Her Cowboy Reunion. Ruth Logan Herne
Thank you for reading it, and you know I love to hear from readers, so feel free to email me at [email protected] or friend me on Facebook where I love to play and pray with readers, family and friends. And if you’re wondering what’s happening, visit my website ruthloganherne.com or follow me @RuthLoganHerne on Twitter.
May you and yours be blessed in every way possible!
Ruthy
This book is dedicated to Casey...
I was blessed to help raise you and I’m absolutely delighted with the wonderful young woman you’ve become. You are a part of us...and always will be. You can’t get rid of me easily!!! Love you, kid.
Contents
This is the chance you’ve been waiting for. Hoping for. Praying for. Don’t blow it.
Lizzie Fitzgerald climbed out of an SUV more suited to her rich past than her impoverished present.
Her late uncle’s Western Idaho ranch splayed around her like an old-fashioned wagon wheel, spreading wide from the farmhouse hub. Straight south lay sheep barns forming a huge letter T. The sound of sheep and dogs rose up from beyond the barns where woolly creatures dotted rolling fields like white sprinkles on a kelly green cake.
On her left the long, curving graveled drive wound past a copse of newly leafed trees to the two-lane country road above. Behind her was a classic Western home. Two stories, wrapped in honey-brown cedar and a porch that extended across the front and down both sides. Two swings and a variety of rockers decked the porch.
“No doubt I will spend my share of time on that porch as the weather warms,” said Corrie as she stepped from the other side of the car. “What a pretty place this is, Lizzie-Beth! But I can see your attention is drawn to what brought us here.” She dipped her chin toward Lizzie’s right. “Your uncle’s passing and his love for horses. A family trait. Or downfall,” she added softly.
“It won’t be this time.” Lizzie strode toward the freshly built stables. “Not with someone willing to put in the effort. It wasn’t horses that brought down Claremorris,” she reminded Corrie, the stout African American woman who had raised Lizzie and her two sisters at the stately Kentucky horse farm. “It was greed and dishonesty. This will be different, Corrie. You’ll see.”
“I’ll pray it different, right beside you,” Corrie declared. “Then we’ll see, Sugar. You explore your new place. I’m going to see if there’s a restroom close by.”
Lizzie walked toward the classic U-shaped stable configuration while Corrie disappeared into the house. Two equine wings stretched from opposite ends of the central barn. A row of stable doors faced the groomed square of grass that was surrounded by a hoof-friendly walking area. Six windows lined the face of the central barn, facing the equine courtyard. Curtains in the upper windows suggested living quarters, much like they’d had in their Kentucky stable. The whole concept was modeled after the Celtic horse farms her great-grandparents had known in Ireland. Uncle Sean might not have liked the newspaper publishing business that made the family’s fortune, but he clearly appreciated their Irish roots.
A horse nickered from its stall. Another answered softly.
Then quiet stretched as if wondering about her. Testing her.
Footsteps approached across the gravel. She turned.
A cowboy strode her way, looking just as classic as the ranch around him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Narrow-hipped. And...familiar. As if—
Lizzie pushed that thought aside. She’d loved a cowboy once, with all the sweet intensity of first love, but that was a dozen years and a lot of heartache past. And yet—