How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart / The Rancher's Dance: How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart / The Rancher's Dance

How a Cowboy

Stole Her Heart

Donna Alward

The Rancher’s

Dance

Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Sometimes it takes a while for characters to get their story. When Clay Gregory strolled into One Dance with the Cowboy and warned Andrew to be good to Jen, I knew he was hero material. What I didn’t realize was how hard it would be to find him the right woman. You see, I couldn’t just come up with a heroine-to-order and make her fit. I tried. A few times, actually. But nothing was coming together right and I went on to write other books.

But Clay’s a bit stubborn. And all the while I was writing other stories, he was waiting, sometimes not so patiently, for his turn. Finally I realized the problem was that I had been looking for love in all the wrong places, as the song goes. Clay didn’t need a woman to breeze into Larch Valley and sweep him off his feet. He needed to see what was right in front of him all along.

I’m so pleased that you’re finally going to read Clay and Meg’s story. As always, I love hearing from readers so please drop by my website at www.donnaalward.com, or contact me through my publisher.

Best wishes and happy reading,

Donna

How a Cowboy Stole Her Heart

About the Author

A busy wife and mother of three (two daughters and the family dog), DONNA ALWARD believes hers is the best job in the world: a combination of stay-at-home mum and romance novelist. An avid reader since childhood, Donna always made up her own stories. She completed her arts degree in English literature in 1994, but it wasn’t until 2001 that she penned her first full-length novel and found herself hooked on writing romance. In 2006 she sold her first manuscript, and now writes warm, emotional stories for the Cherish line.

In her new home office in Nova Scotia, Donna loves being back on the east coast of Canada after nearly twelve years in Alberta, where her career began, writing about cowboys and the West. Donna’s debut novel, Hired by the Cowboy, was awarded the Booksellers Best Award in 2008 for Best Traditional Romance.

With the Atlantic Ocean only minutes from her doorstep, Donna has found a fresh take on life and promises even more great romances in the near future! Donna loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website at www.donnaalward.com, her My Space page at www.myspace.com/dalward or through her publisher.

To the beautiful, brave survivors everywhere.

You are amazing.

CHAPTER ONE

CLAY GREGORY stood in the middle of the barn corridor, his booted feet planted on the cold concrete and his hands shoved into the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. His breath formed frosty clouds in the air and his dark eyes glittered beneath the brown knitted hat he wore in lieu of his customary Stetson.

Meg looked away, determined to ignore him. Clay Gregory thought himself a cut above and she didn’t mind taking him down a peg or two this cold March morning. She refused to glance his way again, instead giving her shovel a satisfying scrape along the stall floor. She dumped the soiled straw into a waiting wheelbarrow. She made the same action twice more, each time her heart thumping a little harder as he remained silent. The increase in her heart rate wasn’t from the physical exertion, though the exercise was a welcome feeling after months of taking it easy.

Nope. The hammering pulse was one hundred percent caused by Clay. The last time he’d spoken to her it had been to accuse her of running away. She’d wanted to make him understand, but his mind had been closed. The spectre of cancer had killed most of her romantic illusions where Clay was concerned, and his harsh words had finished the job. She’d told herself she was over her schoolgirl crush, but his censure had bothered her more than she cared to admit. Because there wasn’t just a crush at stake. They’d been friends first, and the words he’d flung at her had hurt more than he knew.

“Megan.”

Finally. His deep voice seemed to fill the corridor and she took a measured breath. She stood the shovel on its blade and rested her hands on the handle as she looked up, meeting his gaze dead-on. “Hello, Clay.”

He took a step forward. Meg gripped the shovel handle and stepped back, resuming her task. She had to keep working. She didn’t want to talk to Clay, not this morning. Facing things one at a time was what she intended to do and Clay Gregory’s closed mind was not on the list for today.

“You’re back,” he said, and she realized he was only a few feet behind her.

“Yes, I’m back. Thanks for noticing.”

