If Wishes Were Horses.... Judith Duncan
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Heartache? He could write volumes on it.
Conner crossed to the highboy, his gaze snagging on a grouping of three framed photographs. He picked up one, his chest tightening as he studied the picture. It was a snapshot of Abby, one he had taken years ago. She was laughing at him, the wind molding the soft folds of her dress against her protruding belly. When that photograph had been taken, she was pregnant with Cody, and everything that Abby was, was captured in that picture.
Yeah, he could write a book on heartache, all right. And secrets? He had ’em by the truckload. Most of them were stored up in a whole lot of pain. But there was one that gave him comfort. And it was a secret he would take to his grave without ever giving it up.
He touched the face in the snapshot, the hole in his chest getting bigger. No one would ever know that the baby she carried in this picture wasn’t his brother’s.
It was his.
Dear Reader,
Once again, we’ve rounded up six exciting romances to keep you reading all month, starting with the latest installment in Marilyn Pappano’s HEARTBREAK CANYON miniseries. The Sheriff’s Surrender is a reunion romance with lots of suspense, lots of passion—lots of emotion—to keep you turning the pages. Don’t miss it.
And for all of you who’ve gotten hooked on A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, we’ve got The Way We Wed. Pat Warren does a great job telling this tale of a secret marriage between two SPEAR agents who couldn’t be more different—or more right for each other. Merline Lovelace is back with Twice in a Lifetime, the latest saga in MEN OF THE BAR H. How she keeps coming up with such fabulous books, I’ll never know—but I do know we’re all glad she does. Return to the WIDE OPEN SPACES of Alberta, Canada, with Judith Duncan in If Wishes Were Horses…. This is the kind of book that will have you tied up in emotional knots, so keep the tissues handy. Cheryl Biggs returns with Hart’s Last Stand, a suspenseful romance that will keep you turning the pages at a furious clip. Finally, don’t miss the debut of a fine new voice, Wendy Rosnau. A Younger Woman is one of those irresistible stories, and it’s bound to establish her as a reader favorite right out of the starting gate.
Enjoy them all, then come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around—only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.
Yours,
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
If Wishes Were Horses…
Judith Duncan
JUDITH DUNCAN
is married and lives, along with her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured extensively in Canada and the United States. Currently she is involved with the Alberta Romance Writers Association, an organization she helped to found.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Chapter 1
The sun blazed in the bright blue cloudless sky and beat down on the rolling rangeland, the relentless heat shimmering up in waves. The hills and gullies lay like enormous, heaving wrinkles in the earth’s surface, the folds held in place by the sharply defined mountains rising up in the west. A vast cloud of dust hung in the air, forming a golden aura that cloaked the landscape and distorted the horizon. Overhead, two red-tailed hawks circled, watching for unwary gophers.
The bawling of calves and the shouts of cowhands carried in the thin mountain air, echoing in the crystal clarity. Hundreds of white-faced cows and their spring calves plodded onward through the rolling terrain, marshalled into a long meandering column by watchful riders. The cloud of yellow dust hung suspended above the undulating herd, the fine grit coating the newly unfurled leaves of the cottonwoods and wolf willow, finally settling on the new shoots of grass struggling through last year’s thatch.
It was spring roundup on the Cripple Creek Ranch, and it was a scene that had been played out over a hundred times before. Nothing much had changed, except the faces of the riders. It was a scene that was as much a part of the rolling country as were the great cottonwoods standing tall along the winding creek.
Conner Calhoun pulled up his mount at the crest of the small hill, giving the reins a light jerk as the big buckskin gelding danced and tossed his head. With his gaze fixed on the rim of a far-off ravine, he reached down and flipped open the case strapped on his belt and removed a cell phone. Not taking his eyes off the dark shapes, he hit the redial button, waited, then spoke into the mouthpiece. “Jake, there’s four or five strays heading for the south ravine. Send Bud with one of the dogs to bring ’em in.”
Conner watched a rider and one dog break from the main herd, then replaced the phone in the case. His horse threw his head again and impatiently tugged at the reins, and Conner gave him a second command, then settled back in the saddle. The slant of the late afternoon sun angled beneath the brim of his Stetson, and he squinted against it, the taste of dust drying in his mouth as he surveyed the state of his grassland.
It was dry—too damned dry—but thick cumulous clouds were racking up behind the jagged ridge of the Rocky Mountains, and Conner could almost taste the rain in that cloud bank. There had been very little snow during the winter, with one Chinook after another drying out the soil. It was the first of June, and they hadn’t had one really good rain since the snow-pack had melted. There had been just enough to keep the grass going, but his grazing land needed a good soaking, and soon. Unless he missed his guess, one was on the way—even the animals could sense it.
A series of shrill whistles pierced the din, and Conner’s attention shifted as the point man gave the signals to two hardworking Border collies to move up and turn the lead cows into a narrow draw. Three other riders also moved up, hazing the outside stragglers back into the ranks and crowding the herd into the gully, forcing them through the natural funnel. The lead cows, heads swinging, calves crowded against their sides, lumbered through the wide gate, while other riders flanked the herd, trying to prevent any of the range-wary animals from bolting.
The move today was the last stage of the roundup. Over the past couple of weeks, the Cripple Creek cowhands had collected cattle from the winter range. The steers and bulls had been driven onto the summer range and the remaining cows and calves were driven here, onto the home pasture for spring branding. Beyond the gate and hidden from view in a natural holding area, additional Cripple Creek hands were making the final repairs to the vast network of corrals, preparing for the job ahead. Today was the final drive. The cut would take place the following day, when the calves would be separated from their mothers. Then the day after that, the backbreaking work would begin. Tagging, vaccinating and branding each spring calf, and dehorning and castrating those that needed it. A rancher’s entire year and the viability of the herd revolved around that operation. And Cripple Creek’s future and fortunes depended on it.
And had for over a hundred and twenty years.
A strange feeling unfolded in Conner’s chest as he considered the history behind him. He surveyed the herd, his gaze snagging on the ragged line of old cottonwoods snaking through the valley below.