drowned out other thoughts, just as she wanted.

      A sudden gust of wind sent dirt and debris flying, as if Mother Nature were upset on Sarah’s behalf. Wind that pushed the car across the centerline. Gripping the wheel, Sarah steered her car to the right side of the road and fought to hold it there.

      Ominous clouds suddenly obliterated the flawless blue sky that had been with her since she’d left Boise a day and a half earlier. Sarah tossed her sunglasses onto the passenger seat. Without the warmth of the mid-May sun, the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees, and she closed the sunroof and turned on the heat.

      Maybe she should check in to her room first and change into warmer clothes. The widow who owned the house where she’d rented a room for the next two weeks was expecting her about now.

      But that would involve a U-turn and a five-mile drive in the opposite direction, and Sarah was too anxious for answers. She wanted to know why Tammy Becker, her biological mother, had given her up, and where she was now. The private investigator Sarah had hired had tracked her mother to a house in Saddlers Prairie, where the Becker family had lived some twenty-nine years ago. It was there that the trail had abruptly ended—right around the time of Sarah’s birth.

      According to the P.I., a Mr. Tyler Phillips had bought the house from the Beckers all those years ago and still owned it. Unfortunately, his phone number was unlisted, and he hadn’t answered either of the two letters Sarah had sent. If she showed up at his door, he’d be forced to at least talk to her. Maybe he’d share some valuable insights about Tammy Becker and her parents and provide information on where Tammy lived now. He might even let Sarah into the house. She wanted to walk through it, see Tammy’s bedroom and gaze out the same windows her biological mother had once looked through.

      She was curious. What kind of person was Tammy Becker, and had she ever thought about the daughter she’d given up? Sarah hoped to one day meet the woman and maybe even develop a relationship.

      Even if Mr. Phillips refused to talk to her, she was determined to get some answers while she was in town. Following the directions on her iPhone GPS, she turned her travel-weary sedan onto a small paved street aptly named Dusty Horse Road.

      Wouldn’t you know, rain began to pummel the car and the dirt-packed ground, sending splashes of wet dust flying.

      Great, just great.

      The last time Sarah had visited Montana, to research an article on fly-fishing during a hot week in July a few years ago, she’d heard about the fickle spring climate. Now she was experiencing the abrupt shifts firsthand.

      Her windshield wipers fought to keep pace with the downpour. Sarah slowed to a crawl, squinting through the weather at the numbers on the mailboxes.

      They were few and far between, sentries at the feet of the driveways of modest homes. After a few minutes, the rain eased to a lighter, slower rhythm. She was beginning to wonder if she’d ever find the address she was looking for, when the GPS indicated the house she wanted was a few hundred feet away.

      There it was—a bungalow situated back from the road, its pale green siding in need of fresh paint. Scraggly weeds filled the garden bed under the front window, but the large front and side yards were mowed, and buds filled the overgrown bushes along one side.

      A black pickup was parked under a tall cottonwood at the edge of the gravel driveway. Someone was home—with any luck, Mr. Phillips himself.

      This was it, the chance she’d hoped for. Slightly breathless, she pulled into the driveway and braked to a stop near the truck.

      Shielding her hair with her shoulder bag, she dashed onto the porch, which was nothing but a concrete slab. Thanks to the overhang above the door, she was sheltered from the rain. Before ringing the doorbell, she smoothed her cap-sleeve blouse over her jeans and fluffed her hair, which had gotten wet despite the purse. Then she pressed the bell with a hand that trembled, thanks to a combination of nerves and a little fear. Though she couldn’t have said what scared her.

      Through the door she heard the faint, chiming ding-dong. Above her, clouds raced by, and another gust of wind whipped wet strands of hair across her face. So much for trying to look decent.

      Sarah dug into her purse and quickly found her comb, but she needn’t have hurried—Mr. Phillips, or whoever was inside, did not answer the door.

      Maybe he needed extra time to reach it—the P.I. said he was in his mid-sixties—or maybe he hadn’t heard the bell.

      Determined, she rang again, letting her finger linger on the buzzer. After a short wait, she knocked. Nothing.

      Frustrated and disappointed, but too curious to leave without at least sneaking a peek inside, she left the porch. Keeping under the shelter of the eaves, she stepped into the neglected garden along the front of the house.

      Knee-high weeds raked the calves of her jeans, and mud sucked at her expensive leather slip-ons. Wishing she’d worn sneakers, she leaned forward and peered through the large front window into what appeared to be the living room. A sofa backed up against the window, and two armchairs and a coffee table faced an old TV. The off-white walls were completely bare. Mr. Phillips wasn’t much for decorating.

      Suddenly the deadbolt clicked. Sarah froze, but not for long. She turned and made a mad dash for the porch, stumbling over a dip in the ground in her haste. She’d barely regained her balance before the door swung open.

      Caught in the garden like a thief. Great way to make a first impression, Sarah.

      Her face burned, and she knew she was beet-red. With all the grace she could muster, she brushed off her hands and moved causally toward the door.

      It wasn’t until she planted her feet on the concrete slab that she mustered the courage to actually look at the large male standing in the doorway.

      When she saw who it was, she almost stumbled again from the sheer shock. What was Clay Hollyer doing here?