“I came looking for Dawson.”

Oh, so he wasn’t here to see her after all. She bit down on her lip to keep from blurting out the sharp reply that had formed in her head. There was no reason for her pride to be hurt. Clay had said some very painful things last spring. When he’d accused her of running away he was right. She had been, but her reasons had been solid. At least to her. She made the best decision she could and she didn’t regret it one bit. She was here now because she’d made the decision to fight with all she had. If Clay didn’t like it that was his problem.

“We had some problems with calves last night,” she said blandly. “Dawson went back to bed and I said I’d do the horses.”

She didn’t need to look at Clay to know he was scowling. He had a way of frowning that made a line form between his eyebrows. When she’d still been able to tease him she’d called it a penny slot, and many a time she’d wanted to smooth the crease away but she’d been too chicken to touch him in such an intimate manner.

She’d save herself that humiliation, thank you very much. The only thing worse than having a crush on her brother’s best friend while growing up had been the possibility of acting on it and being rejected. As she surely would have been. Clay had never shown the slightest interest in her that way. He’d always treated her like an annoying little sister.

“Give me the shovel,” he said, and his long arm reached around and closed over hers on the black handle.

Megan ignored the automatic zing that raced down her limbs at the contact and pulled the implement out of his grasp. “What are you doing?”

His response was to grip her shoulders and turn her around.

She looked up—a long way up, because Clay was over six feet tall and she came in at a measly five foot five. She couldn’t help the thrill that coursed through her at his nearness.

Coursed through every part of her body, save one. On the right side of her chest she felt nothing, because there was nothing there.

This was so not how it was supposed to go. Clay Gregory and the cancer were in the past. She wished she could just forget about them both. But both had left their indelible mark no matter how hard she tried to move past them.

“What was Dawson thinking, letting you do this?” he demanded, the line between his brows now a deep crater above his nose.

She pulled away and lifted her chin. Not like it would make her any taller, but it made her feel better. “Dawson doesn’t let me do anything. He’s not the boss of me.”

Great. That made her sound what, ten years old? She glared at him as best she could. She hadn’t come back to Larch Valley just so people could start bossing her around and treating her with kid gloves. “I’ve been mucking out stalls since I was a kid, Clay. If you want to see Dawson, he’s up at the house. Let me get back to work.”

Her snappish words seemed to take him back a bit as the line eased but the concern still rested heavy in his eyes. “Are you sure you should be doing heavy labor, Meg? You shouldn’t do too much and …”

“And what?” she finished for him. What did he think would happen? There were no more stitches to pop. She wasn’t going to collapse at his feet. “Shoveling … you-know-what is hardly heavy labor. I think I know what I can and can’t handle,” she replied, but she softened her tone a bit. There was no sense in arguing. “I’m fine, Clay. I’m all better now. Good as new.”

It was a lie, but it would be truth soon enough. Granted, there were still lingering issues since her treatment. Twinges that happened at the oddest times. Fatigue. Then there was the issue of her scars. They would never go away, but the rest would be cured by time and working to get stronger. “Farm work is exactly what I need.”

Megan Briggs had been just about as low as she ever cared to get, but that was over now. Breast cancer hadn’t beaten her—she’d beaten it. Now it was time to reclaim her life. She had ideas—good ones. And if she wanted her family’s support, she had to first prove to them that she wasn’t going to fall apart at any moment. They needed her. And while the past year couldn’t have been helped, she was determined to help keep the Briggs ranch on its feet.

If people kept tiptoeing around her like she was breakable, how on earth was she ever going to make it happen? But she wasn’t about to give up. And so she tightened her hands around the shovel, prepared to resume her work.

Clay’s response was to retrieve another shovel from beside the door. Megan looked up at him and wasn’t sure if she was flattered or insulted at his obvious caring. She decided insulted. It was easier that way.

“I can do this,” she repeated, feeling a silly urge to stamp her foot. She did not. She merely stared at him as he took the stall next to her and dug in. “Clay! I said I’ve got it.”

“Shut up, Meg,” he said mildly, igniting her temper even further.

It would serve him right if she walked out and let him do them all, she thought. But that wouldn’t help her cause one little bit. She needed everyone to see she was fine. Same old Meg. Reliable and ready to put in a hard day’s work. Not a burden. Not a girl who needed to be pampered. Definitely not made of glass, ready to break at any moment. That whole “poor Meg” bit was what had driven her to Calgary in the first place.

“Fine.” She wasn’t about to stand and argue about it. She finished the stall she was on and moved the barrow down the aisle, beginning on another. A raw breeze blew through the door at the end of the barn, and when Meg looked up, soft flakes were falling. The horses were huddled together in the corral, the light snow dusting their backs.

The hard edge of her mood melted away and she smiled to herself. The horses, this ranch, her family—they were what were important now. She had to remember that. She’d done what she had to do to get through her illness, but oh, it was wonderful to be home. This was where she belonged. And where she would stay.

Clay saw the hint of a smile touch Meg’s face and some of his frustration mellowed. It was good to have her back. Good to see her looking so well. A little thinner than he remembered, but with the same thickly lashed, saucy brown eyes and the same dusting of freckles over her nose. She wore a horribly ugly hat on her head that looked like it had been knitted by yarn odds and ends, the colors varied and mismatched.

It suited her to a T. Meg had always been a little unconventional and he’d liked that about her. When she’d snapped at him her delicate features had taken on a familiar stubborn set. Meg had never cared what other people thought. That was what made her disappearance to Calgary so troubling. Suddenly the spunky girl he’d always known had turned into a frightened waif running away. He’d been worried and had gone about telling her in all the wrong ways.

Now she was back and he wanted to believe she was okay. She certainly looked fine. She’d told him she’d be back strong and fit and he’d had his doubts. Doubts he’d refused to voice, because he’d been afraid. He’d admitted it to no one but himself. He’d been afraid Meg was going to die. The girl in dark, curly pigtails who had held his hand in hers and said she’d always be there for him had faced something that made promises irrelevant.

And instead of talking about it he’d lashed out. What he had said all those months ago had been so very wrong and he’d regretted those words ever since. Dawson had mentioned she was coming home and Clay had thought to catch his friend in the barns, do a little digging about her state of mind—and health—before facing her again. Instead of Dawson he’d found Meg, cleaning stalls like the last year had never happened. He owed her an apology for those words.

“You’re truly okay?” He kept shoveling, needing to keep moving, to pretend that this was like any other sort of conversation he’d had with Meg a thousand times.

Instead he found himself face-to-face with her and her sharp attitude. The sweet Megan he remembered was gone and replaced by a woman with a stubborn jut to her chin and eyes full of fire. Before he would have been able to soothe ruffled feathers with a smile and a bit of charm. But Meg seemed immune now. The words of apology he’d practiced in his head disappeared, swept away on the arctic air blowing through Larch Valley.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she replied, shaking fresh straw on to the stall floor.

He looked up briefly. She was watching him, her eyes enormous above her plaid wool jacket. Old work gloves covered her hands and she wore jeans and boots, same as him. At this moment, it was hard to imagine her body being ravaged by disease.

“If I said I was sorry for what I said to you last spring, would you believe me?” He stumbled over the words. They were nothing like he’d rehearsed, but he couldn’t take them back now. What was he supposed to say? That all the hateful things he’d said had eaten at him all these months? That at the time he’d been afraid they were the last words he might ever say to her? Her current strength and determination made the sentiments seem ridiculous.

“Sure.” She shook out more straw over the floor and he gritted his teeth. She was certainly as mule headed as ever.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She looked up at him. “Not really. Let’s just let it drop.”

In Clay’s experience, a woman never “dropped” anything, but Megan wasn’t like most women. He had no idea what to say next. He’d apologized and he’d meant it. Maybe that was enough.

“Did your mom tell you about Aunt Stacy?”

With a sigh, Meg put her shovel aside. “No, she didn’t. What’s to know?”

“Gee, Meg, I’m sorry, is my conversation boring you?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his tone. She was completely exasperating. He’d come over here, wanting to say hello, wanting to say he was sorry, and he got a sharp tongue and put-upon air for his troubles.

A slight flush touched her cheekbones and she looked a little sheepish. “Of course not. I’m a little touchy, okay? Everyone is treating me like I’m going to break at any moment. It’s a bit suffocating.”

“That wasn’t my intention.”

She raised an eyebrow and he knew she was right. It had been, from the moment he had said she shouldn’t be mucking out stalls. He’d taken a heavy hand from the start. Well, sue him for being worried about her. “If people are concerned, it’s only because they care about you and don’t want you to do too much, too fast.”

“I know that.”

“You’ve just come home. I’m sure once everyone sees you’re back to your old self, they’ll move on to another topic.” He made his voice sound far more confident than he felt.

Clay knew very well how the gossip in the town worked. There was a flavor of the week and then something newer and juicier came along. Hell, at his age he could hardly go out on a date without the grapevine marrying him off by the next morning. Even his aunt Stacy had gotten in on the needling a bit lately, asking if there was any particular young lady he was interested in. The answer was always an unequivocal no. Not that he would have admitted otherwise if there was someone who caught his eye.

He shut the stall door and latched it. “You were gone the better part of a year,” he said. “You’re still a bit of a mystery to a lot of the people of Larch Valley. It’ll blow over.”

When he turned back, there were tears glimmering in Meg’s eyes. His stomach clenched. He didn’t know how to handle a woman’s tears. Not even a woman like Megan, who he’d known most of his life and who, for the most part, had been just one of the gang. He couldn’t recall ever seeing her cry in his life. “Did I say something wrong?”

She shook her head, and he noticed she bit down on her lip when it started to quiver. Was there something else going on? Worry slid coldly down his spine. He was so not good with this sort of thing. Tears, sickness … these were the kinds of things he normally wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. Not even for Meg.

But just as soon as the emotion had bubbled to the surface, she locked it away. “I thought going away and coming back would be easier, but …” The word caught a bit and she took a breath, regaining control. The next sentence came out stronger. “But it’s been more stressful than I expected. I feel like I can’t do anything without being watched and examined, and that’s just by Mom, Dad and Dawson.”

“And now me.”

“I appreciate that you care, Clay …”

But he got the picture. He was in the way. She might have accepted his apology but he suspected what he’d said still stung. Maybe it always would—he hadn’t been kind. He should be relieved. After all, facing a friend with cancer hit a little too close to home for Clay’s comfort. It brought back way too many bad memories. And yet, her veiled dismissal left him with a hollow feeling of disappointment.

“Hint taken.” He pasted on what he figured was a polite enough smile and dusted off his hands, thumping his leather gloves together. “And your stalls are done.”

“Thanks for your help.”

He wasn’t entirely sure if she was sincere. But he knew one thing—she was struggling. She needed her friends to rally around her. “Look, tomorrow night is our regular wing night at the Spur. Why don’t you come out? Have you seen the girls yet?”

She shook her head. Something lit in her eyes that was gratifying to see, instantly followed by indecision. He pressed on. “You know Jen and Lily will be thrilled to see you. And Lucy’s bound to be there with Brody if they can get a sitter.” The circle of friends was tight, and he knew they’d show the support he was reluctant to give, paltry as it was. “Surely a few drinks and hot wings is a good way to start, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know …”

Clay’s worry increased. Meg had never been a party girl, but she wasn’t usually this withdrawn. She’d always sort of been there. Steady as a rock. Ready with a laugh and a smile. He set his shoulders. No disease should be allowed to take that effervescence away from her.

“You think about it,” he said, in a voice that really left no room for refusal. “And if you want a drive, call me. I’ll pick you up on the way by.”

“I’ll think about it,” she replied, but in a small voice that he didn’t like the sound of at all.

He nodded before spinning on his heel.

“Clay?”

He turned back at the sound of her voice. She was standing in the middle of the corridor, her gloved hands resting once again on the top of the shovel. The mishmash of work clothes should have made her unattractive, but she wasn’t. Her skin was glowing in the cold air and her eyes had always been particularly pretty, dark brown and glittering with mischief.

“What about your aunt Stacy?” she called, and Clay finally grinned. The good news about his aunt never failed to bring a smile to his face.

“She’s getting married,” he replied, and with a wave headed out of the barn, back to his truck. “Think about it, huh,” he muttered to himself as he started the engine. He was well aware that Meg’s social life wasn’t any of his business. She was a grown woman, certainly able to take care of herself.

But then he thought about how pale her skin looked and how she seemed to shrink at the idea of going out with friends. She needed a nudge, that was all. Tomorrow night he was stopping to get her whether she liked it or not. It was for her own good.

Yesterday had not been a good day for Clay. The calf had been delivered by cesarean and even then it had not been enough. Clay had held high hopes for this breeding pair and had paid good money for the privilege. Having the calf deliver stillborn put him in a rotten mood. By the time he’d handled things at the barn and showered, wing night was well under way when he’d arrived at the Spur and Saddle. Megan hadn’t shown, either, and by the end of the night he’d been downright grouchy. He’d returned home in an even worse mood and spent a restless night tossing and turning in his bed.

Clay turned into the Briggs farmyard early the next morning with a scowl still on his face. He hadn’t really expected her to come out but he’d hoped the idea of Jen and Lily being there would entice her. She couldn’t stay hidden away forever. She might be back in town but she was still running away from all the people who would support her. Not that it mattered to him personally, he told himself, but the behaviour got his back up. It was weak and selfish to his mind. It reminded him of his mother and that always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Well, he wasn’t about to confront her today. He had too much weighing on his mind, including talking to Dawson about the upcoming meeting of local ranchers. He was relieved to see her car wasn’t in the driveway. After bungling his apology yesterday he wasn’t in any mood to cross swords. He had enough on his plate.

The barn was empty when he checked so he made his way to the house, his boots crunching on the brittle snow.

He knocked at the back porch, and when there was no answer, tried the knob. He and Dawson had been dashing in and out of each other’s houses since they were old enough to run between farms, and going in to leave a note was common practice. The door was unlocked as usual and he entered the mudroom, removing his boots before stepping inside the warmth of the kitchen. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla and his stomach rumbled. With Aunt Stacy gone most of the time now, he’d had to rely on his own basic cooking and once she was married he’d be on his own altogether. Which was fine. He wouldn’t starve. But he was the first to admit he wasn’t so great on the baking sweets end of things.

The coffee cake sat on a cooling rack and he imagined cutting a slice while it was still warm. He smiled to himself. Linda Briggs would give him heck if he pulled such a stunt.

Linda always kept a notepad beside the phone, too. He went to the counter and grabbed a pen.

“Clay!”

He jumped at the sound of his name, nearly dropping the pen.

Megan stood at the junction between hall and kitchen wearing jeans and a sweater and a towel wrapped around her head. She looked anything but happy to see him. “Don’t you knock?”

He forced a calming breath. “Since when have we ever knocked?” He picked up the pen and began writing, trying to look far more composed than he felt. His heart was beating a mile a minute. As he scribbled the note he said, “And as a matter of fact, I did knock. No one answered.”

“I was upstairs.”

He looked up. She didn’t wear a speck of makeup and the dark blue towel contrasted with her flawless complexion. He could smell the flowery scent of her soap or shampoo from where he stood and it felt disturbingly intimate. “So I gathered. I’ll be out of your way in a minute. I’m just leaving a note for Dawson.”

He finished and ripped the paper off the tablet. “Where is he, by the way?”